Putty In Her Hands (2 page)

It’s 10 a.m. I sit at my desk,
partly hidden within my cubicle, whirling around on my revolving
chair, writing my diary onto my computer, hand on mouse, ready to
pounce on the exit key in case my boss, Heather, should wander by.
Hidden behind the diary, another document – the one I should be
concentrating on, a fifteen-page updated policy on whistleblowing
in the workplace. Fifteen pages of tedium.

The Human Resources department
I work in is on a huge floor in a high-rise office block where I
sit at a small desk, identical to hundreds of others around me,
working to the continuous sound of hushed voices, telephones
ringing and fingers clattering on keyboards. No one wants to be
here but boy we all take it so seriously. I can’t imagine anyone
jumping up at the age of 16, shouting,
I know – I want to work
in HR!
It just wouldn’t happen. And yet here we all are as if
it’s our life’s destiny.

But it’s through this job I met
the wondrous Dawn. And what a breath of fresh air she is. She only
works on a casual basis, which means she’s only in occasionally,
gets paid a pittance and could be dropped at a moment’s notice. Her
job here is routine, repetitive and dull. No different to mine
then. Only, after eighteen years, I get paid moderately well for
it. Slowly, over the months, I began talking to her. A casual
exchange here, a passing sentence or two there, deliberately
building it up. To my surprise I found her engaging to talk to, and
we built up a lively banter.

A month ago the office
socialites began organising our Christmas meal. Nothing spectacular
and every year I go with the faint hope of enjoying myself and come
backed dulled by insipid food, inane chatter and the sense that
another year’s slipped by. This year I keenly put my name down in
the hope Dawn would be there. But she had a prior engagement – a
party with e-list celebrities and photographers, a prospect
slightly more engaging than our dire efforts. She herself is a
photographer by trade. Then, a week ago, she changed her mind – she
was forsaking the glamour for us. A small part of me wondered
whether I had any influence on her decision but I dismissed the
idea as being too fanciful. But that was when the fantasy really
began to take hold. I have thought of little else all week. I
daydream about pulling her to one side and kissing her. I go to bed
dreaming of her and wake up chastising myself for my teenage lust.
I remind myself that I’m married but it’s only a fantasy. Yet I
can’t let go of my ridiculous scenario, to such an extent that
tonight I have set myself a target, an objective:
to kiss
Dawn.
But having stated the objective I realise I have no
action plan, no strategy, let alone an exit strategy for when she
rejects my advances with a withering look of pity or, worst still,
utter disgust. I can hardly call a meeting or form a working party.
So how, I ask myself, do I propose to achieve this ambitious
objective? Fuck knows.

8 a.m.
I’m trying to
catch the news on the radio but Lola’s whining because I’ve given
her brown toast instead of white; and Joshua’s still complaining of
the offside decision that ruled out his goal at football yesterday.
Initially, I was dutifully sympathetic, although he clearly was
offside, but sympathy only goes so far, so that by now, the
eightieth time of mentioning it, it has truly vanished.
Get over
it,
I snap.

Who? Me or Lola?

Daddy, you know I don’t like
brown bread with bits in it.

Both of you.
I step on
Ginger who springs up and yelps.
Oh fuck, sorry, Ginger.

Daddy, you swore.

No, I said tuck, as in…
shouldn’t you tuck your shirt in, Joshua?

He shrugs.
The teachers
don’t care.

That’s not the –

Robinnn,
Emily yells
from our bedroom, having just stepped out of the shower and part of
me is tempted to nip upstairs merely to catch sight of her boobs.
Does the novelty ever wear off, I wonder.
Can you do Joshua’s
sandwiches?

Oh, must I?
I mutter.
Even Joshua groans; he hates it when I do his lunch. It’s never
quite the same.

Twenty minutes later and
Joshua’s gone to school, his shirt still hanging out and my
hastily-made packed lunch no doubt squashed at the bottom of his
schoolbag. Emily and Lola are cleaning teeth and I’m in the bedroom
with Ginger, who sits on the bed, idly watching me as put on my tie
and readjust my hair. Damn the grey bits.

You smell nice,
says
Emily as I pass by the bathroom.

