Читать книгу Happy Without Him - Rachel Owens - Страница 7
ОглавлениеChapter Two
Ella
My phone rang earlier in the week. Jen.
“I need a big favour. You know this old guy I met? Kelly told you about him?”
Jen knows Kelly and I talk about everything when it’s quiet at Buxton and Balding’s. She doesn’t mind. Bless her.
“Well, he’s sixty-five on Saturday and he’s bought eight tickets for the Rod Stewart tribute concert at Taronga Zoo. One of his mates’ wives has broken a hip and she’s in hospital so she can’t go. His two useless grown-up kids and their flaky partners have dropped out. There are five spare tickets. Josie and Frank are coming. Will you and Ben? And Charlie?”
“Not Kelly?”
“She’s doing some food tour thing in Surry Hills with Lucy. Please come. It must be horrible to be old and have friends who get sick, and nasty kids who let you down.”
“How much is it?”
“He’s bought the tickets, he doesn’t want any money.”
“Well, firstly, how nice are you doing this for him when he told you such fibs about himself? And secondly, free tickets? You’re on. Who’s bringing what for the picnic? Is it still bring your own booze there?”
“No, they changed that. But thanks, El. It will be fun and I couldn’t see him without a few people to celebrate.”
Kelly looks after Lucy, and Jen looks after this old guy, whoever he is. Seriously, how kind are my friends? Women are such doers. Such fixers. So ‘Let’s go have fun!’. I was daydreaming the other day about winning the Lotto and the four of us having a trip to that orang-utan sanctuary. Ben could have Charlie for the week and we would have the girls’ trip of a lifetime.
Anyway, no Lotto win for me, but free tickets to fake (looky-likey, my mum calls it) rockin’ Rod Stewart. I can’t believe Frank and Josie are coming. No doubt the appeal for him is the free tickets. Me? I just want to spread the love like Kelly and Jen. Ha.
So, here we are despite shaky-looking skies at Taronga Zoo concert lawn.
“Ella! Charlie!” Josie calls us. She got here early and staked us a great spot with two picnic blankets.
“‘Osie!” Charlie tumbles down the grassy bank to greet her. I hope he doesn’t trip. Of all my friends, Josie is Charlie’s favoured one. She gives him attention. The others are bored by him. I get it. I get bored too. Not Josie. She has endless time for Charlie and I’m quite sure it isn’t for my benefit. Frank, on the other hand, is visibly shuffling away from my child. Rude fucker.
“‘Osie! I had loclat!”
“You did? Ooh, sticky little paws, sweetheart. Does Mummy have some wet wipes?”
“Sorry, Jos. Emergency application of Kinder Surprise egg. He thought he was going to see the monkeys - went berserk when I told him no.”
“Did he not realise the zoo is closed?” This is Frank, of course. Thank God he doesn’t want kids.
“He’s three, sweetheart.”
For this very reasonable point, Frank gives Josie one of those scathing looks he has only for Josie. The ones that make me want to punch him.
“He’s got mess on your dress, Ella? Wet wipes?”
Oh, piss off. I’d like to wet wipe you off the face of the earth. Ooh, I can see Jen approaching with the old guy. He’s ancient! Bloody hell. He has his ancient mate with him – presumably the one with the wife with the broken hip. Bless. He is grinning like crazy.
“Hello, me ducks! And who’s this little smasher?”
Charlie is clinging to Josie with his very short-lived stranger danger habit. In about a minute old guy will be his new best friend.
“Jesus, Ella! Wet wipes! Quick! Look at Josie’s dress!”
“Why is it ‘Ella! Wet wipes!’? Why not holler, ‘Ben! Wet wipes!’ hm?”
“‘Cos Ben’s going to the bar with... sorry, what’s your name, mate? Thanks for the tickets, by the way.”
“You’re welcome, son. We’ll have a right laugh. Call me SB. This is Fred.”
God, Ben is such a peacemaker! Is it too much to ask to not be seen as a wet wipe dispenser? Is it? Okay, I’ll drop it and be nice to the old blokes, but seriously. Ben and the olds depart to the bar.
