Who’s That Girl? by Celia Hayes (38)

It’s hopeless, I’ll never be thin. I’ve sort of gotten used to the idea by now, even though there are still days when I can feel the old anxiety creeping up on me and so I give in to self-harm, locking myself in my bedroom and devouring chocolate and pecan cookies like I’m possessed. And if the only person who used to make it impossible for me to have a bit of self-restraint was my mother, now there’s also Dave, who seems to take delight in reminding me which of us is the good looking one in the couple. And he’s so smug about it that it drives me nuts – I usually end up shutting him up by reminding him that it wasn’t him who won second place in the Beautiful Curvy contest. And no prizes for guessing what happens after that, because it’s all too obvious: Al’s name comes up, we start arguing, he yells at me, says that he’s leaving, he tells me that this is the last time he’s coming chasing after me. Messages full of emotional blackmail fly back and forth, I cry, he gives in and from that moment on I can say good-bye to my underwear.

This relationship is costing me a fortune, which I can barely afford – there are no perks to being the boss’s girlfriend. No gratification, no reduction in working hours, nothing. In fact, quite the opposite: it’s as if they’ve all agreed to make me pay in blood for the one damn week I actually was away.

“Did you get the photocopies of Tom’s notes?” asks Margaret.

“Yes, here they are,” I say, holding out a stack of files.

“And the draft of the article on the Pricasso exhibition?”

“The one who paints with his…?” I whisper, afraid someone will overhear.

“Why are you whispering? We’re talking about art.”

“Margaret, shouldn’t we talk to Dave about it first?”

“No, we shouldn’t,” she says. “This is still my section of the newspaper and I decide what to print in it.”

“Yeah, sorry. You’re right.”

“And take these too,” she murmurs, adding a pair of blue cards to the top of the pile. “Now shoo, I’ve got work to do.”

“I’m going.”

“But come back later – we have to look at the notes about this morning’s conference.”

“Sure.”

“And—”

“Sorry, they’re calling me from the other room!” I say, creeping off before she can dump half the office’s work on me. A few seconds later I’m at the other side of the office, uncertain as to whether to go back to my desk or take a break in Terry’s cubicle.

“Sam, Dave’s looking for you,” says Jane as she passes, completely oblivious to my dilemma.

“Sam, the first draft of the front page is ready. Can you work up the second?” comes a voice from one of the cubicles.

“I’m busy right now, George,” I answer as I walk away.

“Sam, have you called the mayor’s office?” asks Tiffany, leaning out from her cubicle.

“I’ll do it later, I’m busy right now.”

“Sam—” comes a voice from somewhere in the room.

“I said, I’m busy!” I shout, taking refuge in Dave’s room before it’s too late. “They’ve all lost their minds,” I mutter to myself. “They’re all crazy.”

“Sam, would you mind telling me where the hell you got to?” snaps Dave as soon as he sees me.

“Well, good morning to you too, Dave,” I answer, pretending not to have noticed his tone. “And yes, thank you, I did sleep well. Oh, flowers? For little old me?” I say, in fake amazement as I dump the mountain of files on his desk and put my hands to my heart, “you shouldn’t have!” Then I walk across the room and collapse wearily into a chair. Dave watches me as I rant, an amused smile on his face, but when he sits down in front of me, on the edge of the desk, he’s the same as always: grumpiness incarnate.

“The usual drama queen,” he mutters without raising his eyes from the documents I’ve brought him. “Look at this. Who wrote this? Anthropophacus? What the hell does that mean?” He crosses out the mistake with a pencil. “These all need correcting.”

“Yes, I know, they’ve already told me,” I snort. “You didn’t answer me, Dave – what did you want? Why am I here?”

“Please, don’t start getting paranoid.”

“Well, in that case I’ll be on my way, then.” I stand up, ready to sneak away, but he stops me.

“I haven’t finished,” he grins, grabbing me by one of my belt hooks and pulling me to him.

“Dave, what is it that you want?” I ask him, thinking how ridiculous it is that I have to stand there looking at him while he pretends to check Margaret’s article on Dr Malpas’s talk on the indigenous peoples of Patagonia.

“Did she give you anything else?” he says, turning the sheet of paper over to look at the back.

“A couple of articles on the opening night of Carmen.”

“And?”

“A… a little thing about a painter,” I say, vaguely.

“Which one?”

“I can’t remember right now.”

“Think harder,” he says, rifling through the stack of papers.

“I think he was called Pricasso or something?”

