Friday at last. When I arrived at the office, my colleagues were already clustered around the kettle, talking about soap operas. They ignored me; I have long since ceased to initiate any conversation with them. I hung my navy jerkin on the back of my chair and switched on my computer. I had not slept well again the previous evening, being somewhat unsettled by my conversation with Mummy. I decided to make a refreshing cup of tea before I got started. I have my own mug and spoon, which I keep in my desk drawer for hygiene reasons. My colleagues think this strange, or at least I assume so from their reactions, and yet they are happy to drink from filthy vessels, washed carelessly by unknown hands. I cannot even countenance the notion of inserting a teaspoon, licked and sucked by a stranger barely an hour beforehand, into a hot beverage. Filthy.
I stood at the sink while I waited for the kettle to boil, trying not to listen to their conversation. I gave my little teapot another hot rinse, just to be sure, and drifted into pleasurable thoughts, thoughts of him. I wondered what he was doing at this very moment—writing a song, perhaps? Or would he still be asleep? I wondered what his handsome face would look like in repose.
The kettle clicked off and I warmed the teapot, then spooned in some first-flush Darjeeling, my mind still focused on the putative beauty of my slumbering troubadour. Childish laughter from my colleagues began to intrude upon my thoughts, but I assumed this was to do with my choice of beverage. Knowing no better, they are content to drop a bag of poorest-quality blended tea into a mug, scald it with boiling water and then dilute any remaining flavor by adding fridge-cold milk. Once again, for some reason, it is I who am considered strange. But if you’re going to drink a cup of tea, why not take every care to maximize the pleasure?
The giggling continued, and Janey started to hum. There was no attempt at concealment now; they were laughing loud and hard. She stopped humming and started singing. I recognized neither the melody nor the lyrics. She stopped, unable to go on because she was laughing so much, still performing a strange backward walk.
“Morning, Wacko Jacko,” Billy called out to me. “What’s with the white glove?”
So that was the source of their amusement. Unbelievable.
“It’s for my eczema,” I said, talking slowly and patiently, the way you explain things to a child. “I had a very bad flare-up on Wednesday evening and the skin on my right hand is extremely inflamed. I’m wearing this cotton glove to prevent infection.” The laughter died away, leaving a long pause. They looked at each other silently, rather like ruminant animals in a field.
I didn’t often interact with my colleagues in this informal, chatty way, which gave me cause to stop and consider whether I ought to make the most of the opportunity. Bernadette’s fraternal connection to the object of my affections—surely it would be the work of moments to glean some additional, useful information about him from her? I didn’t think I was up to a protracted interaction—she had a very loud, grating voice and a laugh like a howler monkey—but it was surely worth a few moments of my time. I stirred my tea in a clockwise direction while I prepared my opening gambit.
“Did you enjoy the rest of the concert the other night, Billy?” I said. He looked surprised at my question, and there was a pause before he answered.
“Aye, it was OK,” he said. Articulate as ever. This was going to be hard work.
“Were the other singers of a similar standard to . . .” I paused and pretended to wrack my brains “. . . to Johnnie Lomond?”
“They were all right, I guess,” he said, shrugging. Such insight, such clear, descriptive prose. Bernadette piped up, as I knew she would, unable to resist an opportunity to draw attention to herself by any means available.
“I know him, Johnnie Lomond,” she told me proudly. “He used to be pals with my brother, at school.”
“Really?” I said, not, for once, having to feign interest. “Which school was that?”
The way she said the name of the establishment implied that I ought to be aware of it. I tried to look impressed.
“Are they still friends?” I asked, stirring my tea again.
“Not really,” she said. “He came to Paul’s wedding, but I think they drifted apart after that. You know what it’s like—when you’re married with kids, you sort of lose touch with your single pals, don’t you? You don’t have that much in common anymore . . .”
I had neither knowledge nor experience of the situation she’d described, but I nodded as though I did, while all the while the same phrase was scrolling across my brain: he is single, he is single, he is single.
I took my tea back to my desk. Their laughter seemed to have turned into low whispering now. It never ceases to amaze me, the things they find interesting, amusing or unusual. I can only assume they’ve led very sheltered lives.
Janey the secretary had got engaged to her latest Neanderthal, and there was a presentation for her that afternoon. I’d contributed seventy-eight pence to the collection. I only had coppers in my purse or else a five-pound note, and I certainly wasn’t going to put such an extravagant sum into the communal envelope to buy something unnecessary for someone I barely knew. I must have contributed hundreds of pounds over the years to all the leaving presents, baby gifts and special birthdays, and what had I ever received in return? My own birthdays pass unremarked.
Whoever had chosen the engagement gift had selected wineglasses and a matching carafe. Such accoutrements are unnecessary when you drink vodka—I simply use my favorite mug. I purchased it in a charity shop some years ago, and it has a photograph of a moon-faced man on one side. He is wearing a brown leather blouson. Along the top, in strange yellow font, it says Top Gear. I don’t profess to understand this mug. It holds the perfect amount of vodka, however, thereby obviating the need for frequent refills.
Janey was planning a short engagement, she’d simpered, and so, of course, the inevitable collection for the wedding present would soon follow. Of all the compulsory financial contributions, that is the one that irks me most. Two people wander around John Lewis picking out lovely items for themselves, and then they make other people pay for them. It’s bare-faced effrontery. They choose things like plates, bowls and cutlery—I mean, what are they doing at the moment: shoveling food from packets into their mouths with their bare hands? I simply fail to see how the act of legally formalizing a human relationship necessitates friends, family and coworkers upgrading the contents of their kitchen for them.