“Ella, did I tell you Frank and I are going to Bali? We’re going to Bali, Charlie! Frankie and I will be on the beach!”
“I like the beach! Can I come, ‘Osie? Can I ‘Osie? ‘Osie, Charlie come too?”
“No,” mutters Frank. Idiot. I’d rather leave my child with Osama Bin Laden than him. “I’m just off to the bathroom, Josie.”
“Okay, sweetheart,” says Josie, who then turns to Jen. “Did you really meet him online?”
“He looked a bit different on the website. You do realise I’m not dating him, don’t you?”
“One day your prince will come,” says Josie, dabbing at her chocolate stains.
“Maybe he’ll be wearing Gucci loafers to a picnic, just like Prince Frank!”
“Ella! Frank likes a more formal style. Don’t be mean.”
“Yes, at least he is wearing shoes,” says Jen. “We went to pick up Fred and he came out in his slippers! I think he has a bit of dementia, to be honest. He keeps calling me Maureen. SB met Maureen online a few weeks ago.”
“Fred, Maureen, slippers,” I say. “These are words I don’t associate with you, Jen. You have aged. Can you not be a cougar find some young guy instead of such a crusty one?”
“SB is not my guy!”
Ben, Fred and SB come back with the drinks. Seems Fred has been telling Ben all about the ‘I almost came out in my slippers!’ incident. Ben is laughing away and, unexpectedly, I feel a huge rush of love for him. Jen’s online search has found crazies and oldies. Josie worships Frank who is horrible to her half the time. Ben might not be a prince (which of us is a princess?), and who really wants a man who thinks he is? Some narcissistic, full of himself Gucci loafer-wearing tool like Frank. A few years from now, Ben will probably be forgetting to change out of his slippers to go out too. I’d rather have accidental slipper man than show-off loafer man any day of the week.
I lean over and whisper to Ben, “You are my old slipper and I love you.”
He looks totally shocked. As he would be - public displays of affection are not my thing. Even whispered ones.
“Jeez, babe. Where did that come from? But I love you too, FYI.”
SB has bought real champagne for the girls and beers for the boys. It must have cost him a fortune. We all raise a glass. “Happy birthday, SB! Thanks for the tickets!” we all chorus. Except Frank who looks stony. Why is he so ungrateful? He’s as hard, fake and uncomfortable as his poxy shoes. I whisper this to Jen who says, “Yes, Ella, but he is so good-looking!” Why can’t she see that he is ugly inside?
“Look! He’s coming on! Rod!” SB cheers wildly. He is going to have such a good night, bless him.
Rod doesn’t look that Rod-like, but his voice is excellent and a few glasses of wine in we can believe we are watching the real Rod Stewart. By the end of the evening we’re all down by the stage. Fred and SB are dancing in that embarrassing way only old dads can. Frank is dancing in a way he thinks is cool. Charlie is on Ben’s shoulders. It comes over me again. He is lovely. I love him. It doesn’t even matter that much that it has started to rain, because everyone knows it always rains at the Taronga Zoo concerts.
Jen
Have I told you how Kelly and I met? I don’t think I did. Speed dating. No, I’m not kidding. Kelly’s boss, Balding, bought it for her one Christmas after she’d separated from her husband. Kelly rates this as her shittest present ever, except of course, she met me which actually made it a very, very good present for both of us.
I was there because it was the latest in my series of ‘He-Must-Be-Out-There-Somewhere’ endeavours. She had to go because the voucher was about to expire, and the speed dating company kept emailing her boss saying it needed to be used soon. So she couldn’t fib and say she’d been already, which is what she really wanted to do.
Here’s how it went. Ghastly. We walked into this little room where everyone was doing a bit of pre-event mingling. Some women were eyeing up other women with real mean looks: ‘Ha, I’m a better specimen than you’ or ‘Bitch! You’re a better specimen than me.’ All the women (apart from Kelly but definitely including me) were throwing filthy looks at the skinny spandex clad one who was definitely not (fuck off!) in the forty/fifty age category she was supposed to be, and all the men snuck furtive glances at her boobs whilst trying to retain an air of interest in whichever of the older specimens was chatting away to him.