“You mean Picasso,” he says, giving me a funny look, as though he’s wondering if I’ve started drinking in the mornings.

“No, I’m about 99 per cent sure that he’s called Pricasso,” I answer, fearing the worst.

“No, Sam, he’s called Picasso.”

“The famous twentieth century cubist painter from Malaga? Yeah, I know. And then there’s Pricasso.”

“And who the hell is that?”

“A contemporary artist.”

“And what does he do?”

“He paints.”

“And what the hell does he paint?”

“You should probably ask what he paints with,” I say, feeling uncomfortable.

“Sam, I thought we’d reached an understanding that you were going to start communicating in plain English, just so we avoid anybody getting fired?”

“I don’t want to go into it,” I say, holding up my hands.

“Ah, right.” He massages his face. “Ok, right, ok. I don’t want to know anything about it. Just get a move on with this stuff,” he says, dumping it all back into my arms, including the article on Dr Malpas. “Because at six we have to go out.”

“Where to?”

“I booked an appointment with the interior designer. I have to show him the house.”

“Okay, I’ll do my best.” I head off towards the door, and then I stop. You know when you sense something in the air? The feeling of an imminent, inexplicable emotional catastrophe? I know, I’m probably being silly, but just to be sure, before I go I turn round. At first glance, everything seems normal. But…

“Wait a minute, why do you have to show him your house?” I ask suspiciously.

“Because I want to have it redecorated?” he answers, as though it were obvious.

“And why do you want to have it redecorated?”

“Because I’ve got no idea where to put all your books, Sam. I’ve got no intention of filling my bookcase with Forbidden Pleasures or whatever trash you’re reading when you say you’re too busy to see me.”

“But… why would you have my books?”

“Would you really be willing to move in with me without bringing them? Because if you would, I’d be fine with that, really I would,” he says, momentarily putting his tablet down on the desk. “Anyway, are you going to get a move on? It’s already three, how are you going to be ready for six?”

He’s right, but I stand there, clinging to the handle and looking out into the corridor, wondering which side of the threshold I’d be best staying on to face the rest of the discussion.

“Dave…”

“What?” he answers, and without warning he comes over and slams the door shut.

“Let me see if I understand: in some absolutely bizarre way, are you trying to ask me to come and live with you?”

Dave smiles delightedly. I’m starting to suspect that he does everything he can to be in the wrong just to prove that he can then manage to win me over even in the most desperate situations. “I’m not asking you, Sam,” he murmurs.

I raise an eyebrow.

“I talked to your mother,” he continues. “She said that if I don’t take you, you’re going to be out in the street, because she’s sick of washing your clothes for you. Get used to it – you don’t have a roof over your head any more.”

“So it’s just out of human kindness.”

“If you want to look at it like that, yeah,” he says.

“And I’m supposed to be over the moon about the idea, I suppose?”

“Well, that would be good, yes,” he says threateningly.

“Dave…” I say, glaring at him. “Dave…”

“Ssh!” He kisses me.

“Dave, look…”

“Ssh!” he says, kissing me again.

“But do you realise…”

“You don’t have to thank me,” kiss, “I’m glad to do it,” and another kiss. “But now hurry up,” kiss, “it’s at six o’clock,” kiss, “don’t forget.”

I leave his office in a state of shock. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to put up with him for the rest of my life,” I mutter to myself. “I might kill him.”

“Ah… Sam.”

I stop in the corridor. “What now?”

“I know you love me anyway,” he says, then gives me a wink and goes back inside. It’s hopeless, he just doesn’t know how to handle a relationship and he’s totally incapable of behaving normally. With the practical part, there are times when he is unbeatable, I swear – it’s just the theory that he can’t get through his head. It’s pointless: he doesn’t try hard enough, he’s lazy, he’s distracted, he takes no notice when you try to tell him where he’s going wrong.

But what can I say? I tried to forget him, tried cancelling his number and doing without him, but I couldn’t. I’m hopelessly in love with him. Even now that I have discovered that he’s not the unattainable god I once thought he was, a kind of superhuman entity that I would worship from behind my desk, hoping that one day he would notice me. And now that I know he is just a mortal like the rest of us, with all his human defects, I love him even more. Because before he was just Dave Callaghan, the impossible deputy editor of The Chronicle, and I was just Sam Preston, an insignificant assistant in the culture section, while today he is my Dave and I am his Sam. And maybe that’s nothing so special, but it’s all that I’ve ever wanted.

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