Day 5: A financial make-over
‘What the hell?’ cried Marianne, as Esmé charged into the offices of Stylo Stationery at just gone nine o’clock on Monday morning.
‘Sorry, I’m late… I promise it’ll never happen again and… what’s that?’ she pointed at the helium balloon dancing on its ribbon beside Penny’s computer. The balloon bobbed revealing the message ‘Congratulations!’ ‘Oh yes, long weekend, long story.’
Marianne fell back into her seat, wide-eyed at Esmé’s new hair.
‘Do you like it?’ Esmé theatrically framed her face with her hands.
‘I think I’ll like it more after an explanation… where have your auburn locks gone?’
‘Same way as the—’
‘Congratulations! Show me, show me!’ cried Penny, entering with the tea tray and quickly depositing it on the first free desk before grabbing Esmé’s left hand.
‘Urgh! Problem.’ Esmé grimaced. ‘No ring.’
‘No proposal?’ asked Marianne, wincing.
‘No, nothing. Over. Finished. Totally finito!’
‘No!’ exclaimed Penny, supporting herself on the nearest chair back. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Ladies, you won’t believe what’s happened since Thursday.’
The three women gather around Esmé’s desk, cradling their coffee for a minute by minute update, totally ignoring the ringing phones, the Monday morning routine and the arrival of Ollie, the new IT intern.
‘I swear on my life, you’ve shocked me. I wouldn’t have brought that if I thought there was any doubt… I feel a prat now, hoicking that in on the bus,’ said Penny, pointing to the metallic balloon.
‘And a waste of a tenner,’ added Marianne. ‘And now, you’ve hooked up with four guys in a house off the Hagley Road – excellent move.’
‘Marianne, don’t… they might get through this… they might…’
‘No way. I’m done. Of all the guys I’ve dated… I never thought Andrew would cheat on me.’
‘And there was a fair few in your younger years,’ adds Marianne.
‘Well yes… of course, but I never saw this coming and so, it’s right what they say… you never know someone, ever.’
‘Oh, come now, I know my Jimmy,’ said Marianne. ‘I know he’ll never marry me, but he’ll never cheat and he’ll probably sweet talk me into having a baby someday.’
‘Yeah, same here. I know my Keith… as miserable as he is, moaning about everything the kids or I do in and around the house… he’d never cheat in our marriage,’ adds Penny.
‘Looks like I’m the lucky one then… unfortunate enough not to see this coming, not to be playing the field and to have put all my hopes and dreams into one basket!’ said Esmé, her voice cracking. ‘So, that’s the news. Hence, the new hair and why I arrived late.’
‘Seriously, he wasn’t right for you… I don’t care what Penny and your mother said about him… You’re now free to spread your wings and have a bit of fun,’ said Marianne.
‘You wait seven years to tell me that?’
‘Yep, long time actually. Where was the romance? The passion? Andrew was a dead squid.’
‘Marianne!’ cried Penny, a look of horror on her face.
‘I’ll be honest, I never liked him the first time I met him… too… what’s the word? Arrogant! Up his own arse!’ declared Marianne, opening her desk drawer and grabbing a packet of custard creams. ‘Here… let’s celebrate!’
Esmé leant across the desk and took two.
‘Marianne, you really shouldn’t comment,’ whispered Penny, refusing a custard cream.
‘No, seriously, I thought, oh no, a total mistake,’ explained Marianne, stuffing biscuits into her mouth quicker than a Guinness book of records attempt.
‘Hmmmm, cheers,’ added Esmé, nibbling the layers of her first biscuit.
‘This might be a rollercoaster break up… so don’t comment so freely,’ repeated Penny.
‘A what?’ muttered Marianne.
‘Weekend break up but they’re back together on a high by Wednesday… a rollercoaster break up.’
‘No way,’ mumbled Esmé.
‘No one knows what the future has in store.’
‘I do… he got caught doing the dirty in our bed. Her name’s Sadie and I hate her guts.’
‘Sadie… oh, one of those, is she?’ asked Marianne, curling her lip.
‘One of what?’ asked Penny.
‘The new generation of Sadie, Selina and Sapphire – all slinky and kinky and chasing your man.’
‘Anyway, it’s over… I can’t forgive him and I certainly won’t forget.’
‘You don’t deserve that,’ said Marianne.
‘You’re right. I deserve better.’
