Tales From a Hen Weekend (40 page)

‘And you see, when I told her how much
you
reminded me of Dawn – look, I don’t mean anything by this, Katie. But you’re the same height, same colouring – and you’re just so much
like
her in other ways. You even laugh like her. At first, it gave me a pang every time I heard it.’

‘You should have told me!’

‘What – and make you stop laughing? I don’t think so! I wanted you for this job – you’ve been perfect. It was my problem. I had to get over it.’

‘But Helen thought …’

‘I think she got the wrong end of the stick. She assumed, when I told her how much you reminded me of Dawn and how difficult I found it, that I had
feelings
for you.’ He’s now so red, he can’t look at me any more. ‘Not that I’m not very fond of you, of course, Katie!’ he adds quickly.

I sit back down at my desk. I’ve forgotten about needing the loo. I feel almost faint with relief. He isn’t interested in me. Helen got it all wrong. Why the hell hasn’t Greg got all this out in the open before?

But I know the answer, really. He didn’t like talking to me because I reminded him of Dawn. And he never
needed
to talk to me before – because he had Helen.

‘How long have you known about Helen? About her … liking you?’

‘I don’t know.’ He shrugs, immediately embarrassed again. ‘I suppose I cottoned onto it soon after she started working here. It was a bit of a shock, to be honest – it’s not exactly something I’ve been used to. I’m hardly a sex symbol, I don’t need anyone to tell me that.’

‘Oh, well … but … I don’t know …’

Fortunately, he laughs.

‘It’s all right, Katie, we don’t need to pretend I’m George Clooney and you’re secretly having trouble holding yourself in check! It was very odd knowing that Helen liked me, and especially that she was jealous when I told her you reminded me of Dawn. But I wasn’t interested in her in that way. We just got on well together. She’s a good listener. I felt comfortable with her. Not that she didn’t try – she made a pass at me a couple of times, but all it really did was embarrass both of us,’ he added, squirming a bit again.

Ha! Good for Helen. Might have known she’d have given it a go. What a terrible thought, though!

‘But of course, I was sorry when she said she was taking extended leave and – and a little put out, to be honest. I told her it was really inconvenient and it’d put me in a spot.’

‘Poor Helen! No wonder she went! Couldn’t you see what you were doing to her?’

‘No, not really. I was totally perplexed by it all, especially the fact that she was going to
Australia.
I had no idea it was anything to do with me. Look, OK, I knew she fancied me, and I admit I found it flattering, but I honestly didn’t know she felt
that
strongly.’

‘You’ll miss her now she’s gone,’ I tell him a bit crossly. Stupid man! How thick can you get?

‘Katie,’ he says quietly, looking down at his desk, ‘I do. I do already. Actually, I started missing her before she’d even gone. I don’t know when it hit me – gradually, I suppose, over these last couple of weeks, while she’s been preparing to leave. She was a good friend, and I’ve let her go.’

‘So why didn’t you
stop
her going?’ God, this is so exasperating! ‘She was
begging
you to tell her not to go!’

‘OK, she kissed me, at her leaving party – and some people might say that a kiss like that is another way of begging to be asked to stay.’

‘Of
course
it was!’

‘I’m not that stupid. I’m not reading anything into that. She was far too drunk to know what she was doing. She’d made up her mind; she was going to Australia. And if she decides not to come back, I’ll have lost a friend and that’s all there is to it.’

‘Greg. Are you telling me, honestly, that you think of Helen as just a friend? Only let me tell
you
something: all you’ve done, all week, is mope around with a face like a long bloody wet weekend.’

‘Did you hear any of what I told you, Katie? About Dawn? Ever since she left me, I’ve avoided having anything to do with women except as friends, or colleagues. It’s taken me a long time to recover. I’m not in a hurry to go through that kind of rejection again.’

‘But Helen’s
crazy
about you, Greg!’

‘So you say. But so was Dawn, once.’

‘Helen’s not like Dawn, though, is she! You need to trust the opposite sex again sooner or later, Greg! We all have to
live
again, eventually … don’t we?’

It’s not just the look on Greg’s face that stops me short.

I’ve suddenly realised I’m not one to talk. I’m doing exactly the same thing myself: cruising along in neutral, staying safe, staying single, never wanting to risk being hurt again.

But that’s different. I’m not moping around the way Greg is!

I’m moving next week. I’ve found a downstairs flat, with a garden, in an old converted house in Leigh-on-Sea. The rent’s cheap because it’s a bit basic but I’m excited that I’m really going to be living at the seaside! I can commute to work for now – but, to be honest, I want to look for a new job. The problem is, how can I leave Bookshelf, when Greg’s already struggling without Helen? We’ve had a series of temps, most of them looking not quite old enough to have left school and not having much IT knowledge beyond how to play computer games and how to produce CVs giving distorted impressions of their abilities. At the moment I feel like I’ll have to stay, at least until he finds someone half-decent, or until Helen comes back. If she ever does.

I’ve e-mailed her several times, telling her how much Greg misses her, but her replies have been a bit terse.
Don’t try to humour me
, she wrote last time.
It’s not helping.
Perhaps Greg’s right. Perhaps she really does want to be left alone, on the other side of the world, to forget about him. But somehow I don’t think so. Am I still hankering after the happy ending, after all – even if it’s someone else’s happy ending instead of mine?

