Getting Over It by Anna Maxted

would fit in the bag, and I—aka dessert—am washed, brushed, dressed, and tarted to the max. The only missing ingredient is Marcus.
    I wait until ten to ten, eat the entire fish dish myself, and let Fatboy feast on the mash.

Chapter 10
    I T’S DAYS LIKE TODAY I wish I’d invented the cocktail umbrella. Billions of quid for one minute of basic origami. After being stood up by Marcus, I drove to the pub, found Luke, ordered the biggest, frilliest pina colada on the list, and—to add insult to jealousy—the cocktail umbrella broke when I tried to open it. When I complained, Luke noticed I was holding my car keys and confiscated my drink.
    I take it up with him this morning, two days later. “You only dared take away my pina colada because it was me,” I snap. “If I was a skinhead or Arnold Schwarzenegger, I bet you’d have let me keep it!”
    He looks hurt and about to argue, then notices my rabid expression and keeps quiet. Luke has been tiptoeing around me ever since Marcus went AWOL. Admittedly, on Sunday morning he did exclaim, in a voice of epiphany, “He must be staying with that pop star from Second Edition!” That apart, he’s been a model of sensitivity and tact. I, meanwhile, have been a model of sourness and temper. Partly because of Marcus, partly because of Tom, mainly because—thanks to my non-innovative mind—I have to return to work today.
    I slink into the office, trying to avoid attracting attention. There is a barely perceptible hush as I walk in, almost as if I’m wearing last season’s sneakers. Which I am. Tina breaks the silence by shouting, “Bradshaw! Welcome back!” Lizzy rushes over to give me a fierce hug and three kisses (left cheek, right cheek, then just as I’m backing off, a surprise swoop on the left cheek. I think it’s a continental thing). “Helen,” she says bossily, “take it easy today. If it gets too much, go for a walk. And here, take this. It’ll help you sleep better.”
    She presses a small object into my hand before running back to her desk. It is a bottle of aromatherapy oil. “Lavender Green Absolute,” it reads—and underneath, in smaller letters for the more intellectual users, “ Lavandula officinalis .” I’m touched, although the last time I had trouble sleeping, herbs, roots, and blooms had sod-all sophorific effect. I am grateful for Lizzy’s gift though, because—contrary to myth—when you are features assistant on GirlTime magazine you receive one freebie a year, which is inevitably a piece of crap no one else wants, like a fluorescent orange mobile phone case.
    Some colleagues—after wary observation of my apparently stable exchange with Lizzy—trundle up to say they’re sorry about my dad. Others send me kindly e-mails, and a few look shifty and treat me as if I have Ebola. Laetitia doesn’t know what to do. Our wonderfully brusque “Agony Aunt” has sent me a sweet letter (no whimsical, lily sketch sympathy card for her) advising me not to feel bad about the difficult times nor sad about the good times and that my father will always be with me. I turn pink with annoyance—people seem determined to distress me with sentimentality.
    Laetitia mistakes my displeasure for a mewling alert and murmurs, “Stiff upper lip, stiff upper lip.” Then she dispatches me to fetch her breakfast (one slice of wholemeal toast with peanut butter, no butter, and a cappuccino with cinnamon, no chocolate). I buy a double espresso and a blueberry muffin for myself, which I eat guiltily while Lizzy’s back is turned (“Muffin is just a sneaky word for cake!”).
    The day isn’t too bad. I spend it transcribing readers’ letters and other yawnsome copy onto the computer system (our octogenarian film critic insists on writing his reviews manually!). I ring freelance writers to remind them of the impending features meeting—the slackers never send in ideas otherwise. I call a rent-a-quote doctor to get him to detail the symptoms of chlamydia