“Do you know what, Darcy?” I said the Monday after a Halloween party at the weekend that was mostly an emotional blur. “I’m going to make some promises to myself, and uphold them.” I was recalling my decision to avoid all men that I’d made after my disaster date with the giant cherub a few days before.
“What you mean?” Darcy asked.
“Number one, work harder,” I said, beginning to recite the list I’d saved in my phone. “I’ve let work slip so much lately, and there are serious things going on in the world that need reporting and the Daily Read doesn’t seem to be doing it.”
“Like what?” Darcy asked.
“Um, like the killings of unarmed black men and women in their droves at the hands of police, here and in the U.S., mass gentrification, modern-day slavery? Obviously?”
“I don’t really see anything about that, really.”
“Yeah, of course you don’t, Darcy. I was thinking that I could start pitching ideas to Gina?”
“That’s a good start,” Darcy agreed, nodding heavily, her hair falling around her face.
“I worked really hard to get this job, really fucking hard, and I feel like I’m spunking it all away,” I said.
“It’s too early to use the term spunking,” Darcy sighed, putting her head in her hands.
“Number two, maybe slow down with OkCupid,” I said, ignoring Darcy’s disdain. “I’m getting a bit obsessed with the digital attention. About five boys I haven’t met are already giving me their life stories. And when Tom finally has his space and comes back to me, even though I won’t tell him about dates I’ve been on, I don’t really want to have spent the whole time sleeping with boys in cars and meeting crap men who do a good job of occupying my brain space but will ultimately diminish my self-worth.”
“You could delete the app?” Darcy offered.
“No, too far,” I said, shaking my head. “At this point, I have to wean myself off it. Three. Spend more time with family.” I held my three fingers up and waggled the third. “Four, just forget men for a while, and use this break with Tom as a break from men. And five, don’t go home with boys after parties when it turns out the drunken jokes they were whispering in your ear about spaffing on your chest is genuinely all they want to do—”
“Queenie,” Darcy cut in sternly. “I know that we always do tea and talking on a Monday morning, but recently it’s getting a bit too X-rated for the time of day.”
“Fran’s Halloween party really was a night of extreme variables.” I sighed slowly.
“Men like to do that to you, don’t they? It must be because of those.” She pointed at my chest.
“Doesn’t Simon do it?” I asked, sipping my tea.
“God, no, he wouldn’t. Even if he wanted to, I don’t think my boobs are big enough to be sexy for that.” Darcy looked down at her own chest.
“But what is sexy about that? And why are they so proud of doing it?” I wondered aloud.
The kitchen door opened and Silent Jean shuffled in. She stared at both of us in turn as she made a cup of coffee slowly and silently. When she finally left the kitchen, she shot me a suspicious look as she closed the door behind her.
“Did you have fun, despite the—?” Darcy asked, gesturing at my chest again. “I was looking after Simon for the half an hour we were there. He got so smashed that I had to take him home.” Darcy hoisted herself up onto the kitchen counter. “He always gets so into his own head about being the oldest one at these things, so drinks himself into oblivion.” She crossed her legs and shook her foot agitatedly.
“Before you left, Simon found the time to take me aside in an annoyingly forty-year-old and patronizing way to tell me that you were worried about me or something,” I told Darcy, hoping that he’d been making it up.
“Well, Queenie, I am worried about you. But we can talk about it later; I need to go and pick our summer interns.” Darcy squeezed my shoulder and left the kitchen.
“I’m worried about me,” I said to the empty kitchen.
* * *
Later while Gina was moaning (something about her children not wanting to go to boarding school so acting up by bullying the nanny), my stomach started to hurt, and my vision began to blur at the edges. I excused myself and went outside for some air. A security guard found me crouching by the entrance and asked me to move along to the designated outside space, pointing me toward the smoking area. I stumbled over and leaned against a wall. I felt myself sliding down it slowly but didn’t have the strength to stop myself from falling to the ground. I opened my eyes when I felt someone grab onto me with both hands.
“Are you okay?” asked a man holding me firmly at arm’s length. It took me a few seconds to realize who he was.
“Tweed Glasses,” I mumbled. “Sorry about your shoes.”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked. I hadn’t expected his voice to be so deep.
“Nothing.” I looked up at him as everything stopped swirling so violently. He wasn’t actually wearing his glasses, and looked down at me with bright green eyes dotted with flecks of amber.
“Don’t apologize.” He smiled, and his eyes crinkled.
“Okay.” I swooned. It was so nice to be physically supported by someone.
“Right, if I let you go, are you going to hit the ground?” he asked gently.
“I think I’ll be okay,” I said, the feeling coming back to my legs. He let go, and stood back, his hands hovering by my sides.
He was taller than I’d realized. As if height equaled the protection and manliness that I was lacking thanks to Tom’s cold shoulder, I went to do the doe-eyed looking up and blinking to appear more attractive, but I didn’t have the energy.
“Well, at least you aren’t ruining my shoes this time,” he said, and laughed.
“God, you actually remember that?” I asked.
“Yeah, I had to go home and give them a polish.”
“Sorry, I was having a bit of a day. Boy troubles. Nasty business.” The memory of that week flooded my head, and I reached for my stomach, hoping I wasn’t about to hit the deck again.
“Okay, let me get you back upstairs,” he said. “You sit in the culture section, right?” I nodded, and let him steer me through the building and back to my desk.
“Thank you,” I said to him sincerely. “I think I should just make a sweet tea or something, I think my blood sugar is off.”
Tweed Glasses wrote his e-mail address down on my notepad and made me promise to e-mail him when I was feeling better, “so that I know if I should momentarily switch careers to be your day nurse.”
On Monday, 29th October, Jenkins, Queenie <[email protected]> wrote at 16:02:
I’ve managed to make it through the afternoon without falling on any of my colleagues. Thank you again for earlier!
On Monday, 29th October, Noman, Ted <[email protected]> wrote at 16:10:
The pleasure was all mine. It’s been a long time since a pretty girl fell for me. I could get used to it.
On Monday, 29th October, Jenkins, Queenie <[email protected]> wrote at 16:17:
Whoa. Very corny response, Ted. I take it back.
What was going on here, then? Was this flirting? Why would he want to flirt with someone who looked half-dead and had acted as such by quite literally falling to the ground?
On Monday, 29th October, Noman, Ted <[email protected]> wrote at 16:25:
You can’t blame a man for trying, Queenie. I finally get to talk to the girl I’ve been tracking around the building for weeks and I lose my cool. . . . Forgive me.
On Monday, 29th October, Noman, Ted <[email protected]> wrote at 16:30:
Nice name, by the way. Suits you. . . .
I recalled promises one and four that I’d made to myself that morning: focus on work, and no men. I took a sip of sweet tea and worked on some pitch ideas for Gina. I’d wanted this job so that I could be a force for change, and for representation, but so far all I’d done was file listings and check copy.
* * *