back on the line and starts telling me about the different kinds of camper vans you can buy. She’s been looking it all up on the Internet. She has a computer on her desk. When people approach she has to hit ‘Minimise’, so she can give the impression that she is deeply, if temporarily, committed to International Holdings. The other day she pressed the wrong button and somehow ended up with a screen that blared, ‘Single and sexy? Visit our chat room for fun, no strings attached!’ just as a man called Jon was about to ask her what month it was.
‘Sally? Sally, are you still there?’ Erika is saying. Though I haven’t really been listening to her, I presume she wants me to comment on which sort of camper van might be preferable. I must get off the subject.
‘So… you and Alex have discussed all this?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Erika says. ‘He’ll rent a house later on, in the autumn. Divorce is very expensive; living in a camper van for a while would save him loads of money. And then he could sell it again if he wanted to.’
‘Well… I suppose it could be quite practical,’ I say. Then I add cautiously, ‘But are you sure he really wants to leave his wife, Erika? So many of them sound as though they want to, then don’t do it.’
‘Of course he does!’ she virtually shouts. ‘I can’t even believe you’re saying that.’
I decide not to apologise. Erika needs to realise that what I’ve said is not that outlandish.
‘Anyway, his wife may leave him first,’ Erika declares defensively. ‘She’s spending more and more time with her yoga teacher.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I sometimes follow them.’
‘What?’
‘I sometimes follow them after class. They go to a park and talk.’
I’m not quite sure how to reply to the news that Erika stalks Alex’s wife, so it’s just as well that someone comes to her desk and asks her to type a letter. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ I hear a deep, hesitant voice saying. ‘It would be a great help. It’s not that long. Thanks, Erika. I hope you can read my handwriting.’ From the sound of his tentative tone, I suspect that this is Lionel, one of Erika’s more junior bosses, who doesn’t have his own secretary. She has told me about him. He virtually cringes any time he has to ask her to do anything; it’s as if he doesn’t realise she is actually employed to do things like type letters.
‘Don’t worry, Lionel, you have the best handwriting in the building,’ Erika says in a motherly tone. Lionel is probably b lushing to the roots of his hair. I must find out if he’s married, because I suspect he has a major crush on Erika. She keeps finding chocolate biscuits on her desk, and I bet they’re from him.
As Erika gets on with her letter, I push my way down Grafton Street to the sound of buskers playing violins, guitars and trombones. The street is packed with shiny, manicured people with designer shopping bags. Shouldn’t some of them be in offices? The building I’m heading for is down one of these side-streets. A very modern new store is showcasing ‘top young design talent’. According to the swanky press release, the whole ground floor will be full of lamps with complex surfaces and flowing organic shapes, edgy twenty-first-century silver and sensually therapeutic textiles. The overall effect will be ‘amusing, intimate, ironic and intriguing’. Greta certainly knows how to talk things up.
I’m on the right street and I’m early, so I decide to go into an Italian café and have a cappuccino. Van Morrison is playing in the big, slightly shaded interior; I get my cappuccino and sit on a lemon-coloured armchair by the window.
There are moments in my life when I feel perfectly contented, and this is one of them. The secret of happiness is to count your blessings and notice what you have, instead of what’s missing; and I have so many reasons to be grateful.
I stir my cappuccino and watch the thick whorls covered in chocolate powder.
‘Sally? Sally, are you still there?’ Erika is saying. Though I haven’t really been listening to her, I presume she wants me to comment on which sort of camper van might be preferable. I must get off the subject.
‘So… you and Alex have discussed all this?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Erika says. ‘He’ll rent a house later on, in the autumn. Divorce is very expensive; living in a camper van for a while would save him loads of money. And then he could sell it again if he wanted to.’
‘Well… I suppose it could be quite practical,’ I say. Then I add cautiously, ‘But are you sure he really wants to leave his wife, Erika? So many of them sound as though they want to, then don’t do it.’
‘Of course he does!’ she virtually shouts. ‘I can’t even believe you’re saying that.’
I decide not to apologise. Erika needs to realise that what I’ve said is not that outlandish.
‘Anyway, his wife may leave him first,’ Erika declares defensively. ‘She’s spending more and more time with her yoga teacher.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I sometimes follow them.’
‘What?’
‘I sometimes follow them after class. They go to a park and talk.’
I’m not quite sure how to reply to the news that Erika stalks Alex’s wife, so it’s just as well that someone comes to her desk and asks her to type a letter. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ I hear a deep, hesitant voice saying. ‘It would be a great help. It’s not that long. Thanks, Erika. I hope you can read my handwriting.’ From the sound of his tentative tone, I suspect that this is Lionel, one of Erika’s more junior bosses, who doesn’t have his own secretary. She has told me about him. He virtually cringes any time he has to ask her to do anything; it’s as if he doesn’t realise she is actually employed to do things like type letters.
‘Don’t worry, Lionel, you have the best handwriting in the building,’ Erika says in a motherly tone. Lionel is probably b lushing to the roots of his hair. I must find out if he’s married, because I suspect he has a major crush on Erika. She keeps finding chocolate biscuits on her desk, and I bet they’re from him.
As Erika gets on with her letter, I push my way down Grafton Street to the sound of buskers playing violins, guitars and trombones. The street is packed with shiny, manicured people with designer shopping bags. Shouldn’t some of them be in offices? The building I’m heading for is down one of these side-streets. A very modern new store is showcasing ‘top young design talent’. According to the swanky press release, the whole ground floor will be full of lamps with complex surfaces and flowing organic shapes, edgy twenty-first-century silver and sensually therapeutic textiles. The overall effect will be ‘amusing, intimate, ironic and intriguing’. Greta certainly knows how to talk things up.
I’m on the right street and I’m early, so I decide to go into an Italian café and have a cappuccino. Van Morrison is playing in the big, slightly shaded interior; I get my cappuccino and sit on a lemon-coloured armchair by the window.
There are moments in my life when I feel perfectly contented, and this is one of them. The secret of happiness is to count your blessings and notice what you have, instead of what’s missing; and I have so many reasons to be grateful.
I stir my cappuccino and watch the thick whorls covered in chocolate powder.
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