So, it was bad before we even got going, and here’s what we got:
4 x Quite nerdy, not really my type
4 x Quite nice, but I didn’t fancy them
2 x Good-looking, I ticked them both
1 x The Cardie. Seriously weird.
Kelly ticked no one at all, but we exchanged numbers in the loo at half time, over a lot of cardie-inspired guffawing. As we were the only women to exchange a friendly ‘Oh, God’ smile as opposed to a ‘Don’t impress more than me, cow’ one, we realised we might be kindred spirits – in a roomful of not very nice and rather over-accessorised women with personalities as spiky as their stilettos.
Post speed date night, you wait to see if any of your ticks correspond with any of the men’s ticks. I opened the email, eagerly awaiting my match with at least one. After all, the two good looking ones I had ticked weren’t that good looking and I’d had a nice chat with them both. But they hadn’t ticked me. And do you know what? I cried for ages. Sobbed, actually. For the longest time. What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t they like me? Wah wah wah wah.
I’ve since found out that the blokes are often roped in at the last minute. The organisers have a lack of men, so they contact some blokes they’ve had before and are on their database, to offer them free places to make up the numbers. They probably turn up for the one included free drink and the ropey canapés. I hate to say this, but Australian men can be a bit tight. A bit long in the pocket, as Kelly says.
Well, clearly such ringers are not going to be as motivated to match ticks as the saps like me, who paid ninety dollars for a big dent in self-esteem. Had I known this at the time, I may not have felt so devastated.
The thing with the artificial dating scene is, you need to be really tough. You need to not have a mushy ego like mine. You need to have a strong sense of self-worth, which isn’t so easily trashed by the rejection of a stranger. Kelly phoned during my blubbing tsunami. She told me to stop it at once, or I would look a horror when we went out the next night. And she had decided we should go out the next night and have a fun night to make up for the frightful one.
I didn’t quite stop the wah wahing, but we did indeed go out the following night (a Saturday), and we had such a good time. I ended up on the pub stage at the end of the evening singing a Meatloaf song. Kelly - she has the hair for it after all - was Meatloaf’s backup singer. Yes, naturally, we were very drunk. Turns out, Kelly does the Meatloaf backing singer a lot, and to find a buddy who will obligingly play the far less glamorous Meatloaf part was a big thrill for her. And for me too. We’ve been best mates ever since.
Anyway, that’s how we met. Not sure how I got started on this, I think I may have been distracted again. Sorry. No, not sorry. Kelly says I need to be less nicey and that includes not being so apologetic all the time. So not sorry I went on and on here, but yes, very sorry I ever put myself through speed dating. I will never again subject myself to that horror. There must be a way of finding the lovely man who is out there for me which doesn’t involve such mortification.
Kelly
Jen is my best mate, but her head when it comes to this bloke stuff is truly scary. We talk a lot of shit to each other, so please don’t think she has bored me rigid with the following, but here are some of my recollections on the blokes Jen has dated. Best not name them, and I can’t recall the names anyway. But I do have a very good memory for the gory details. And there is plenty of dating gore here. Drum roll please for...
Jen’s Roll Call of Blokes
Number One
Aged sixteen, met some impressively older very handsome twenty- something bloke on holiday in Devon. Post holiday romance/fingering in tent, she wrote him a heartfelt letter. He never replied and she blubbed a lot. Soundtrack, The Bangles, Eternal Flame. Much blubbing as it turned out to be anything but an eternal flame, more a fingering episode on a camp site near Torquay.
Number Two
Aged eighteen, her first real boyfriend whom she met at a sixth form party. Had fingering session on armchair. Don’t judge us on this fingering thing - that’s what we all did in those days! Soundtrack, not I Wanna Sex You Up (remember that? 1991, ghastly). More Bryan Adams, Everything I Do, I Do It For You. Which she did. For two years or so. Then she had an ill-advised first term at Uni dalliance with:
Number Three
Who dumped her on her return from dumping the boyfriend over the Christmas holidays. Bad timing there. Number three is now a moderately famous jazz musician on Wikipedia. Soundtrack, ghastly saxophone playing. She hated jazz (still does) but listened diligently anyway.