‘You’ll be joining us at the bus station each evening?’ said Penny, moving onto safer territory.
‘Yep, new bus route, new bathroom routine with a guy called Asa and…’ Esmé pointed to her throat. ‘That awful knot that sits just here and won’t allow you to swallow or eat properly, reminding you that your heart has been broken.’ Esmé’s eye filled with tears.
‘Oh lovey, this will pass,’ said Penny, jumping up to give her a hug.
‘It’ll probably pass as painfully as a kidney stone but yep, it’ll pass,’ adds Marianne, standing to join in the group bear hug.
‘And in the meantime,’ came Esmé’s muffled voice from under the commiseration of her colleagues. ‘I need to arrange to clear my belongings out of the… his apartment, visit the bank, change my address… urgh, the list is endless.’
‘And your mother?’ asked Marianne.
‘Urgh! Don’t remind me. As much as she hated the rental apartment… and pushed for a mortgage commitment…’
‘The woman doted on Andrew.’ Marianne completed the sentence as Esmé began to sob.
*
‘In nine years… I have never been late for work, Mrs Stylo. I can only apologise on this occasion and promise it will never happen again,’ panted Esmé, determined to convince her steely eyed boss sitting opposite.
‘Mmmm,’ growled the old lady, eyeballing her carefully. A back drop of metal filing cabinets and a withered spider plant failed to contradict the ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here… but it helps’ sticker that had constituted office humour for the last three decades.
When did bosses become this difficult? Stavros Stylo, Esmé’s original boss and the late husband of this witch, had been the warmest, kindest man she’d ever encountered. Since his untimely death from cancer a few years ago, not a working day had gone by that Esmé hadn’t recalled with fondness the day he interviewed her. A simple four questioned interview, at that.
‘You like stationery?’
‘You can tap, tap, tap on the computer thingy?’
‘You can make coffee without wasting time?’
‘Yes, yes, and yes,’ had been Esmé’s eager reply as a naïve twenty year old, in desperate need of work and independence.
‘You can start after lunch time then?’
Her first proper interview and her first proper job after walking out mid-afternoon from her original job in the box factory, where she was used and abused and asked to clean the toilets.
How she missed Stavros Stylo, with his fatherly mannerisms.
‘I assure you there are reasons but it will never happen again,’ pleaded Esmé.
‘Your hair, there’s something different?’
Esmé touched her once lustrous locks, feeling instead the crispy texture of styling product and was reminded, yet again, that her long hair had gone to the big dust pan in the sky.
‘Oh yes, a slight trim.’ An understatement, Tristan took ten inches off from all over transforming a glorious young woman into a pantomime page. ‘But that is not the reason I was late…’
‘The colour?’ Stylo’s hand flaps around her own head of fine grey hair.
‘Yes, I was auburn last week and now…’
‘White?’
‘Platinum, actually… though if you wish to call it white, then yes, white.’
Esmé watched as the old lady’s hand absentmindedly touched the nape of her wrinkled neck, and fingered the texture of her own greying locks imprisoned in a severe bun.
‘You think such a colour would…?’
Kill me now. The devil of all bosses wishes to copy my haircut, my life is seriously in trouble.
‘I’m not so sure…’ she muttered, not wishing to sound rude but definitely not wishing to gain an aged twin.
Mrs Stylo frowned, her steel grey eyes bore into Esmé.
And now I’ve annoyed her twice in one morning.
‘Are you having a crisis?’ asked the elderly lady.
Possibly.
‘To be honest Mrs Stylo, life has changed pretty rapidly in recent days to such an extent that—’ Esmé began to explain.
‘You want leave Stylo?’
‘To be honest no, but…’
‘You here with my husband, he called you his top girl and yet you come in here saying you want out, you having crisis – which leads to change, which ultimately means you will be going for the interviews, yeah?’ said Mrs Stylo. She continued to tut long after her sentence. ‘How much?’
Esmé’s ears pricked up. What did she say?
‘I ask you, how much? How much for you to stop having the crisis and stop looking elsewhere for more pennies?’
Esmé wondered fleetingly if it would be entirely bad manners to jump up and dash from her office for an emergency conflab with Marianne and Penny about the best way to negotiate something she hadn’t even thought about. Instead, she sat tight. Her last pay rise was two years ago and that was only enough to cover the increase in her bus fare to and from work. If her new lifestyle was to be stress free she needed to ask for much more, more than she’d have dreamed of but hey, what had The Single Girl’s Calendar, day five, said ‘a financial make-over’.