Christmas meal tonight;
remember?
I say, kissing my girls goodbye.

Oh, yes. Well have fun.

Will do,
I say,
scampering downstairs.

As I reach the bottom, she
adds,
Behave yourself.

I stop in my tracks. Why did
she say that? She wouldn’t normally. And on this, of all days, the
day that holds such a clear objective. I swear sometimes my wife
can see straight through me.

11 a.m.
Sure enough,
Heather waltzed by, stealth-like with her paper-white skin,
coal-black hair and ketchup-red lipstick giving her the appearance
of a mime artist.
Robin
she says quietly,
can we have a
heads up in five.
It is not a request. No hint of a smile or
any form of personable exchange; this is a woman who takes work too
seriously and has the knack of turning every matter, however
trivial, into a crisis. Heather’s certainly not attending tonight’s
knees-up; never one to socialise with her subordinates, there’s a
rumour she’s never laughed.

I arrive at the pub,
The
Horse and Carrot
, about 7.30, the cold air still stinging my
face, the last to arrive. It’s a narcissist habit of mine – arrive
late and people are always pleased to see you. The Grand Entrance.
The pub is a clean one, spacious, swirly-patterned carpet and
uniformed bar staff, down to the tinsel in the hair, except for the
bloke who looks like he’s in charge, a Scot by his accent, who’s
wearing a droopy pair of antlers. In the corner, a huge Christmas
tree; Slade on the jukebox, a tad too loud. It’s soulless but a
clean and pleasant soulless. At the back of the pub, down a couple
of steps, where all the noise is coming from, is the restaurant.
Ours is the only party in tonight – thirty HR folk taking over the
restaurant and rubbing on together – the one time in the year and
for once I don’t find the sight nauseating. At least we’re not
estate agents.

I skip down the steps and enter
into the dim glow of the sultry red light, resisting the urge to do
a John Travolta swagger, shouting,
Hey, dudes!
I’m wearing
my best jeans – tight, low-hipped, military grey; with Converse
trainers and a gingham shirt and a liberal sprinkling of D&G
aftershave.

Hi, Rob, you’re late
,
says one;
We’ve already eaten
, jokes another. I laugh and
shake a hand or two, all the time glancing around, trying to find
where Dawn is sitting. There are half-a-dozen festive tables, white
tablecloths, candles in wine bottles, colleagues wearing paper
crowns pulled from crackers, smiling faces, faces I know all too
well without knowing them at all. The aroma of cooking wafts in
from the kitchen. But where is Dawn? She has to be here somewhere.
There’s nowhere to sit, until someone points out:
There’s a seat
over there, Rob, next to Ernie
. Oh shit – Ernie. No one wants
to sit next to Yorkshire Ernie with his bird nest beard, his thick
accent with mispronounced R’s, and his man-of-the-soil attitude.
That’s the major drawback of the Grand Entrance – you end up
sitting next to an Ernie. As I take my seat I start to feel the
swelling of panic, not because of Ernie but because I’ve checked
out each table – twice – and she isn’t here. Perhaps she’s gone to
the loo. I sit with a heavy heart, the festive spirit draining out
of me like sand through a sieve. I flash Ernie, who’s to my right,
a weak smile and a feeble hello to Karen on my left. Sweet, plump
Karen, elfin ears – a Tory-voting, dog-loving, vegetarian who buys
five different wedding magazines a week ahead of her big day with a
leftie, dog-eating carnivorous Greek.

You all wight there,
Wob?
says Ernie, tipping the brim of an invisible hat.

Yeah, guess so. Happy
Christmas, Ernie.

And you too, mate. Crackin’
place this, is it not?

I use his rhetorical question
as an excuse to glance around one more time, checking each table in
turn, smiling and waving at anyone who catches my eye. She would
have got back from the loo by now.
Paul not here?
I ask.

Oh, poor Paul
, says
Karen.
He’s gone to see his mother – she’s very ill, you
know.

Oh. And how about Yvonne?

Ernie answers –
Nah, she had
to get her cat put down today. Poor lass.
He asks after my cat
and I can’t think of a single interesting thing to say about him.
So, Ernie launches into a tale about his own cats. Ernie’s such a
bachelor. I’ve heard the story before. We all have. Several
times.