Number Four
Very handsome local lad met whilst working at pub to boost student coffers. He was working his way around the female population of Norwich. Soundtrack, Dina Carroll. Don’t be a Stranger. He certainly wasn’t. To anybody.
Number Five
Trombone player met at Pontin’s holiday job. Small penis. Trombone soundtrack, obviously. What is it with her and these blowy instrument types?
Number Six
Coach driver on Italian holiday. Sadly not an exciting Italian stallion, but a bloke from Nantwich. This one sent her a red rose every week, but she got bored of him. She dumped him. He sent her a copy of the hit single by Celine Dion, Think Twice. She wouldn’t, despite the fact that they were both into the same mushy music. He was just too over keen.
Number Seven
Post Uni boyfriend who lasted for years but it just fell apart for no real reason. Soundtrack, mid-late nineties Blur, Oasis, Prodigy. That type of thing. He was more into the indie grooves. Jen, as you know, likes schmaltz but (shock) she then got into all the indie stuff too. Or at least pretended she did. Reckons this one could have worked out if they’d not both been so young and so stubborn.
Number Eight
Man with enormous willy. Was actually engaged to someone else, too goody goody to do it before the big day. He used to turn up late at night and throw stones at her window – pre digital-age booty call. No soundtrack, just sex.
Number Nine
Turned out to be married.
Number Ten
The husband. Tells me she married him because he asked.
Number Eleven
Post divorce love of her life. When it all fell apart she moved to Australia in late 2009. Able to get a work transfer very easily, she went, “bugger you” and did. Broke her heart, though. She still finds she gets a bit choked listening to Susan Boyle, but is happy she came here as Sydney is more fun than Birmingham, despite the man drought.
Number Twelve
Having finally worked number eleven out of her system, she met this bloke who worked in a prison and used to get up in the middle of the night for a fag on the balcony. I had strong (voiced) suspicions he had a wife and children in Coffs Harbour, to whence he regularly disappeared. Soundtrack. Come on, this was 2011, you’ve got to be able to guess this one. Yup, bloody Adele, that’s right. Someone Like You. Another someone like him? Please, no, but then there was:
Number Thirteen
Unlucky for some, and he really was – especially when he reappeared at Sandy and Big Charlie’s barbecue – how funny was that?
The Pest Control Man, or as we called him, Bug Man. Dumped her by non-texting which seems to be the accepted norm these days. She was upset despite the fact that –her words, “I never really fancied him anyway. He looked too much like my ex-husband!” Plus, he had a strange willy. It was short and fat, a bit like those very small tins of beans that old ladies buy.
So, why the hell did you give him your number? Or get upset when he vanished? FYI, Jen. Just because you have a bit of a boogie woogie with a guy at the Unity or the Orient, this does not in any way bestow a moral obligation to then hand over your number.
Number Fourteen
G3 you have already heard about. The one who failed to get excited that a baby orang-utan climbed onto his shoulder.
Can anyone be quite so unlucky? Okay, I got the ultimate long-term dickhead, who dumped me after a decade for a younger model, but why does she keep going back for more punishment?
Men have been the worst of her life. So why does she persist in believing that finding one would be the best thing she can do to enhance it? I think the problem is she is too giving. Sorry to say this, but being giving to a guy just gives them the green light to take. Take and take off. Even SB – some friend he turned out to be. I almost called him number fifteen but he’s not really as she was never going out with him. But she was a good friend to him and here’s the email he sent her last week:
Dear Jen,
Hello pet and I hope you are well. The thing is this. Maureen and I are going to make a go of it and she doesn’t want me hanging around with a younger woman. She who must be obeyed! So I wish you all the best for the future.
Yours very sincerely. SB
Maureen being someone else he met online, I gather. And where was Maureen when a crowd needed to be assembled for his birthday? Probably with some other online romance that went sour, so she’s now come back to him. Jen tells me she is relieved and I believe her, but what a git! So much for friendship.
