Boyfriend in a Dress (17 page)

Monday morning, and work is a nightmare, as I expected. I get in at ten, and Phil is already in his version of a panic as I walk in the door, but it’s his usual laid back panic, which amounts to a slight look of tension just above his nose, resulting in an ever so slightly furrowed brow. That’s why I like him as an assistant; he stops me worrying. Even when everything goes wrong, he never seems that fazed.

‘And how are you, Philip?’ I ask, as he slumps down in front of my desk and I shut the door to my office.

‘Fine thanks – are you feeling better?’ he asks, with no concern whatsoever.

‘Yes, thanks.’ I brush over it swiftly.

‘Any political bombs drop since nine-thirty?’ I turn on my computer and blow on my coffee simultaneously.

‘Nothing really. The scriptwriter called, I didn’t tell him about the old woman yet, in case we don’t use her. He wants to know what’s going on, and if he’s going to get fired. He said he spoke to José on Friday, and he just went on about hygiene, and the need to wash your hair every day.’

‘Oh for God’s sake. How many emails have I got waiting?’ I ask, flipping open my day book.

‘One hundred and thirty-five.’

‘Just from Friday? Jesus!’ I almost get annoyed, and then I relax, and think, not for much longer!

I tap the code into my phone for my messages – ‘your mailbox is full’. I can’t wait to get away from this.

‘Look, Phil, I’ve got something important to do first thing, so I’m going to close my door for an hour or so, and then we’ll go through everything, get it all ready.’

‘Yep’.

‘Is that okay?’ I ask – he seems a little weird.

‘Yeah, fine. Why are you grinning? You look like a freak.’ I realize I am smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

‘Oh sorry, yes I’m fine. Just happy to see you as always, my little ray of sunshine.’

‘Whatever,’ he says, and gets up to go.

‘Phil, one more thing, that guy that phoned, Dale – can you give me his number.’

‘Yep.’ And he walks out.

I look at my office, all the videos and scripts lying around, the old talent photos, the new talent photos, decisions that need to be made, piling high. I can’t wait to get out! I realize that Phil is not returning with the number, and I get up and open the door, leaning out.

‘Phil, the number?’

‘Yeah, I’m just trying to find it. I think I may have left it in my football bag …’ He is unconcerned. But I need it now. I feel a mild panic rise up inside my stomach. I have to have the number today, It can’t work without it, my plan will fall apart.

‘Phil!’ I shout, and then lower my voice.

‘Find the number,’ I demand, and slam the door behind me and go back and sit at my desk, drumming my fingers on the desk, blowing on my coffee, clicking into Word, and just staring at the blank screen in front of me.

My phone buzzes.

‘Yep?’ I say to Phil.

‘I’ve got it – do you want me to email it to you?’

‘Please.’

I hang up, and wait for it to appear on my screen.

It pops up, and I read it quickly. Dale. And his mobile number. I put my phone on hands free – it’s less personal, safer, from a distance. I dial in the number. The phone rings for ages, and just as I am ready to leave a message on an answerphone with a sudden relief, a lazy American voice answers.

‘Hello?’

The sound of his voice startles me straight away, the years almost fall away, and I am a student again. I feel my stomach lurch, and my voice, when it comes, is an octave higher than normal.

‘Dale, it’s Nicola.’ Silence.

He phoned me, how can he not know who it is? But then he speaks.

‘Nicola. Nicola. How are you?’

‘Yes I’m fine, Dale, how are you?’

‘I’m fine too. Just dandy.’ That is such a Dale thing to say, such a cliché. He says it like he is mocking me straight away, laughing at some private joke at my expense. I hope he hasn’t reverted back to arsehole mode.

‘You phoned! I’m returning your call! It’s been … years. Are you in London?’

‘Yes I am.’ He is not sharing a lot of information for a guy who called me. This isn’t what I had expected. I had expected nerves in his voice, not a smirk. I had expected a deep husky seriousness. Only now do I realize how long I have been imagining this call. How long I have been hoping or waiting to hear from him again. How I’ve pictured him, needing me, wanting me from afar. The one that got away!
How I have romanticized the whole thing in my head. It is not going to be like that now, I realize.