‘Three thousand,’ whispered Esmé, watching the old lady’s reaction. A figure plucked from the air but at roughly twenty quid a week per thousand before tax that would be a nice amount to cushion the blow should any unexpected bills come her way. Andrew had never been her safety net but he would never have seen her go short, not while they were living together, anyway. But Andrew was history and so was his safety net.
Mrs Stylo grabbed her calculator and punched buttons for a considerable amount of time.
‘Three thousand, you say?’
Esmé nodded, speaking was not an option.
After a few more button presses, the old lady gave the tiniest of nods. If she’d blinked, Esmé would have missed it.
‘OK, OK, but no more of this crisis and you stop looking for new job, right?’
You suggested a new job, not me, thought Esmé.
‘Oh yes, definitely… right, from this point onwards no more crisis… no more… finished, gone, done and dusted,’ said Esmé, as she scrambled up from her seat and edged towards the office door. Through which she shot, closed and then instantly returned in a fluster to say. ‘Thank you!’
‘And my Stavros, he thought you were the best, men, phah!’ muttered the old lady, shaking her head and returning to her paperwork.
*
Esmé climbed the office stairs in a state of shock. How could this be happening? She thought she’d been called in for a dressing down but instead walked out with a pay rise. How? Why? When she’d opened door five of her single girl’s calendar she’d imagined the task related to balancing her current account, denial about her overdraft and arranging to sell a whole load of her belongings on eBay purely to make ends meet. Instead, she was entering the shared office with a huge smile on her face.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Penny, viewing her stunned expression. Marianne stopped shuffling paper and stared too.
‘If I told you, I’d have to kill ya,’ laughed Esmé, slumping into her seat, eager to start work.
*
Esmé felt like a survivor for most of the morning but a mid-afternoon break found her weeping in the ladies’ toilets. With damp red eyes, she peered into the wash basin mirror, in need of a pep talk.
‘There’s no going back. He’s shown his true colours. He can beg as much as he wants but I’ll put the phone down. I don’t want to hear his sob story. If he calls, I’ll say ‘Andrew, you had your chance and you blew it.’
Argh! Esmé cringed, bringing herself back to the reality of talking to herself in the toilets.
She splashed cold water onto her face and vowed not to talk to herself – it only gave the game away.
‘Quick, where have you been? Reception want you downstairs,’ cried Marianne across the office as she returned from the ladies. ‘Katrina is all of a flap.’
Esmé trotted down to the main reception desk to be greeted by a smiley, plump lady in a tabard, holding an arrangement of fresh flowers. Katrina, the receptionist, looked longingly at them over her high desk.
‘Esmé Peel?’ cooed the florist, offering her the colourful arrangement.
‘No. I don’t think so,’ was all Esmé could muster, before the smiley lady bade her a good day and swiftly departed.
‘I’ll have them if you don’t want them,’ offered Katrina, her receptionist’s head-set skewed around her lower jaw.
‘I’ll let you know.’ Esmé climbed back up the stairs, her arms quivering with the weight of the delivery.
‘Oh, how beautiful,’ squealed Penny, as Esmé entered the office peering through foliage and ferns.
‘Predictable,’ muttered Marianne.
‘Now what? Accept them and take them home or donate them?’
‘I’ll have them,’ snapped Penny, blushing on receipt of a cold stare from Marianne.
‘Your shout, but be careful… how many times has he ever bought you flowers, let alone sent you flowers?’ asked Marianne, cautiously eyeing the arrangement as Esmé placed it on the centre desk.
‘Never.’
‘Exactly.’ Marianne gently touched the delicate rose and lily petals.
‘He’s sorry… he’s acknowledging that he messed up,’ offered Penny, her eyes pleaded with Esmé to accept or donate to her. ‘Are you going to read the card?’
‘Nah, you can throw it in the bin.’
‘Esmé,’ said Penny, looking to Marianne for reinforcement. ‘You really should read it.’
‘I was only ever thinking about us and he was thinking about them! I don’t feel bad, if you wish to read the card then go ahead, be my guest, but I refuse to be manipulated. However much this has cost it doesn’t come near to what it has cost me!’
Esmé sat at her desk and stared at the bouquet. It was beautiful, it had probably cost him a small fortune and yet, the very sight of it turned her stomach. Had she asked for this? No, all she’d wanted was a faithful, committed Andrew. It was too little, too late.
