Last Chance Saloon (12 page)

Visiting Katherine unexpectedly wasn’t something she normally did. They’d been affected by the ethos in London, where it was considered the height of rudeness to drop in on someone unannounced. The words, ‘I was just passing…’ were considered to be as much of a social gaffe as ‘You’ve a really big nose.’ Many Londoners, used to being able to screen their telephone calls with the aid of an answering-machine, were sent into a flat spin by an unexpected ring on their bell. A person! In the flesh! On their doorstep!

If they were sure it wasn’t the postman, Londoners often simply refused to answer the door. The usual drill was to flatten themselves against the wall and try to peek out the window, like someone in a police shoot-out. Not with the idea of letting anyone in, but simply to get some notion of who this social deviant was and cross them off their Christmas card list forthwith.

Katherine was having a shower, but Tara thought she was being ignored because she hadn’t made the requisite appointment. She pulled out her mobile to ring Katherine and order her to open the door but she’d forgotten to charge the battery.

‘It’s me,’ Tara called, stepping back from the intercom and
standing in the tiny front garden, looking up at Katherine’s front window.

‘Let me in.

‘You hairy-arsed eejit,’ she yelled in frustration. ‘I know you’re up there, I can see the light.’

‘Hello,’ said a voice. ‘Looking for Katherine?’

Tara turned around and someone, who must have been poor Roger, was advancing towards the front door with a key.

‘Yes.’ Tara could barely look at him, considering the other occasions they’d had contact – Roger banging his ceiling with a broom handle and Tara screeching drunkenly, ‘Lighten up, would you, you young fogey?’

‘Thanks,’ Tara gasped to Roger, running away from him and up the stairs to Katherine’s. While Tara pounded with her fist and shouted, ‘Let me in!’ Katherine calmly opened the door. She was wearing a short, silky white nightdress and a longer, matching robe, which swung open, showing off her lean little legs. She radiated feel-goodness, but Tara was too agitated to notice.

‘Hello.’ Katherine treated her to a smile. ‘How did you get up here?’

‘Roger the codger let me in.’

‘Poor Roger,’ Katherine said. ‘I must apologize to him sometime for all the noise. What’s wrong? Why were you trying to batter the door down?’

‘I thought you were ignoring me.’

‘Why would I do that?’ Katherine asked, with another wide smile. Katherine had lovely feet. Small and dainty, her toenails painted iridescent. Although why she went to the fuss of painting her toenails was beyond Tara. She wouldn’t bother her barney
if she didn’t have a boyfriend. In fact, even when she
did
have a boyfriend!

Tara found a strange comfort in watching Katherine’s pretty little feet move nimbly about the thick carpet as she led Tara into the living room and asked her if she’d like a cheese sandwich.

‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’ Tara said. ‘I’ll just have a cup of tea. Even though I could eat a nun’s arse through a convent gate, I beg of you, don’t give me any food.’

She was safe with Katherine. There was scant danger she’d be planning to have a high-calorie, high-fat meal, which Tara would be forced to join in with. Most nights if you asked Katherine what she was going to have for her dinner, she’d say vaguely, ‘I don’t know, toast or something.’ Whereas Tara would have known since the previous Wednesday.

‘I’ll boil the kettle,’ Katherine said.

The bag of Hula Hoops on the shelf in the living room had been there from the night before. Tara distinctly remembered seeing it. How could Katherine have left all those lovely Hula Hoops there overnight without eating them? She wouldn’t have got a wink of sleep herself. As it was, she was going to eat them now. Being face to face with food melted her resolve. Besides, she’d missed her exercise class, the damage was already done. She launched herself on the bag just as Katherine came back.

‘No,’ Katherine yelled, and Tara jumped.

‘Put. The Hula Hoops. Down,’ Katherine bellowed across the room. She cupped her hands to form a megaphone. ‘I repeat. Put. The Hula Hoops. Down.’