Josie
Book Club. Newtown Curry House. Tuesday March 5th 7.00pm. Book choice Josie’s, Matthew Green, Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend .
“This was my best book choice ever,” I say. It really was. None of them can tell me this book wasn’t great.
‘It was,” says Kelly. “Not only was it very, very good, but it kept Fanny the lodger in her room for an entire weekend, which was bliss. She came out only to get more of that awful chamomile tea she likes, and to tell me she has decided she wants a child.”
“Because she liked the child in the book? I can’t believe anyone would be so silly,” I say.
“An autistic kid? Plenty of them at Cutekidz. I could kidnap one for her, no problem. Parents might not even miss them that much!”
“Ella!” All of us. As usual. We have at least one communal ‘Ella!” every book club, as you may have noticed.
“I’m just saying. What’s new with everyone, anyway?”
“We’re off to Bali soon!”
“Oh, yes, bone to pick on that. Charlie keeps saying he’s going with you.”
“Oh, bless! Sorry, El. Just Frank and I. We are so overdue for some time together. I cannot wait.”
How lovely that Charlie remembers we’re going to Bali and wants to come. It gives me such a warm feeling inside. I don’t want kids, as you know, but to know he talks about me is the nicest feeling. He is so adorable. Little Max in the book was adorable too. Loving a child must be so all consuming. I love Charlie so much and I’m not even his Godmother.
“You are funny, Jos,” says Ella. “You adore Charlie, you pick books about children. Great book, by the way. Made me really glad Charlie is normal. Well, normalish. Anyway, you’re such a mum in waiting.”
“I’m not! Frank and I don’t want kids. You know that. I think they are lovely from afar.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Truly, Ella. I like my ordered life.”
“Me too,” says Jen.
“And me,” says Kelly.
“You I believe,” Ella points at Jen. “And you.” She points at Kelly. “But as for you.” She turns to me. I ignore her.
“How good was the book at the end?” I ask. “When he was escaping? I couldn’t put it down.”
“Nor me!” says Kelly. “Sunday morning in bed, I had tea and crumpets and didn’t get up until 11.00am.”
“I read it Sunday afternoon on the beach,” I say. “Topping up my tan to get bikini ready for Bali. I didn’t even realise the tide was coming in. I just had to keep going to know he was okay. Where were you reading it, Jen?”
“On the bus home. Got in, carried on reading. Ordered a pizza so I didn’t have to waste any reading time cooking.”
“What a life you girls lead,” says Ella. “Uninterrupted reading. Do you have any idea what priceless treasure that would be to any mum? But you Josie – I know you, lady –you would give up all that freedom in a heartbeat for a Charlie of your own.”
This is uncomfortable and I’m grateful for Kelly’s subject change.
“How was the Rod concert?” she asks.
“It was great,” says Ella. Conceding to subject change, thank God. “So nice of the old fella to give us the tickets for free.”
“Guess he had to be good for something,” says Jen.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“He’s disappeared. Can’t be friends anymore because his new Internet love won’t stand for it.”
“Oh, Jen. I’m so sorry.” I am sorry too; no one has less luck with men than Jen.
“Seriously, Josie. If you keep pulling that I’m-so-sorry-you-have-been-dumped face I am going to force feed you naan bread dipped in butter chicken. I don’t care. I was not going out with him. I just think it’s pretty rich when someone says they want to be your friend then they don’t when all you have done is be kind to them.”
“Or maybe,” says Kelly, “what I think has happened is actually true. He has a girlfriend now and she wouldn’t like the two of you being friends.”
“That’s probably true,” I say. “Frank’s cousin Jeff says the Internet is full of crazy, possessive women.”
“Aren’t all Frank’s cousins married?” asks Kelly.
“Yes. Well, Jeff is married. They are just going through a bit of a difficult stage at present.”
“And he thought dabbling in some Internet dating would help his marriage difficulties? And they say the women online are crazy?”
Kelly has a point.
“The world’s gone mad,” she says. “And talking of which, my choice of book, and it is Karen Walker Thompson, The Age of Miracles. Dystopian theme. It’s another new one, sorry, but I thought it looked brilliant.”