‘So, Dale, what can I do for you?’ All of a sudden my feelings are on the wire, my defences go up, I back away mentally. I turn on him with professionalism.

‘Well, for a start, you could probably take me off speakerphone!’

‘Oh right, sorry.’ I pick up the receiver and I swear I feel it burn my hand.

‘What can I do for you?’ I ask again, hearing the closeness in the silence down the line. When he speaks I feel something rush down my spine.

‘Well, I’m in London, finally. And I thought I’d look you up, seeing as you’re the only person I know here.’

His voice sounds deeper than I remember. He sounds like he’s smoked a million cigarettes since last we spoke, and it’s probably not far from the truth.

‘How did you get my number?’

‘I phoned the number you gave me, it was your parents, they gave me this number.’

‘God, you’ve kept it all this time? That’s … organized of you,’ I say, but thinking, that’s devotion, that’s … love.

‘Well, it went into my address book, and I’ve always carried the names over. You don’t mind, do you, me phoning?’ But he doesn’t sound like he’d care if I did mind – he sounds like he’s enjoying himself, an old ghost creeping up on me, breathing down my neck, making me nervous.

‘No, of course not. I’m glad you phoned. How are you, are you married?’ I don’t know why I ask this rather than any other question that could figure in the five years of his life I’ve missed out on.

‘Well, yes and no. I’m … separated.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Am I?

‘Look, I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with
me. I was going to ask you to dinner on Friday, but now I only have today left. I’m off to Scotland tomorrow, and then over to Dublin for a few days, and then back to the States.’

‘Oh, right,’ I say, a little taken back. He just wants lunch. He doesn’t want to tell me he loves me. He doesn’t want to meet me at the Tower of London, or in the Dungeons, or under Big Ben, or anything else Dale-like. He just wants to have lunch?

‘So, Nicola, are you free for lunch today?’

‘Um, yes, well I’ll have to check my diary, no actually it’s fine, I’ll just cancel if I have something on. Yes, I’m free for lunch. Where do you want to go?’

‘You know London, not me. Can you suggest somewhere?’

I rack my brain and think of every restaurant in a two-mile radius of my work – nowhere too busy, nowhere too intimate, nowhere too expensive (in case he thinks it’s my treat): Luigi’s. Perfect.

‘How about Luigi’s – it’s just around the corner from my office. Do you like Italian?’

‘Yeah, that’ll be fine.’

‘Great, I’ll see you there at one, shall I? I’ll get my assistant to make the reservation.’

‘Okay.’ Silence. I am waiting for him to say goodbye, but nothing is forthcoming.

‘Well, okay, I’ll see you at one.’

‘Nicola?’ Still smirking at the other end of the phone. This whole thing is making me feel a little uneasy.

‘Yes?’

‘What road is it on? Or should I ask your perky little assistant? Having a man for an assistant! I always knew you were a feminist.’

‘Oh, yes, no, I know, I mean, it’s on Neal Street.’

‘Fine, I’ll see you there.’

‘Okay, bye,’ and I hang up before I get to hear him say goodbye.

I shout for Phil, and he sticks his head around the door.

‘Phil, can you cancel anything I had in for lunch, and book me a table at Luigi’s for one o’clock, please? Thanks.’

‘You had me in for lunch.’

‘Did I? Why?’ I ask, surprised.

‘For my appraisal; you moved it from last week, remember?’ I can tell he is a little pissed off.

‘Oh right, sorry, can we put it off till tomorrow? Is that okay – I really have to take this lunch. Do you mind?’ I half plead with him.

‘No but don’t cancel on me then too.’

‘I wouldn’t dare! Thanks, Phil. Don’t tell José, okay? We’re already late with that.’

‘I know,’ he says, and closes the door behind him.

Shit, I’ve pissed him off. I punch a number into my phone.

It rings twice, and then Charlie’s assistant answers.