Tara froze, taken aback by Katherine’s uncharacteristic rowdiness.

‘Down,’ boomed Katherine. ‘On the floor. Slowly now. Don’t try anything funny.’

Tara found herself placing the red bag carefully on the ground beside her feet. Katherine isn’t normally like this, she thought, in confusion.

‘OK,’ said Katherine. ‘Place your hands on your head.’

Tara obeyed.

‘Now kick the Hula Hoops over to me.’

The red Cellophane pack skittered across the carpet and Katherine grabbed it when it arrived, a huge grin on her face.

‘Thanks,’ Tara said, as they both laughed – Tara mildly hysterically and Katherine brimming over with
joie de vivre
. ‘That was a close call.’

‘You shouldn’t be buying these things if you’re worried about your weight,’ Katherine scolded good-humouredly.

‘I didn’t. They’re yours. How come you don’t see these things?’ Tara moaned. ‘The minute I walked in the bag started to glow like a beacon. Demanding my attention. Parading itself in front of me. Cavorting licentiously. If it wore clothes it would have taken them off…’

Katherine laughed and Tara noticed vaguely that she was looking extraordinarily well.

‘I bought the wool for Thomas’s jumper,’ she announced.

‘Hot news.’

‘It is, actually. It’s me taking control of my life. Knitting, dieting and not spending money. The new me.’ Tara drew a mental veil over the thirty-five-minute-old shoes that were almost throbbing with illicitness on the back seat of her car. ‘So where were you today? I rang you at half three and you were still at lunch.’

Katherine didn’t answer.

‘Where were you?’ Tara repeated.

‘Hmmmm? Sorry?’ Katherine asked dreamily.

What the hell is up with her? Tara wondered. Something was different. A glitteriness about the eyes, a knowingness about the mouth. She was giving off suppressed-excitement vibes. ‘For your long lunch, where were you…?’ Tara paused and said falteringly, ‘Are you listening to me?’

‘Yes,’ Katherine declared unconvincingly.

Tara looked at her again. Her skin was flushed and peachy-looking and she had that cocooned air of someone with a pleasant secret. ‘You haven’t been… have you… You’ve been having sex with someone, haven’t you?’ Tara demanded.

‘I have not!’

‘Well, there’s something doing you good. Do you fancy someone?’

‘No.’

‘Does someone fancy you?’

‘No,’ Katherine said, but Tara had picked up on the tiniest little hesitation.

‘Aha,’ she sang. ‘Ahaaaaa. Someone is after you, who is he? Tell me.’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Katherine said stiffly.

Tara was excited. Glad that something was going right for one of them. ‘I bet he’s magnificent,’ Tara urged. ‘Your fellas always are.’

On the rare occasions that Katherine had a boyfriend, they were usually extraordinarily beautiful. Total hunks. Real stunners. Way out of Tara’s league. Mind you, they never lasted long, but however.

‘It has to be someone at your work,’ Tara surmised. ‘Where else would you get to meet a man?’

‘Behave,’ Katherine said.

‘What’s up with you? What’s wrong with fancying someone?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Well, what’s wrong with someone fancying you?’

Katherine didn’t reply. But all her glow had faded and she now wore a face that would stop a clock.

‘Katherine,’ Tara said gently, ‘I know we’ve had fights about this before, but being in love is nice, it’s a good thing. And I know you don’t like to relinquish your famous control, I know you don’t like being vulnerable, but sometimes you’ve got to take a chance.’

‘Relationships are misery from start to finish,’ Katherine said coldly.

‘Not at all,’ Tara spluttered, and opened her mouth to say, ‘I mean, look at me and Thomas, see how unmiserable we are,’ then found she couldn’t.

‘I’m perfectly happy on my own,’ Katherine said, her face like stone. ‘Being alone doesn’t mean lonely.’

‘You can’t duck and dodge for ever,’ Tara said in exasperation. ‘Falling in love is part of the human condition. Without it you’re only living a half life. Everyone needs a partner, it’s a basic human need.’