“When it is my choice,” says Ella, “I will stick to the rules - older books only! Who’s up for a pizza night at mine on Saturday? The boys are away.”
God, pizza. I can’t eat pizza before I go away but I can’t tell her that. “I’m in,” I say, probably not sounding very enthusiastic.
“Me too,” say Jen and Kelly, sounding a lot happier about the idea.
Jen
Definitely Josie’s best choice to date. At least since I’ve been going to book club. Not that that would be difficult, her others have been shockers. Anyway, forget that.
Guess what?
No, go on guess!
Have you guessed?
Oh, maybe you did then...
I met someone!
We went out on Saturday. I had to drop out of Ella’s pizza night. He is articulate, solvent, normal and even good-looking!
So, here’s how I met him. Deep breath, don’t judge me now. I’ll get it all out in one go.
I joined a posh dating agency and it cost two grand.
I said don’t judge me. And believe me, I know very well that there are far better things to spend money on, but I needed to do this. I really, really want a guy in my life, and all the other things I try just don’t seem to work. I figure, if a guy is willing to pay that much too, then he also really wants to meet someone. And I have met someone. And his name is Brian, which is not a great name actually, but aside from that he is well, what can I say? Brimming with potential. He could be the one. I really feel he could be the one.
Now, I know you’re curious. You’re thinking what do you get for your two grand? Well, the dating agency is basically just the woman who owns it. So, rather than have the expense of a permanent office in the city, she works from home and rents out one of those occasional use ones. It’s much more discreet, and of course, as she is the only one doing the matching, it’s much more personal and professional.
You start with a kind of interview at the occasional use office. She decides if you are the calibre of lady she requires, and shows you the different packages available. You know, how long it’s for, how many introductions you are entitled to etc. Which is not that many, but I wonder if I’ll get a refund now I’ve met Brian. Anyway, straight away, she says she can think of someone for me! It must have been him – she is so clever at her job, and lovely too. Well, of course, I sign up when she says that. For the silver package. And yes, you are right –silver means there is a gold one which is even dearer! Heck.
Well, after an anxious three days Brian rang! Now, I hadn’t seen a photo, she doesn’t believe in them, which I do get, as the blokes off the Internet sites look completely different from their photos. Anyway, we have a good chat and arrange to go out the following Saturday. This being the Wednesday he called, after the mega calories of Tuesday’s book/curry club. I spent the next two days doing a Josie, starving myself and wishing I hadn’t succumbed to butter chicken yet again. Still, the starving myself was worth it because he is lovely. Like I said, he is pretty good-looking. He has older kids at private school, his own very successful business, and he likes to play golf.
Brian spent quite a lot of time telling me all about golf rules and how the handicaps work etc. I’ll admit it was a tad boring, but we had a lovely evening, and he has texted me loads since. I’m seeing him again on Thursday.
Finally I may have met someone. Someone quite attractive, with hair, who takes me out to dinner. Hurrah.
Kelly
So, pizza night ends up being me and Ella, and Karen and Lucy from work. Three single girls who know what fun a girls’ night can be, and one married mum for whom the simple pleasure of a girls’ night in on a Saturday is a rare treat.
And it is fun, in a way, to talk inappropriate and indiscreet shop re the two turkeys who run our joint, but to me, Jos and Jen bombing out is a bit crap. I say girlfriends don’t dump you like men do, so don’t dump your girlfriend arrangements for some bloke. But Jos and Jen are made differently. What can you do?
Jen is on some date, and Josie is trying to shed some weight before she goes to Bali next week. Shouldn’t you just look forward to a holiday, not panic about how you’ll look on it? Maybe it’s me.
I arrive at seven to do the usual battle of getting into Ella’s flat. Finally she hears the buzzer, and finally the slowest lift in the world arrives at her floor. Ella’s hallway is the next obstacle; it is home to what would appear to be the Fisher family’s entire shoe collection. Likewise, every coat they own is precariously piled on three struggling hooks, and I swear just the lightest of breezes from walking past them brings one sliding to the floor. In this case I think it was my hair, and once down, a coat refuses to stay up again. I keep my coats in my wardrobe and I make Fanny do the same. Much tidier. I’m a bit OCD-ish like that. Jen’s the same. Ella says she used to be, but with the boys being boys she just gave up in the end. She still hates the untidy, she just has to put up with it.
