type well.
‘Sorry, Lucy.’ If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, you don’t answer back. You can shout and rail internally. But it doesn’t help anyone to be mouthy. ‘The team needed their caffeine, but I’ll get right on it.’
‘OK, well it’s urgent, so maybe get that kettle boiling.’
It’s literally just about to boil. She can hear it. Unless that’s just the steam mounting in my head? Nope, nope, there’s the click. The pressure’s off. Allegedly.
‘Ah, there we are,’ I say. Forced jollity. Turning the old trick. So they won’t know what’s underneath.
‘Well then, mine’s a tea, white, none. Call me when you get to your desk.’
And she leaves me her cup. Christ, she’s led a sheltered life. If you’ve had all kind of shit – yes, actually, shit – mixed in your drinks over the years (ha, ha, yeah, really funny, now fuck off) then you wouldn’t be Miss Prissy Bitch to someone then expect a standard cuppa. But then that’s her whole fucking problem. No compassion. One of those people – walks past on the other side, says the State should help and then goes into Starbucks for her frappe-latta-cappa, then complains about being overcharged. Fucking hell.
I need to boil more water.
Come on. New Jen. New Jen doesn’t stand in kitchens grasping cups so hard they might crack. She doesn’t rail against well-dressed women in authority. She smiles; she makes tea; she gets to her desk. She does not swear. The day does its thing; she does hers. And Josh gets safely collected at the end of it.
So I dispatch the tea. I almost bow when I drop off Lucy’s (better than pouring it on her, I guess). ‘I’ll be right with you, as soon as I’ve listened to that message.’
‘What, Jen, you haven’t done that yet? Oh, don’t bother. I might as well just tell you. Sit here.’
And she pulls her pashmina-covered oversized handbag from the chair by her desk.
I don’t have a notebook. I am carrying coffee (for myself and one other). The obvious thing to do is to ask her to give me a minute.
‘Lucy, could I possibly …’
‘Jen, what’s with you today? You’re unfocused. Do I need to talk to Bill?’
No, of course not. Of course she doesn’t need to speak to Bill. Of course, I will sit here.
I wish there was a room I could slam upstairs to. Refuse to come down. Until I’m shipped off somewhere else.
But I don’t have that luxury.
So I sit.
‘I need two land transfer forms this morning. One …’
And on we go. Minus pen and paper, I work hard to remember the details. Which I can do. It’s details I’ve always been good on. That’s how I got where I am. And he got – where he is.
***
Finally, mid-morning, I reach my own desk. The light on my phone still flashes. If that light thinks it’s going to annoy me into listening to Lucy’s recorded voice, it’s very wrong. I sip my cold coffee. Not ideal but I’ll tough it out. Hah! Emails, forms, emails, forms. The day goes on. Roll on Tim’s new case. I can’t be Ms Motivation every day.
Lunch finally comes and I sneak out via the staircase, avoiding Lucy’s desk. I’m nearly done with those forms but my stomach’s needs are greater. And my brain’s. When you need a walk, you need a walk. I used to tell them that, back when I was a teenager. They didn’t get it, or pretended not to, stupid sods. ‘She’s gone AWOL again’, they said. ‘Fuck you,’ I said, when I finally returned. Another black mark. Another step further from adoption.
Outside the air is – well, it’s Luton (Lu’on) isn’t it? So the air is a mix of traffic, plane, and curry fumes. An aircraft roars overhead, a call to prayer summons from a mosque, and the buses honk like the drivers don’t actually want to run over pedestrians.
The great big pink M of the shopping mall is what draws me, though. Infinite choice, self-creation. I don’t buy any of it. Money is still tight. I don’t get anything, over and above the job. You’d think I would, but I don’t. I can still look though, right? Have a bit of a break? Try to get Jen back on track?
I browse in the window of Oasis. I’m only twenty-nine. I can still do High Street. Remember Chloe ‘doing’ the high street all those years ago – brazenly picking up what she fancied then walking out the shop. Without paying. No prosecutions, once the tales of the ‘difficult history’ got out; she just couldn’t go back to that shop. Sometimes she got to keep the clothes, though. Should have been shopping with Mum instead. Hah.
Now, the pinks and lilacs waft in a window fan, part of an elaborate window display designed to make you feel like the most stylish, most feminine of women. I could be that person. Maybe I am that person. Just without those clothes. My eye strays to some kids’ clothes in the next-door window. There’s a cute beanie hat that would suit Josh completely. It can’t be too expensive – I should pop in and get it.
Then I realize I am not the only one looking in the window.
There’s a woman. But not just any woman. She has wild curly black hair. Chloe hair.
Instantly I go small. You know – shoulders and upper arms clench in, head goes down. Feet wriggle closer together, but ready to make a run if need be.
Stupid, Jen. It’s just a woman, looking in the window of a shop. In a busy lunch hour. Over-ride the instinct. Be New Jen.
So I flick my eyes back to the window reflection.
And the woman is gone.
I’m seeing ghosts. It’s just me.
Or fucking hell, poltergeists, the amount of a flying shitstorm there’d be if –
If anything that went on in my paranoid world was real.
I give myself a moment. Breathe. Think of Josh. Then I abandon Oasis. Rush to Boots, buy one of their meal deal things, then back to the office. I can eat at my desk with BBC News. Today is obviously a day to be inside. I know it’s a safe zone at work. Even Lucy, bitch that she is, doesn’t pose any real danger. Fuck it, Luton is a safe zone (if you steer clear of the estates, and those crazy pro/anti burqa rallies).
But I can’t help looking over my shoulder as I scurry back to the office. I haven’t sensed danger for months. So why now?
I eat lunch over the BBC website. No, not catching up on Strictly or some reality shit nonsense (not shit, Jen – just reality nonsense. Come on, Jen. Think nicely; speak nicely). I’m all about the news. When something like that happens, when I’m spooked. If I’m sure as I’ll ever be there’s no one hovering behind me, I’ll flick onto the Doncaster Star site for some news from my old locale. Just in case, you know. In case there’s something about me. Or something about her. About Chloe.
But of course there’s nothing on the news. On the BBC, it’s the
