(Answer: Barely any. So unless you strike lucky with discharge, the first thing you know about it is, you’re infertile). And I collect Laetitia’s trouser-suit from the dry cleaners. The one advantage of being back at work is that I have less time to brood about Marcus. Or Jasper, who—I realize—hasn’t rung me for over two and a half weeks. The one disadvantage of being back at work is that when Lizzy, Tina, and I go out for lunch, I am forced to listen to the wonder of Adrian for sixty minutes. Even Lizzy stifles a delicate yawn. It looks like an uneventful week.
Wednesday evening. I slouch home and slam the door. As I expect, the flat is empty. Luke is at probably the pub—he divides his time between bar work and bar play, and selling advertising space for a car magazine. The bar work I can understand, the selling of advertising space confused me. Luke tried to explain. He doesn’t meet his clients. He sits in a stuffy room in a crumbly building full of scruffy men and tired women and old telephones. No one wastes time saying hello. They come in, sit down, and plough through other car magazines containing lists of secondhand cars for sale. Then they ring the contact numbers in the other magazines and persuade whoever is trying to sell their car to cough up again to advertise with this magazine. As he is freelance, Luke is paid entirely on commission.
A few months back, I tried to establish how, with his infamous diplomacy skills, he makes any money. “I only phone people from Wales,” he replied. “What!” I said. According to Luke, the Welsh are the most friendly and least shouty people in the UK. They often take pity on him and pay up. I smile to myself as I recall this conversation, then I hear a noise and stop smiling.
The noise is a seductive giggle and it comes from the living room. I curse myself for slamming the front door and start to creep to my room. Too late. Marcus—last seen retreating butt-naked into his bathroom—pops his head round a corner and says in a jolly voice, “Hellie, meet Catalina!” A pretty woman with bright red plaits and huge green eyes bounces into the hallway. Interestingly, she is wearing a peasant smock and a woollen hat with ear flaps.
“Hey, Helen,” she says.
“Hello, Catalina,” I reply. I suspect that while she looks like a Bosnian refugee, she is actually a pop star. She is chemically friendly, which makes it even worse. This must be Marcus’s inimitable way of telling me he doesn’t want a relationship. What a coward. I fix him with a steady look of disdain.
“Hellie,” he cries, “why so stern!” He addresses Catalina. “When I first knew Hellie, she was such fun! But now she’s so stern!”
Catalina rattles out a machine-gun laugh and squeals, “ Kidding ?” as if she’s just been told her abysmal record has sensationally reached number ninety-four in the charts.
“My father just died,” I say for dramatic effect and to make Marcus look stupid. “It tends to make you less fun.” I give Marcus another sour look and shut myself in my room. I feel sorry for myself and, amazingly, for Catalina.
On Thursday morning I notice that Fatboy is—for the first time in his well-fed life—off his food. He opens his pink triangle mouth and meows loudly, slinks around my ankles—leaving a fine dusting of orange fur on my black trousers—leaps onto the kitchen surface (Marcus would freak, but he’s still in bed with Catalina), and butts my arm affectionately with his head. But when I open a tin and empty the gunk into his blue china bowl, he sticks his tail in the air like a mast and swaggers off. Then he starts howling. This is a truly terrible noise. It starts as a deep groan and ends as a high-pitched wail. I feel I have failed as a mother. “What?” I say in exasperation.
“Ma-uuaaaaaaaa-w!”
“I’m sorry,” I say crossly, “I don’t understand.” He then—and this is the worst part—goes and sits, like a Sphinx, on the
Wednesday evening. I slouch home and slam the door. As I expect, the flat is empty. Luke is at probably the pub—he divides his time between bar work and bar play, and selling advertising space for a car magazine. The bar work I can understand, the selling of advertising space confused me. Luke tried to explain. He doesn’t meet his clients. He sits in a stuffy room in a crumbly building full of scruffy men and tired women and old telephones. No one wastes time saying hello. They come in, sit down, and plough through other car magazines containing lists of secondhand cars for sale. Then they ring the contact numbers in the other magazines and persuade whoever is trying to sell their car to cough up again to advertise with this magazine. As he is freelance, Luke is paid entirely on commission.
A few months back, I tried to establish how, with his infamous diplomacy skills, he makes any money. “I only phone people from Wales,” he replied. “What!” I said. According to Luke, the Welsh are the most friendly and least shouty people in the UK. They often take pity on him and pay up. I smile to myself as I recall this conversation, then I hear a noise and stop smiling.
The noise is a seductive giggle and it comes from the living room. I curse myself for slamming the front door and start to creep to my room. Too late. Marcus—last seen retreating butt-naked into his bathroom—pops his head round a corner and says in a jolly voice, “Hellie, meet Catalina!” A pretty woman with bright red plaits and huge green eyes bounces into the hallway. Interestingly, she is wearing a peasant smock and a woollen hat with ear flaps.
“Hey, Helen,” she says.
“Hello, Catalina,” I reply. I suspect that while she looks like a Bosnian refugee, she is actually a pop star. She is chemically friendly, which makes it even worse. This must be Marcus’s inimitable way of telling me he doesn’t want a relationship. What a coward. I fix him with a steady look of disdain.
“Hellie,” he cries, “why so stern!” He addresses Catalina. “When I first knew Hellie, she was such fun! But now she’s so stern!”
Catalina rattles out a machine-gun laugh and squeals, “ Kidding ?” as if she’s just been told her abysmal record has sensationally reached number ninety-four in the charts.
“My father just died,” I say for dramatic effect and to make Marcus look stupid. “It tends to make you less fun.” I give Marcus another sour look and shut myself in my room. I feel sorry for myself and, amazingly, for Catalina.
On Thursday morning I notice that Fatboy is—for the first time in his well-fed life—off his food. He opens his pink triangle mouth and meows loudly, slinks around my ankles—leaving a fine dusting of orange fur on my black trousers—leaps onto the kitchen surface (Marcus would freak, but he’s still in bed with Catalina), and butts my arm affectionately with his head. But when I open a tin and empty the gunk into his blue china bowl, he sticks his tail in the air like a mast and swaggers off. Then he starts howling. This is a truly terrible noise. It starts as a deep groan and ends as a high-pitched wail. I feel I have failed as a mother. “What?” I say in exasperation.
“Ma-uuaaaaaaaa-w!”
“I’m sorry,” I say crossly, “I don’t understand.” He then—and this is the worst part—goes and sits, like a Sphinx, on the
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