The lounge is huge-tellied and usually awash with Charlie’s toys, but tonight they are swept away into a corner. Ella has covered them with a kelim she and Ben bought on their travels around Turkey. Actually, I’d never noticed before, but there are lots of things around which must be souvenirs of their travels. They did a lot when they were based in London. There’s a lovely papyrus painting of Tutankhamen, a heavy red and gold plate- maybe Moroccan? Some cushion covers that look Turkish too, though one of them also looks as if Charlie may have had an accident on it. It’s weird how, without the toys and Charlie crashing around the place, you can see their other life. Tonight is Ella’s non-mummy life. As Ben and Charlie are camping, we get a girly night talking crap. Fabulous. We have such a laugh we forget about the DVD altogether. And with it being a work crowd, you can imagine there’s a fair bit of work talk. Pretty bad considering Ella and I are both PA to partners. My guy, Balding, is a bit of a quiet non-entity really, but Ella’s fella, Buxton? Well, there’s no end to what can be said about him. He’s like something out of the fifties. You think male bosses like this don’t exist anymore but, believe me, they do.
“The thing with Buxton is this,” says Ella, “he always speaks to my girls!”
‘What does he say?” This is Karen and she looks shocked. She’s our new girl, a trainee architect. Oops.
“‘Hello titties’ and ‘take a letter, titties.’” This is Lucy. “He has addressed my breasts for the last twelve years.”
“I don’t think my teacups are big enough to interest him,” I say.
“Lucky you,” says Karen. “Now we’ve started this I may as well tell you. The other day he felt my bum.”
Bloody hell.
“That’s a step too far even for him. You should go to HR,” I say.
“And lose this job? Trainee roles are so hard to find – especially as I’m thirty-two not twenty-two like most grads. There’s no way I’m losing this job.”
“He loves a bum feel,” says Lucy. “Once he felt my bum so far up, he was fingering my front bits.”
We are all ewwinng majorly at this. Now, please note, I do not think sexual harassment is funny. It’s vile. And yet, cheers to the resilience of us girls. A few glasses of wine in and we’re howling with the hilarity of it. Lucy continues between snorts of laughter, “I’m so short and he’s so tall he had to really bend down. I think he dislocated his wrist!”
“Let’s get Charlie’s Action Man and make him into a Buxy voodoo doll!” says Ella.
“I didn’t know they still made Action Men!” I say.
“They don’t. This one was Ben’s.” Ella has extracted him from Charlie’s toy box.
“How odd,” says Lucy. “He’s got no feet.”
“Even odder,” says Karen. “He has no penis!”
“Maybe he has a very small one hiding somewhere,” I say. “You know, the way some men do.”
“I bet Frank has a small one,” says Ella. “He looks just the type.”
“Who’s Frank?” asks Karen.
“Our friend Josie’s boyfriend,” answers Ella. “He’s a tool. With a small one, I reckon.”
“Oh, good. Not the Frank I’ve met online then!” says Karen “It’s quite an unusual name and you know what a small world this city can be...”
“You met someone!” says Lucy. She is clearly trying to look happy for Karen for meeting someone not sad for herself for not meeting someone.
“Well, I haven’t quite yet. We’ve just gone from exchanging messages on the website to, you know, sexy texting. He lives in Bankstown which isn’t ideal. He’s Lebanese – very good-looking! He’s very busy in his job. Guess where he works. He’s a senior director at Maccas!”
Oh, God.
Ella looks at me and I look at Ella. “Didn’t we have some Lindt balls for pudding, El?’
“Ooh, yes. Let’s fetch them,” says Ella.
We scurry into the kitchen and close the door behind us. We go as far from the door as possible. She can only be talking about Josie’s Frank. Who else can it be? Ella and I look at each other. Ella grips the sink.