‘It’s not a need,’ Katherine said. ‘It’s a want. And what I
want
, more than a person to argue with over who loves who the most, is absence of pain. Falling in love leaves you open, relationships mean pain.’

‘Relationships aren’t all about pain,’ Tara protested, alarmed at Katherine’s intransigence. She seemed to have become more entrenched since the last time they’d had this row.

‘So relationships aren’t all about pain?’ Katherine interrupted. ‘You’re hardly in a position to say that. Look at how miserable you are with that
shithead
Thomas.’

‘I’m not miserable,’ Tara said stoutly.

Despite her anger, Katherine couldn’t help noticing that Tara hadn’t denied that Thomas was a shithead. ‘Well, if you’re happy,’ she told Tara, ‘then I’m fine as I am.’

They stared, their faces close together, furious looks hopping from one to the other.

‘I’m going to ask you one more time,’ Tara said menacingly.

‘What?’ Katherine hissed.

‘Is he someone from work?’

Katherine’s eyes popped with rage. She opened her mouth to begin a tirade of abuse, working her mouth silently as she tried to find the right words.

‘Yes,’ she finally said.

But actually, Katherine decided, there was very little to tell. First thing that morning Joe Roth had ambled over to her desk, as he had done every morning for the previous twelve working days. Maybe it was the icy-green of the shirt that he’d worn in honour of the tampon-account presentation, or the way his cobalt-blue suit followed the lines of his long, rangy body that made Katherine admit that he was particularly easy on the eye that day. Automatically, her expression became harder, more inscrutable.

‘Morning, Katie,’ Joe said, with a huge smile that filled his entire face.

‘Mr Roth,’ Katherine said icily, with Scary Look grade three – she felt there was no need to go to a four or a five because the tone of her voice was a weapon in itself. ‘My name is Katherine and I don’t answer to abbreviations of it.’

Katherine waited for him to slink away, cowed and beaten. Instead, when he leant on her desk and laughed and laughed, she had an unexpected premonition of disaster. She looked at his teeth, arrayed like white flags on a washing-line, and felt for herself. Be afraid, be very afraid.

He stopped laughing. ‘Mr Roth,’ he parroted, his brown eyes looking at her with what seemed to be affection. Unmoving, she faced him, doing her best to exude the patience of a very
busy but long-sufferingly polite woman. ‘Mr Roth,’ he repeated. ‘I love it. You know, Katherine, you’re wonderful. You’re simply wonderful.’

When she continued to stare at him stonily, he said, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you by being over-familiar. It’ll be Katherine from now on. Unless you’d prefer to be called Ms Casey.’

The fraction of a second that it took before she began to protest was too long. Joe roared with laughter again. ‘You would, I see. Very well, Ms Casey it is.’

‘Now, Ms Casey,’ he said, suddenly businesslike. ‘We need to have a meeting about the overspending on the Noritaki beer account. But the Geetex executives are due shortly for the presentation, so why don’t we discuss it over lunch?’

‘Lunch?’ she asked coolly. ‘On whose budget?’

Katherine Casey was not to be bought. Though she didn’t often get taken out for expensive, trendy lunches in the course of her work – in advertising, the accountant is a Cinderella-figure – she refused to get excited by the thought of a free goat’s cheese salad. On the contrary. She was far more likely to lose the run of herself at the thought of a campaign coming in under budget. ‘After all,’ she continued, ‘if it’s overspent it’s hardly appropriate that we discuss it while spending more money from it.’

‘I’ll pay for lunch myself,’ Joe offered.

Katherine laughed. Joe was not encouraged by its timbre. ‘Nice try, Joe,’ she said. ‘But I see all the expenses claims.’

The account directors never paid for anything. They kept receipts for everything they ever bought and attempted to claim them. Not just restaurant or hotel bills, but everything from shaving foam (‘I had a presentation, I had to look my best,’) to ties (ditto) to birthday cards to the weekly shop at Tesco.
Once someone had slipped in a receipt for an Armani suit, another time a home Jacuzzi. Katherine had seen it all.

