Street one Friday night after work; I remember the crush at the bar and the noise of all those people, and having to reach up to him on tiptoe to hear him
speak. I remember his hand gently moving my hair away from my neck as he bent down to me; and his breath against my ear, sending goosebumps breaking out across my skin. And I remember the drunken
kiss, outside, on the way back home.
The office had been practically rebuilt since I last saw it. It now had a huge glass frontage, with revolving doors, through which an endless stream of trendy, young, creative types slipped
seamlessly in and out. I watched them a while, from just across the street, and I seriously regretted my choice of clothing, particularly my sensible shoes. It had been hot on the underground, and
I felt grubby from my day. I hoped my face wasn’t too shiny, but I’d no mirror in my bag with which to check.
How silly that I should feel like this. David loved me for myself; that’s what I’d always believed. He’d love me if I was dressed in a sack. We were married, after all.
He’d seen me giving birth; what difference would a bit of lipstick and mascara make after that?
But as I stood before the unfamiliar office I found myself taunted by the memory of my younger self. I didn’t mind being small back then; I was cute, and I knew it. I flounced around with
my long hair flowing behind me, letting the bangles on my wrists jangle like bells, forever announcing my approach. I had David wrapped around my little finger. Most of our courtship – for
want of a better word – went on here, at work.
I crossed over and pushed myself through those doors. The reception had been completely transformed since I worked here; I’d thought it plush back then but that was nothing to the way it
looked now, all minimalist chic, a bank of steel-doored lifts ahead, a line of framed front pages of the various magazines on the wall to the left, and to the right the sweeping desk behind which
sat an off-putting security guard and an even more intimidating, extremely pretty receptionist.
But I was not to be deterred; I used to work here, after all.
‘Hi,’ I said to the receptionist. ‘I was hoping to see David Berry.’
I smiled my brightest smile, and she smiled back, but not before I saw her eyes give me a quick, almost imperceptible once-over.
‘Is he expecting you?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I thought I’d surprise him. I’m his wife.’
I saw her double-take, the surprise on her face. Was it really that shocking that I could be David Berry’s wife? Or was I just being paranoid, my own self-consciousness getting the better
of me? I thought of David, waltzing into this building every morning in his smart suit with his hair all short and neat; I thought of what his colleagues saw of him and knew of him. He was a
good-looking man, my husband; that woman behind the reception desk, every woman in the building for that matter, would no doubt have noticed that.
I felt a needle of jealousy right under my ribs, sharp, unexpected. Still, he was married to me.
The receptionist pressed some buttons, spoke into her headset, and then ignored me. I stood there, trying not to feel in the way, while people hurried past me on their way from the lifts to the
door and vice versa, all of them looking straight out of the pages of the very magazines that they worked on.
After a moment I said, ‘Shall I go up?’
She looked at me as if she had forgotten I was there. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘He’s coming down.’
And that annoyed me a little; as if I couldn’t be trusted to find my way up to the fourth floor where the marketing department was. I felt excluded, waiting down there, when I’d
hoped to breeze into David’s office with a big smile, receive his warm, pleased-to-see-me kiss and perch myself jauntily on the edge of his desk. Just like I used to, all those years ago.
The lift doors opened, and there he was.
‘Jane,’ he said straight
speak. I remember his hand gently moving my hair away from my neck as he bent down to me; and his breath against my ear, sending goosebumps breaking out across my skin. And I remember the drunken
kiss, outside, on the way back home.
The office had been practically rebuilt since I last saw it. It now had a huge glass frontage, with revolving doors, through which an endless stream of trendy, young, creative types slipped
seamlessly in and out. I watched them a while, from just across the street, and I seriously regretted my choice of clothing, particularly my sensible shoes. It had been hot on the underground, and
I felt grubby from my day. I hoped my face wasn’t too shiny, but I’d no mirror in my bag with which to check.
How silly that I should feel like this. David loved me for myself; that’s what I’d always believed. He’d love me if I was dressed in a sack. We were married, after all.
He’d seen me giving birth; what difference would a bit of lipstick and mascara make after that?
But as I stood before the unfamiliar office I found myself taunted by the memory of my younger self. I didn’t mind being small back then; I was cute, and I knew it. I flounced around with
my long hair flowing behind me, letting the bangles on my wrists jangle like bells, forever announcing my approach. I had David wrapped around my little finger. Most of our courtship – for
want of a better word – went on here, at work.
I crossed over and pushed myself through those doors. The reception had been completely transformed since I worked here; I’d thought it plush back then but that was nothing to the way it
looked now, all minimalist chic, a bank of steel-doored lifts ahead, a line of framed front pages of the various magazines on the wall to the left, and to the right the sweeping desk behind which
sat an off-putting security guard and an even more intimidating, extremely pretty receptionist.
But I was not to be deterred; I used to work here, after all.
‘Hi,’ I said to the receptionist. ‘I was hoping to see David Berry.’
I smiled my brightest smile, and she smiled back, but not before I saw her eyes give me a quick, almost imperceptible once-over.
‘Is he expecting you?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I thought I’d surprise him. I’m his wife.’
I saw her double-take, the surprise on her face. Was it really that shocking that I could be David Berry’s wife? Or was I just being paranoid, my own self-consciousness getting the better
of me? I thought of David, waltzing into this building every morning in his smart suit with his hair all short and neat; I thought of what his colleagues saw of him and knew of him. He was a
good-looking man, my husband; that woman behind the reception desk, every woman in the building for that matter, would no doubt have noticed that.
I felt a needle of jealousy right under my ribs, sharp, unexpected. Still, he was married to me.
The receptionist pressed some buttons, spoke into her headset, and then ignored me. I stood there, trying not to feel in the way, while people hurried past me on their way from the lifts to the
door and vice versa, all of them looking straight out of the pages of the very magazines that they worked on.
After a moment I said, ‘Shall I go up?’
She looked at me as if she had forgotten I was there. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘He’s coming down.’
And that annoyed me a little; as if I couldn’t be trusted to find my way up to the fourth floor where the marketing department was. I felt excluded, waiting down there, when I’d
hoped to breeze into David’s office with a big smile, receive his warm, pleased-to-see-me kiss and perch myself jauntily on the edge of his desk. Just like I used to, all those years ago.
The lift doors opened, and there he was.
‘Jane,’ he said straight
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