‘Penny, take them home.’
‘Whoop.’ Penny gushed at the prospect, before piping down and making certain Esmé was sure.
‘No, seriously… I can’t accept them, on principle, and I’m not carrying them on the bus only to ignore them for a fortnight. Please, you’ll be doing me a favour.’
‘Brave choice,’ whispered Marianne.
‘Though you might want to sneak past Katrina on the way out tonight,’ laughed Esmé.
*
Esmé knocked on the door of apartment nine, her key was in her hand but it didn’t feel right to use it.
Andrew opened the door wearing scruffy jeans and a crumpled tee-shirt. His look of surprise was touching.
‘What’s with the bleached hair?’
‘Hi… I fancied a change.’
‘It’s different from your usual style.’
‘Good different or bad different?’
‘Hmmm…’
‘Never mind, it doesn’t matter what your opinion is, to be honest. Anyway, sorry to disturb you but I’ve brought some boxes to…’
‘I thought you’d send your parents to bag and box… I was dreading…’ he stepped aside, embarrassed by his response. ‘Anyway, come in.’
The door shut firmly behind her. The hallway felt smaller than ever with them both standing silently observing each other. How many times had they stood together here prior to going out, arriving home, waving off friends or welcoming family – so many times and yet, now, urgh!
‘Go through.’ Andrew pointed towards the lounge doorway.
She wasn’t expecting this. Esmé was half expecting him to be the normal Andrew, bouncy, boisterous and a tad bolshie but this shell of a man with his crumpled tee-shirt, a five o’clock shadow and uncombed hair wasn’t the Andrew she knew.
Esmé looked around the lounge, the curtains were drawn, the tv was on mute and an empty pizza box lay open on the floor by the couch.
‘Is she here?’ asked Esmé, standing in the centre of his lounge.
‘Sadie?’
‘Mmmm.’
‘No. Esmé that was—’
‘Don’t. Please. I haven’t come here to discuss things… I’ve come to collect a set of bed sheets, a change of clothes and a few personal belongings,’ she said, adding ‘but thank you for the flowers, they were beautiful.’
A flash of hope flickered in his eyes.
‘I wanted you to know how sorry I am.’ He took a step forward, his unshaven face puffy and tired.
‘Sorry but no. You made a choice when you and her… now, I need to… and I’ve decided. I can’t forgive.’
Andrew flopped backwards into the nearest arm chair, his crestfallen expression stared at her.
‘We’re through?’
‘Sadly, yeah.’
He shook his head, his eyes glistened.
‘You cheated. What do you expect me to do? Forgive and forget?’
‘I want to make amends… Let me make amends. We’ll get engaged, married – do whatever you want, just say it and we’ll do it.’
She shook her head as a wave of emotion snagged in her throat.
Andrew launched himself from the arm chair, dropped to one knee and grabbed her left hand, his eyes were desperate, his lips trembling.
‘Esmé.’
She snatched back her hand as if electrocuted by his touch.
And now, he asks. After all those years of hoping, he asks now!
Esmé wanted to cry. What wouldn’t she have given for him to even suggest getting engaged prior to Thursday evening.
‘I can’t.’
Andrew rose from the carpet and stood before her, staring.
‘It would be a mistake,’ she muttered, not able to look at his face.
She didn’t know where her calmness was coming from but if she could just hold it together for ten more minutes she’d be out of there and heading home to Montague Road.
‘Look at me,’ muttered Andrew.
Esmé lifted her gaze to see the man before her. His pain was clearly visible. Yet, it wasn’t a face she loved, or knew any more. It was simply the face of another human being that was suffering and hurt and whose heart was probably breaking as they spoke. His large hands were not the hands that had once held her tight, caressed her skin and wiped her tears away for they were now tainted by the skin of another woman. Since Thursday, she’d imagined those very hands hastily unbuttoning a blouse, unzipping a skirt and then guiltily being washed and dried to dial up a takeaway ready for her return home after the late-night stock take.
‘Do you mind if I help myself, or do you want to fetch the things I need?’
‘You,’ was all he could muster.
Esmé left the lounge and swiftly collected bits from the airing cupboard, her dressing table, wardrobe and the bathroom. She couldn’t help but look to see if anything new had been added to the medicine cabinet as she removed her razors and tampons.