do. We’ve been through a lot together and I still love you very much. I sometimes sit and think that we could so easily have split at the time of … well, you know … and we didn’t. I love you so much I ache sometimes. I hope you realise that.’
Tears in his eyes.
Sarah—‘I do.’
I didn’t. Tears in my eyes now.
Sarah—‘I love you so much, Paul, but we must try to be kinder to one another. I know that other couples take each other for granted over time and I never want to do that with you. You’re wonderful and I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’
Paul—‘I will always be here for you, Sarah. I will never leave you. I will always love you. You lift my heart to the highest point and yet let me down to the deepest despair sometimes. But I know you are always there for me. Loving me. This is the real thing, Sarah.’
Sarah—‘I know it is.’
He leant across the table and with his forefinger wrote on the palm of my hand I LOVE YOU. I reciprocated. It was something of a little tradition. Even when there had been rows we would always touch hands and somehow everything would be all right. Admittedly we did it less, but it was a sort of innocence that we had managed to salvage through the abortion.
We both wanted to fill silence with something these days. Before it was enough to look at each other in stunned silence, in awe of how lucky we were to have met each other. Today we were more in awe of the fact we were still together.
4th September
A Sunday. Am excited as tomorrow will be seeing or speaking to John again. Have to ask question of him about customer focus. This has put me in a good mood about everything. Am very sweet to Paul. Paul reciprocates and is sweet to me. A master of Latin phrases, Mr O’Brian. Oral pleasure a house speciality.
5th September
I’ve phoned. His PA stops me from getting through. Her name is Medina. I keep wanting to call her Medusa. I visualise snarling snakes emerging from her dandruff-ridden crusty head. Turning people to stone who dare to ask her the time of day. She sounds as though she is in dire need of oral pleasure.
‘Who is this, please?’
‘Sarah Giles.’
‘Does Mr Wayne know what it’s about?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you tell me what it’s about?’
‘No. It’s a bit complicated.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Wayne is very busy and can’t speak to anyone.’
‘It won’t take long.’
‘Then you can tell me, can’t you, dear.’
(Don’t you ‘dear’ me, you sexually frustrated and probably bearded and moustached Medina-Medusa person.)
‘OK. I want to know what his views are on the customer focus issue raised in the management document issued by Central Office last year and if he could provide me with a quote as I am now writing a report and it needs to be in by two p.m. this afternoon. OK?’
‘I will see if he is free.’
Big sigh.
Muzak. Barry Manilow singing ‘Could it be Magic’.
‘He will speak to you.’
Click.
Silence.
‘Er, hello?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that John Wayne?’
‘Yes. My time is precious. You need a quote. Do you have pen and paper ready?’
‘Yes. Do you know what I’m going to ask?’
‘Medina has told me.’
‘Then fire away.’
‘I have no views on it. Quote, unquote. Is that OK?’
‘Yes. I mean no. I want a quote from you. You must have an opinion on this. You have an opinion on everything else. Cats, English beer, women’s legs. Why not customer focus, which is your speciality?’
‘On that particular paper I have no comment and no opinion. Is that all Ms Giles?’
‘Well, if you can’t give me a comment on this, then who can?’
‘No one.’
‘Great. Well thanks for, er, nothing.’
‘My pleasure, Ms Giles. And thank you for an interesting lunch last week. Are you still wearing those culottes?’
I was. I lied.
‘No.’
‘Good. They looked disgusting on you. You should burn them.’
Click.
‘Rude arrogant bastard.’
‘Ms Giles?’
‘What—er—?’
‘Mr Wayne has handed you back to me. He has suggested I arrange another lunch with you as you don’t seem to understand the issues revolving around customer focus.’ Medina sounded less sexually frustrated.
More amused this time. She had obviously heard what I thought of her boss.
‘Er. Right.’
‘He can do a week on Wednesday. I will book Santini’s. Is that OK with you?’
‘Where is Santini’s?’
‘By Victoria Station. One o’clock. It’s smart.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
Click.
I’m wearing those culottes again. Screw him. 14th September
I am meeting John Wayne today for lunch in Santini’s. And, no, not wearing the culottes. And I’ve binned them. They were old anyway. Instead I’m wearing a dress. Sort of white, empire line and just above the knee and feminine. Not see–through. Just nice. Virginal. I feel virginal these days. Neat pumps. I look like a potential for the Sound of Music.
I arrive late. Ten minutes past one.
‘You are late, Ms Giles.’
Dark, brooding, rude bastard scowls at me.
I make no excuse. It seems a bit churlish to blame the trains when I actually work for the railway at the moment.
