Crazygirl Falls in Love (30 page)

Buy more Nescafe Gold, common instant in kitchen isn’t
cutting the mustard

Try to forget you have no friends left

And that’s just for this morning. I sigh to myself, moving my
eyes back to my screen monitor. I am so fucking depressed. Mondays
are always awful but after yesterday the world seems like an even
colder, darker place. Thoughts of The Incident (as I’m now calling
my attack on Antonio) plague my frappuchino flooded
brain.

When did I jump from lovable hedonist to a one-woman freak
show? I had asked myself that very question over and over again
last night, eventually falling into a curry-induced food sleep on
the sofa and enduring mean spirited nightmares. In one I was in
Iceland participating in a gherkin eating competition with a group
of girl scouts. I tried to wrench away their pumpkin spice raisin
oatmeal biscuit tin because I thought the sugar was giving them a
competitive advantage. The audience branded me a psychopath and I
ended up fleeing to Reykjavik airport. On the way I got angry with
a squirrel for being too shy (“Get down from that tree and
entertain me!”) then the Girl Scout Nordic fanbase caught up with
me and exploded sausages in my face.

And that was one of the more sane ones. Seems my neurotic
douchebaggery is warping my dream space as well as my personal
life.

I sigh and get back to work, trying in vain to nail my scary
to-do list and avoiding eye contact with the grads because I need
them to leave me alone today. I plug in my earphones and sadly bop
along to Glenn Medeiros. His lovely voice doesn’t help though.
Nothing helps, and by late morning I have come to the realisation
that it’s grovel time.

I begin typing to Emma,

Hey sis. I am so, so sorry about yesterday. Whilst I fully
understand how you don’t want to surround yourself with people who
might stab you, I don’t think I’m actually insane, and I want to
make it up to you. Did you want to do dinner tomorrow? We haven’t
done fondue in a while? Let the Golden Age of Cheese reign
again.

I click Send.

Then one to Chloe,

I’m sorry about yesterday. Hope Majnoon leaves you alone this
week. Wanna share a bottle of wine soon?

It gets to lunchtime and neither Chloe nor Emma have replied,
even though I see they’ve been online (the beauty of Whatsapp). I
was hoping one of them would say something, even just a few words.
Their rejection leaves me in an even deeper mood of misery than I
was when I got upset over 20p.

In desperation, I fuel the Penelope Jones Carbohydrate Machine
and buy a bagel from the subsidised cafe on Level 3 (the one where
everything tastes of stale). As I’m paying, I decide a measly bagel
isn’t enough and chuck on a glazed doughnut to the order. But the
only thing my sugar-charged elevenses serves is to bloat my abdomen
and make me want more sugar.

And then I hear a quiet ping from my phone. Yes! It’s gotta be
one of the girls, it’s just gotta be!

I pick up my phone and scan the message.

And there are no words to describe the horror that grips my
heart.

I read it again,

Hey P-Diddy, got bad news. I’ve come down with food
poisoning. Think it was the place Mags and I went to last night.
I’ve let the Chief know I won’t be coming in today. You’ll have to
go to the Lloyds meeting instead of me. Sorry bro.

I shakily place the phone (with Stalker’s
message still flashing) alongside my almost-empty Starbucks cup. I
stare at it. I have to see He Who Shall Not Be Named today? What?
How? This wasn’t supposed to happen! Hence my bridge burning
message on Friday. I mean, you never actually
say
that to a guy no matter how much
you’re thinking it. Big, big, BIG faux pax to say that, especially
to an ex who is your client.

I didn’t really think that one through.

I take the final slurp of frappuchino but I’m so panic
stricken I don’t taste it. I start tapping my keyboard with my
fingernails absentmindedly, running through my options. How to get
out of this? Go home pretending to be ill? Nope, Angrypants saw me
this morning and it was obvious I’m fit as a fiddle. Explain to
Angrypants why I shouldn’t go? Nope, this is a woman who is so work
driven she’s refused to take a honeymoon. What’s a little heartache
when there’s £500,000 worth of fees to grab from these
guys?

The meeting is in two hours. I frantically open the Lloyds
folder on the shared drive and try to see what Sam’s been working
on the last week.

I’m screwed.

***

“HiI’mfromGribblesandI’mlateforthe2o’clockmeeting!” I burst
into the Lloyds office, startling the nice receptionist from last
time.

She places her sandwich down. It looks like
smoked salmon and cream cheese. My tummy rumbles.
Hush my pet. Meeting first, then we
eat.

The sweet-as-a-button PA lady smiles and says,

“Please follow me.”

She stands and motions for me to follow her. She is looking a
tad confused by my panic stricken expression, as it’s only 2:02
p.m. I bet I look like I’ve arrived late for my only daughter’s
wedding. But don’t you see? Angrypants hates unpunctuality. You
know what she’s likely been doing for the last 120 seconds? Sitting
in that meeting room, resisting the temptation to check up on me
until I’m at least five minutes late.

I rasp a “thank you I got it from here” and power walk past
the receptionist, because she’s walking too slow. My cheeks are
flushed from the sprint I had to do to make it here (sorta) on
time. My underarms are sweaty but that’s cool because I’ll just
keep my jacket on and no one will know.

I’m in such a frazzle that I forget to smooth down my dress
and hair as I walk into the conference room, where Angrypants and
the Lloyds team are waiting. I avoid Sarah’s death glare, the
pompous look of the Development Manager (our good friend Old Man
Gin) and He Who Shall Not Be Named. I say a general hello and
apologise to the group, my eyes locked on the young Lloyds lad, the
only guy I feel comfortable being in a room with. He seems sweet
and looks about twelve years old, and weirdly, also resembles
Michael Cera

From the corner of my eye I notice my ex is
wearing an ugly brown suit that doesn’t fit him properly.
Yesss
, I think rather
pettily.