“The bastard!” she whispers.
“I know.”
We can hear Lucy in the other room. She’s loud with enthusiasm.
“Sexy texting sounds very positive. How fantastic, Karen. You’ve met someone! I’m jealous now. When am I going to meet someone? I’ve never had any luck on the ‘net. I just get married guys and old guys and...”
Josie
Day One
Our Balinese villa is simply to die for. Believe it or not, we have our very own infinity pool. We don’t have to share it with anyone which is good as Frank doesn’t like it if he thinks I’m looking at another man, and I don’t like it if there is a woman slimmer and younger than me. I like it when there are women who are older and fatter, but no one at all is just fine.
There are sliding doors from the main bedroom to the outside area. Not those crappy doors you usually get in holiday accommodation that always stick; these glide effortlessly, out to the cool inviting blueness of the pool. And the furniture outside is not your typical falling apart rusty loungers, but big, deep, dark rattan daybeds with fat white cushions the maid takes in if it looks like there might be a tropical shower. Then she puts them out again. And she sweeps up leaves and stuff all the time, so it always looks pristine.
The furniture inside the villa is the sort of thing you lust after in Coco Republic, but can’t afford. The bed linen is crisp, white and changed daily by the maid, who brings drinks and nibbles at our every whim. She never stops but it doesn’t feel like your privacy has been invaded. After a while you forget she’s there and everything just gets done as if by magic. This place is truly heaven.
Bit of a shaky start to our holiday in paradise – we’re okay now though, so don’t worry. Frank and I got on the plane in Sydney on Friday evening. Both a bit frazzled from work; you know how it is, getting everything ready for your time off. As we were both a bit stressed, we had a glass of champagne. Then we had another. Frank is so good, he never goes for another after that, and I know I shouldn’t either. He tells me often how it’s the trigger third and I should stop at two. Well, I don’t have his discipline, and I was also so cold on the plane – I thought a third one might help me feel a bit warmer.
Everyone was complaining about the cold, but they couldn’t seem to do anything to turn the air con down. Well, post the third drink, the nice boy with the cart asked if I wanted anything else and I said, “Can you get into the hold and get some clothes out of my case? This temperature is unbearable!”
He laughed and said, “No, I can’t do that.”
So I said, “What about a duvet we can go under then?”
He said, “I’ll see what I can do, but in the meantime here’s another glass of champagne.” Frank, of course, said no - machine gun trigger, the fourth drink. A definite no no.
So, I was pretty happy, what with the bubbles and the holiday, and I smiled to myself when Frank said sharply, “What are you grinning at?”
“I’m happy! We’re on holidays. Finally!”
I stroked his arm as I said this. He has such nice arms.
“Enjoyed flirting with your new friend, did you?”
Needless to say my stroking was brushed away.
“I wasn’t flirting. In any case, I’m pretty sure he’s gay.”
“Really? So you want to ‘go under a duvet’ with a gay guy, then?”
“I meant the duvet for us – you and me, not me and him! Don’t make fun of my accent, you know I don’t...”
“Whatever. It’s a fucking doona anyway, not a duvet. I really wish you wouldn’t embarrass yourself.”
What with the wine and the tiredness and the harsh words, I felt my eyes prickling. Frank told me not to start that and it’s true – it always makes it worse. He said he was going to try and sleep for a bit and I did the same. Anything to hold back the tears and escape the nosy looks of the bloody woman next to us.
We landed into Bali and Frank was still huffy. All the things I imagined being such fun – you know when you first step into that tropical heat and smell, collecting the cases, haggling the taxi price... all tainted by the row. I was so cross with myself. Too often we’re having a nice time, and I do or say something stupid to spoil it.
In the cab we finally got some privacy. Thankfully, the cab driver didn’t seem to speak a word of English. At last I had a proper chance to say how sorry I was. He said he was okay. But can I try not to show him up for the rest of the holiday. I promised I was done with any showing up and it wouldn’t happen again. So by the time we got to the villa it was a bit better, especially as it was so lovely and we were oohing and aahing at how gorgeous everything is.