‘You have my word,’ he insisted. I’ll pay for lunch out of my own pocket.’

‘No.’

‘Come on,’ he joked. ‘Lunch. With Joe Roth. Accept no substitute.’

‘No.’

His expression became serious. ‘This isn’t a come-on. I genuinely need to talk to you about the overspending on the budget.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Katherine lied. ‘I’m up to my eyes doing the end-of-year accounts.’ She’d managed to get most of the work done by coming in the previous day, but she wasn’t telling him that. ‘Why don’t you talk to my assistant, Breda?’ she suggested. ‘She’ll be able to help you and I’m sure she’d appreciate a nice lunch.’

‘OK,’ said Joe desolately and moved away.

It wasn’t the kind of thing he would normally do, but he was in despair as he faced into his fourth week of rejection – he went to Fred Franklin to ask him to pull some strings. Fred was in his little glass office with Myles, a young would-be-wide-boy copywriter. ‘Fred, I need you to do me a favour,’ Joe said, dispensing with pleasantries.

Fred knew what Joe wanted because he’d been watching him talking to Katherine. Fred understood the international language of rejection. In fact, he was
fluent
in it, having had no luck with women until he got promoted at the age of thirty-five. And from Joe’s body language while talking to Katherine – the pleading, outstretched arms, the earnest expression on his face – it was clear that he was being given the bum’s rush.

‘You’re a sick man,’ said Fred.

‘Are you?’ asked Myles eagerly. ‘How sick? We cater for most tastes here, mate. How about Chain in printing, if it’s kinky you’re after?’

‘Jane?’

‘Not Jane.
Chain
. She’ll sort you.’

‘What’s her real name?’ Joe asked wearily. He’d inadvertently called several of the women by their nicknames since he’d started at Breen Helmsford. Most of them hadn’t seemed to mind, but he had.

‘Pauline,’ Myles said. ‘We call her Chain, because… Well, if I say the words “furry handcuffs”, I think you’ll know what I’m on about…’

‘He fancies the frigid Paddy,’ Fred said bluntly.

‘Who? The Ice Queen?’ Myles said in astonishment. ‘Didn’t know you were into masochism.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are, mate. You’re banging your head against a brick wall.’

Myles had liked Joe Roth, had thought he was a good bloke, who was game for a laugh. He decided he might have to reconsider.

‘What about May in the post room?’ he suggested, desperate to save Joe. ‘You know her – nipples you could hang your coat on, arse you could park a bike in. Up for it? Not half. Just because she’s on a care-in-the-community back-to-work scheme, don’t let that put you off. Nothing wrong with a bit of mental illness, I always say. Blinding!’

‘What’s her real name?’ Joe asked, feeling depressed.

‘May,’ Myles answered simply. ‘Though I don’t know why, there’s no
may
about it. She’s a definite and no mistake!’

Both Fred and Myles burst into raucous, macho laughter and Joe began to consider a career change. Was the misogyny worse here than at his last employer’s, or was he just getting old?

He cut into the hilarity by saying, ‘Apart from anything else, I genuinely need to discuss the Noritaki budget with Katherine.’ The guffaws came to an abrupt halt.

‘Do you think I was born yesterday, son?’ Fred scoffed. ‘Talk to Heavy Breda about it.’

‘Go on,’ he encouraged, when Joe didn’t reply. ‘At least Heavy Breda has tits.’

‘Have a word with Katherine,’ Joe pressed. ‘And I’ll owe you.’

Fred considered. Joe was a good-looking lad, he featured a lot in the conversations of the female employees. If he ever got anywhere with the frigid Paddy he’d immediately lose interest in her. By which time, she’d probably be very taken with him. And
that
would be worth seeing.

‘All right,’ grumbled Fred, heaving himself out of his leather chair.