“
I’m so sorry, have I kept you waiting?” I ask.

“Not at all Miss Jones, why don’t you get settled while I take
this call? Excuse me,” Development Manager replies, standing
heavily to walk out to the foyer where he answers his
cell.

It’s just me, Angrypants, Voldemort and young Lloyds lad now.
I’m still standing for some reason. He Who Shall Not Be Named
shoots me a twisted smile,

“Hi Dumpling!”

“Hi. Um, if it’s alright by you, would you
mind
not
calling
me that in public?” I answer back.

It’s not the perfectly worded request but what am I supposed
to say? He lost the privilege of calling me a glutinous miniature
pillow case the moment he cheated on me.

His expression doesn’t change,

“Not a problem. Nice dress, when’s the due date?”

Ignoring him, Angrypants yanks my arm down so that I’m forced
to sit close to her. She hisses furiously into my ear,

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I’m sorry Sarah, I took the bus and there was an... incident.
It involved a five year old boy who didn’t know he suffers from
motion sickness.”

“You took the bus? Why in god’s name would you do that?” She
continues to whisper while Voldemort and Young Michael Cera Guy
start chatting about the weekend football.

“I can’t help it, it was that essay on sustainability in the
property market.”

I get a blank look.

“The one I’m doing for the Institute of
Environmental Management? The one
you told
me to write
?”

“Oh that. What about it?” She whisper-barks.

“I’ve decided I’m going to be more environmentally friendly,”
I pull my shoulders back a little.

I want to tell her than I’m trying to turn over a new leaf. No
more selfish, crazy Penny. I’ll be benevolent and kind, a real
campaigner for everything good and just. Then a hot celebrity will
notice me and we’ll get married. Like George Clooney and that Amal
chick.

Angrypants doesn’t seem to be appreciating my new
self-improvement philosophy. In fact, quite the opposite, because
before I can explain she interjects,

“Be environmentally friendly on your own time. Goddam it
Jonesy you’re supposed to be a professional. Act like
it.”

Her words sting and I look down at my lap.

What does she have against buses anyway?

My thoughts are interrupted by Old Man Gin clearing his throat
from the head of the table. I didn’t hear him, he must have snuck
back in. By the look of things he’s overheard me and Angrypants.
He’s wearing an odd, half-amused, half-annoyed expression. He turns
to He Who Shall Not Be Named and gives him a small sigh,

“Women and their crusades, eh?”

“Crusades, Gerald?” Sarah replies evenly.

“Nothing dear.”

“Gerald, we need to discuss any issues that you have around
the service we provide. Are you unhappy with how the transaction is
progressing?”

“Not at all, I just find this sustainability mumbo jumbo a tad
trite these days.”

“Do you now?” I reply, also trying to sound level and even but
not succeeding in the slightest.

Angrypants shoots me a warning glance but I ignore her as I
enter a mini stare-off with Gerald the Dinosaur.

He replies,

“We have a lot of women in Lloyds trying to get us to switch
to fair trade coffee, support local schools, all that expensive PR
rubbish. But don’t listen to me, I’m just an old timer, I was never
taught how to manage the... emotional element of people in the
workplace.”

I resist the temptation to say something,
instead picking up my pen with one hand, fiddling with the corners
of my pad with the other. My eyes are focused directly on the blank
pages below me. But I start yelling inside my head anyway.
So because women have different sexual organs
we’re going to destroy your manly-acquired bottom line?
That is such codswallop!

Angrypants kicks off the meeting,

“Onto more pressing matters, Sam Grobowski sends his
apologies, he’s been taken ill.”

He Who Shall Not Be Named replies,

“We wish him a speedy recovery, but it’s good to see Miss
Jones again. She’s been conspicuously absent from our
correspondences.”

I continue to stare at the pad below, remembering how much I
used to love his deep voice. My how times change. The corners of my
pad are getting ever more curled and wrinkly. Seeing that I’m not
going to answer, Angrypants looks to address him,

“You’ll appreciate we are always extremely busy, and although
we have prioritised Lloyds and this job above all others, Penny
does have other pressing work.”

Sarah has
lied
through her teeth
recovered brilliantly, as
she always does.
Yeah right
we’ve prioritised Lloyds, we tell all our clients
we ‘prioritise’ them. It’s the Consultant Way, say whatever you
need to say, do whatever you need to do, write whatever you need to
write, do all and sundry to get that client to hand over their
dosh.

It’s something that’s never sat right with me to be honest
with you. Sometimes, I’m almost ashamed to...

My thoughts are interrupted by that deep voice,

“I want to see Penny contributing in a more meaningful way
from this point on,” He Who Shall Not Be Named asserts.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Old Man Gin butts in, “while Sam
is unwell perhaps it would be best if there was a... man available,
instead?”

Jesus fucking Christ!

Angrypants ignores Ginman, instead looking at He Who Shall Not
Be Named,

“Penny will be as involved as you like.”

“I’d like her to be very, very involved, particularly since we
have several transactions planned for the next twelve
months.”

And I finally see what he’s doing. It’s all there in the sharp
glean of his eyes. He wants to make my life hell from this point
onwards. He will hound me with emails, phone calls, unreasonable
requests, ridiculous amounts of iterations, all because I didn’t
take him back. That night he asked me for a second chance. That
night I did the Terrible Thing.

Angrypants is responding to Voldemort,

“Fine. Anything else before we move onto the actual reason why
we’re here?” she snaps.

The three men shake their heads no. They’ve
realised Angrypants is in no mood to be trifled with. Maybe it has
something to do with her female genital organs, because apparently
those make us all
sooooo
emotional.