‘Hi, is he there?’ I ask – she knows my voice, although generally it’s a lot more terse than this.

‘Sure I’ll just get him for you, Samantha.’

‘It’s Nicola.’ I flinch. It doesn’t count, I remind myself, nothing that has gone before counts now. He’s different, after today I’ll be different. It doesn’t matter if he was unfaithful, because that was a different him and a different me. Nonetheless, I am still relieved to hear his voice sounding pleased to hear from me.

‘Nix?’

‘Yeah, it’s me. Have you written yours yet?’

‘Yeah, I handed it in half an hour ago. I can’t believe how late you West End types start work.’

‘Oi! Don’t start. What do I write? I’ve never had to do this before!’ We are co-conspirators.

‘Just write that you’ve really enjoyed the experience, it’s time to move on to a new challenge etc … don’t burn your bridges.’

‘Why not?’ I ask, suddenly scared that this was all a pipe dream.

‘Because someday, in twenty years’ time, if we ever come back, you might want to think about getting another job,’ he says, like a father to a child.

‘Oh right, of course. Charlie?’

‘Nicola?’

‘You do still want to go, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do – I’ve handed in mine already!’

‘I know I know, I’m just being silly. It’s just a bit … scary.’

‘I know, don’t worry. Phone me when you’ve done it.’

‘Okay.’

‘I love you.’

‘I know,’ I say and hang up as I hear him laughing at the other end of the phone.

I start typing, Dear José. I didn’t tell Charlie about lunch. I haven’t told him about Dale. I should. This is the new us, a fresh start. Honesty and all that. I’ll tell him tonight.

It takes me all morning, what with general phone calls, Phil interruptions and a quick meeting about whether it’s feasible to work a Burger King promotion into
Evil Ghost: The Return
and whether they’d actually go for it if we did. We decide to manage our own expectations, and I send Phil off on a mission to check out all the breakfast cereals in our local Sainsbury’s, to see if there’s a crap one we’ve overlooked that needs some publicity. He comes back an hour and a half later, having popped into the pub for a cheeky half at eleven-thirty, loaded down with bags of Fruit Loops, and cornflakes, and porridge and bran. I tell him he could have just written their names down, and he looks perplexed. It doesn’t matter. He lines them up on shelves around my office for me to look at, and I immediately throw anything with Kellogg’s or Nestlé on it back out of the door at him. We have no chance with them.

Before I know it, I am throwing the letter at José’s assistant, Angela, who takes it without looking, and I dash for the door and grab my coat before she has a chance to give it to him. If he reads it before I am out of the building, I will miss my lunch. I go down in the lift, checking myself in the mirrored walls. I stride out onto the street, desperately trying to project an air of confidence, but with nerves suddenly starting to eat me up inside. I walk into the restaurant, at one o’clock sharp.

By the end of today everything will be different.

Wealth does not bring goodness, but goodness brings wealth, and every other blessing.

I want to be good. I don’t want to be confused, lose my momentum. I don’t want my judgement to cloud, my ideas to shift. I know I only really need one pair of shoes. Maybe two. I don’t want to be confused by adverts, billboards. I don’t need a ‘lifestyle’, I can’t find happiness there.

So why, when I’ve been shopping all day, and I’m loaded down with bags, why do I feel so great? Why do I feel like I’ve achieved something? What am I looking for? What am I purging, why don’t I feel whole – why do I know I’m still lacking?

You should be ashamed that you give as much attention to acquiring as much money as possible, and similarly reputation and honour, and give no attention to truth and understanding and the perfection of yourself.

Trouble is, money’s easier. And reputation. In a world where goodness isn’t even a virtue any more, why bother? Materialism is God, worship at its feet. There’s a void in the soul that can’t be filled with cash apparently, but fuck it, we’ll be dead soon.

I alone am aware of how little I know.

Nobody else needs to know. There is no great need to publicize what I morally, spiritually lack. There is no need to draw attention to my own deficits, nobody else is doing it. Everybody else is buying shoes without a heavy heart and a screaming subconscious, why can’t I?