And what about Dawn?
It’s OK to interrupt Ernie, and often, for the sake of one’s
sanity, a necessity. He never notices.

Oh, she can’t make it. She
phoned; what was it again, Karen?

My whole body sags with utter,
utter disappointment.
Something about a gas leak
, she
says.

And so we have it – after much
anticipation, fantasising and build-up, it comes to this – stuck
between Ernie and Karen in a soulless pub with Christmas all around
and a sense of anti-climax rushing through me like a wave on a
northern beach in February.

The swing doors from the
kitchen fly open and out appear a succession of bar staff
doubling-up as waiters/resses carrying trayfuls of starters. We’d
ordered in advance. About last April. Ernie’s plumped for the prawn
cocktail – his culinary sophistication having halted somewhere
around 1975. Karen and I have opted for the mushroom roulade.
Everyone tucks in. A joke is told, slightly un-PC, which would
never have an airing within a mile of Heather’s office. Laughter
ripples round our table, candles flicker, and in the background,
the Christmas hits of the fifties nauseate me and, staring at my
plate, I feel like fuck. I glance at my watch – with any luck I
could be out of here within the hour.

What’s the matter,
Robin
?
asks Karen.
Not hungry?

Here, mate,
says Ernie,
you’re not wearing a hat. Here, pull on this
. He offers me a
flaccid cracker and we pull and yank but there’s no satisfying pop
at the end of it, just a dull rip.
What do call a green penguin
in stilettos? Hang on.
He passes me the yellow crown.
Put
this on your head
.

As opposed to where?
I
ask. Ernie laughs and for a moment I think he’s going to slap me on
the back.

Half an hour gone and we’re
onto the main course. We never did get to hear what you call a
green penguin in stilettos. We’ve all gone for the traditional
Christmas roast except Karen who has a vegetarian equivalent which
looks as dry as a doormat and appears more dead than our turkey.
The meal is almost tasteless and I’m not the slightest bit hungry
but I force it down. I wish I could drink but I’m driving and so I
nurse just a small glass of red wine. Ernie’s a beer man, through
and through, and is onto his third pint of some northern ale that
has the consistency of tar. He’s recounting his latest encounter
with Marjorie, the woman from accounts whom he fancies. It’s
unrequited and certainly not a secret, as he seems intent on
telling anyone he meets at work. He’s now talking mistletoe. He
doesn’t stand a chance, we all know it, but no one has the heart to
tell him.

Another twenty minutes and
we’re waiting for desert. Christmas pud – naturally. People start
wandering around, swapping places, talking to people from other
tables. Sinatra’s singing Christmas favourites, the red glow
deepens. The recently retired Stephen lays his hand on Ernie’s
shoulder and the two of them immediately strike up a conversation
about Kendal mint cake or something equally alien to me. Karen
talks to her neighbour about the difficulty of buying Christmas
presents for elderly parents, and I think of Dawn and chastise
myself for having even entertained the idea of a romantic dalliance
between us. I almost feel embarrassed by my schoolboy designs on
her.

After two minutes, I offer up
my seat to Stephen. Thanking me, he takes my place. I wander across
the floor to his vacated chair and find myself sitting next to our
IT guru, Sally, a woman who can use
fun
and
run
as
one word. To my left an empty chair and next to that Anthony,
Sally’s son, who’s nineteen going on thirty, with long, shaggy hair
like an aging rocker and with features carved in wood. he starts
telling me about university, even though I never asked, and
that
was when it happened.

I swear my heart bounces
against my ribcage – she looks fantastic, a vision in black and
white: white shirt, big collar, black waistcoat glittering with
silver stones, tight, tight black jeans and shiny high-heeled boots
that go half way up her calves. What a vision; a religious moment.
She looks slightly flustered but smiles. Sally follows my
open-mouthed gaze,
Oh, here’s Dawn!
she says, waving at her.
Coo-ee, Dawn!
Dawn catches her eye, waves back and with a
big smile bounces over to our table. She slides behind Anthony’s
chair and with a sigh, plonks herself down on the only remaining
seat – next to me! Glancing up heavenwards, I almost weep with
gratitude. Bring it on, I think, the evening starts here…