“But…No. It’s not…Okay. Maybe. Fine. Why don’t we agree we both have a point?”
She holds out a hand, and we shake on it, firmly.
“Deal.”
—
We leave after last orders, and at the bus stop just a few feet away, who do I see but the very same couple from the unsuccessful date, kissing with the fervor of a departing soldier and his sweetheart, while the night buses sweep up and down the wet roads.
Obsession, compulsion
Where? my scrabbling fingers scream into the gritty depths of my bag.
Same place, my phone, cool and oblong, answers, as the last twenty-five times you checked.
How the mighty fall
One tiny little error in judgment (the number of tissues you think you’ll need) is all it takes to become who you thought you never would (the person hawking back phlegm on the bus).
Co-op/priorities
Seven different varieties of hummus; zero varieties of apple, lemon, carrot.
Mixed messages
I’m woken by Luke, propped on an elbow, singing “Happy Birthday” in creepy falsetto.
“Come and get me when you’re done,” I say, burrowing under the duvet.
He lingers on the last note, feeling for my hand, and presses a small wrapped cube into it.
“Ooh.” I rip off the paper. “Earrings?” I guess.
“Not earrings but…” he says as I lift the lid of the box, “a ring!”
“Oh!” I look at him then at it until it blurs.
“What?” he says. “Is it okay?”
I nod.
“Are you sure?”
The rapid nodding continues as I extract it from its little velvet bed and lay it flat on my palm.
“This is from the same place as Sarah’s — I remembered you really liked hers. But obviously it’s a different ring. Try it on.”
“Obviously. Because Sarah’s was an engagement ring.” I slide it on. There’s a pretty gold rose where the stone would be, were it an engagement ring.
“Exactly. The woman called this one a ‘cocktail’ ring? But I think that just means ‘normal ring.’ ” I try to smile, but my bottom lip will not play ball. “So, to confirm: you do like it,” he says.
“I really do.” My shoulders are bunched around my ears; when I try to drag them down, they ping back up.
Luke crawls around on top of the covers so that he’s kneeling in front of me. “And you definitely…don’t…want…it…to be an engagement ring?”
“No! No. No, no, no.” I turn my head slowly left to right, left to right. “No way. Not yet. We talked about this. You know I don’t.”
“Do I?” Luke takes my head in his hands. “Claire, look at me.” I open my eyes. “Are you crying?”
“I always cry on my birthday; it’s a tradition. I was born crying: ask my mother.”
Mixed messages II
The bell goes and I open the door to see the postman, already retreating.
“Hey! Hello?” I call, and he turns, seeming astonished and irritated that ringing the bell has resulted in someone opening the door. In his personal life, he might be a biker: his ears, eyebrows and abundant beard are spiked with piercings, and he’s accessorized his uniform with a paisley bandana that no one could call regulation. He hands over a huge pink envelope, far too big to fit through the letter flap.
“You know, some people have mobility issues,” I say. “You should wait a bit longer before assuming no one’s in.”
He sighs. “Sorry?”
“Some people can’t get to the door that fast,” I say slowly, enunciating carefully. “The elderly, for one. I sprinted downstairs and still nearly missed you.”
“I heard you?” he says. “I was apologizing?” His manner could not be less apologetic.
“Oh. Right. Well. Good. Thank you. I appreciate that. And sorry if I overreacted, but…you know. I’m a bit…It’s my birthday today.”
He nods, hitching the mailbag more securely on his shoulder. “Happy birthday. Enjoy your massive card.”
—
In the hall, I look at the envelope, which is addressed to Claire Flannery in the neat all-caps style my father has in common with psychopaths. It might be, excepting forwarded bank statements, the first thing he’s ever posted to me.
I rip it jaggedly open and coax out a correspondingly huge card adorned with ribbon, glitter, glued-on satin rosebuds and the words FOR OUR SPECIAL LITTLE GIRL, featuring multiple fonts, scalloped edges and a poem spanning many pink pages — really, it’s more of a booklet than a card — an epic in blandness, which leans rather too heavily on “day” as an end-rhyme (preceded by “to-,” “birth-,” “special,” “ev’ry,” “on this,” “birth-” (again), “your big,” “wonderful” and “lovely”); in other words, an all-frills job, which, through its scale and flamboyance, serves only to highlight the very lack of motherly love it was doubtless trying to disguise. I leaf through it in search of a personal message, and about to give up, turn over and see on the back, CLAIRE at the top, and FROM DAD AND MUM beneath the words “Time 2 Celebrate”; not a message, as my father apparently thought, but the manufacturer’s logo.
It’s always worth remembering
I didn’t work hard at school and go to university so I could spend my life sending emails.
These people are not your friends
I find Geri semi-reclined on the sofa in her office. Her dog — a small, docile mongrel named Captain Popkin — lies on her lap, chin resting ruminatively on his front paws.
“Hmmm.” Her eyes are closed as I enter, and when at last she heaves her attention my way, letting out a long, languorous sigh, I feel like I’ve trespassed on an intimate moment, though it was she who summoned me here in the first place.
“Claire, take a seat.” She swings her feet to the floor and slaps the sofa cushion beside her. “How are things?”
“Things are great!” I say. “This could be a good time to catch up on where we’re at — I think everything’s in really good shape—”
“That’s good,” she interrupts, “but actually, I asked you in here because I wanted to say a big hip, hip, hooray and thank-you for doing such a terrific job. And to say how much fun it’s been having you around.”
“You’re very kind,” I say, wondering if she knows today is my birthday — perhaps this praise is her gift? “Well, it’s fun for me too. It’s really nice to feel useful again. I was worried it might be a bit strange — a step backward, you know? But it’s really made me realize how much I missed everything: colleagues, the office, not to mention the work itself…”
Her eyes race between mine before she speaks again. “I’m glad you’ve got something out of it too.” She leaves a beat. “It’s great you’ve had a good time.”
“You’re…letting me go?” I say.
Geri lifts the impassive Captain Popkin so his head eclipses hers, and says in a pouty, poochy voice: “We’re going to miss you so much.” She wags one of his paws at me: Bye-bye, Claire.
Because I cannot get on board with this sort of behavior, I stare assiduously at the floor.