‘Seaside?’ says Emily when she comes to have a look at my new flat. ‘Estuary-side, more like!’

‘But we can still have candyfloss, can’t we? And Southend rock? And build sand castles?’

‘Mud castles,’ she corrects me, laughing, but she slips an arm through mine and squeezes it. ‘It’s perfect, Katie. All it needs is a lick of paint. I’ll help you – we’ll do it together. It’ll be great.’

‘And you’ll come and stay? I’ll get a sofa bed. You and Sean? You can have weekends at the seaside.’

‘We’re only going to be half an hour away! You’re not going to the other side of the world, love! Thank God,’ she adds quietly.

But I’m already planning it, in my mind. Breakfasts at waterfront cafes, looking out at all the little fishing boats bobbing on the tide. Beach parties on warm summer evenings. Sunsets over the sea. Oh, all right then – the estuary! It doesn’t sound so romantic, does it.

Of course, I’m not the only one whose life has turned upside down since the hen weekend. Lisa and Richard have split up, too. Our poor Mum must be wondering what the hell her daughters are playing at. Happy families? Well, I suppose we didn’t start off with a very good example.

Richard’s moving out, and Lisa’s staying in the house with the children. I ask her whether she’s going to move in with Andy.

‘Not yet,’ she says, cagily. ‘I want to give it some time, Katie. I’m not rushing into anything.’

‘Want to make sure he’s The One?’ I say, smiling, nudging her. But she doesn’t smile back.

‘Not sure about all that stuff.’

No, I’m beginning to wonder myself, too. It’s one thing to be romantic about sunsets and beaches … but men? Finding
The One
? If I hadn’t been so caught up in
all that stuff
when I met Matt, maybe I would have realised it wasn’t right. I talked myself into believing it. Why do we do that? What happens to us – do we develop a kind of mind and brain bypass when we meet a new man that we
want
to be
The One
?

‘Somewhere out there,’ says Lisa, seeing the look on my face, ‘there’s someone that’s right for you, little sister.’

I used to think so, too. But after those ridiculous dreams and fancies I had about Harry, I’m beginning to think my judgment is shot to pieces.

Of course, I never think about Harry now. But it’s strange how many people around here remind me of him. I’d say there must be a lot of Harry lookalikes in Leigh-on-Sea – but that isn’t strictly true, because every time I get one of these absurd heart-stopping moments when something about the back of a complete stranger’s head, or the way they walk, makes me think for a split second that it’s actually Harry, they turn round and in fact they’re nothing like him whatsoever. And the sinking feeling I get then isn’t anything to do with disappointment, of course. It’s probably just indigestion.

The first phone call comes at the most inappropriate moment you could possibly imagine. I’m in a job interview. It’s all very well hanging on at Bookshelf, but I just happened to see this advert for someone to help run the bookshop in Leigh-on-Sea – just round the corner from me. I couldn’t resist it. OK, the money isn’t great, but I won’t have any fares, I won’t be running a car, and there was a hint in the advert about possible advancement for the right person. I don’t quite understand how you can advance, in a bookshop, but I thought it was worth trying to find out. Yes, I feel guilty about Greg, but maybe the next school-leaver that comes from the agency will be better. I’ve got to start thinking about what’s good for
me
, for a change.

When my phone starts singing its silly little electronic tune in my bag, I’m just being asked why I want the job.

Shit, shit, shit. Why did I forget to turn the bloody thing to silent?

I smile cheesily at Mrs Blake, the bookshop manager, and mumble something about my phone having developed a fault that makes it switch itself on when it’s supposed to be off. If she believes that, she’ll believe anything. I fumble in my bag, and manage to grab the phone just as it stops ringing. I’m hot and flustered with embarrassment and the knowledge that I’ve almost certainly blown my chance of the job. So flustered that I just shove the phone back into my bag without turning it off.

‘So sorry about that,’ I say, with another cheesy grin that probably makes me look slightly on the mad side. ‘Technology, eh! Fine till it goes wrong!’

‘Yes,’ smiles Mrs Blake. ‘Quite. Now, then – I think we were talking about your reasons for wanting the job?’

‘Oh, yes.’ I smooth my skirt and try to calm down. Maybe all is not lost. ‘Well, I’ve worked in the book trade all my life, and I’m looking to diversify at this stage. In my current role, as you’ll see from my CV, I’m single-handedly reading and reviewing …’

Unfortunately I don’t get as far as telling her how many books I’m single-handedly reviewing, because at this point the phone starts again. This time I lose my composure completely and only just manage to stop myself shouting ‘Bollocks!’ at the top of my voice as I grab it out of my bag again, and in my agitation, drop the fucking thing and it slides under Mrs Blake’s desk.

‘Oh! Sorry! I’ll just … sorry, let me just …’

I’m on the floor now, reaching under the desk, desperate to stop the ringing. The phone hits one of Mrs Blake’s sturdy lace-up shoes and she inadvertently kicks it sideways out from under the desk. I reach out for it as it flies past, desperately jabbing at any old keys I can manage, instead of the only one I should be hitting – the
off
button – and for a minute I’m frozen with horror as an electronic voice informs the whole room, out loud:

‘Voicemail has one new message. New message one:……’

I’m far too disconcerted to ponder on my terrible luck – that I must have not only answered the call, but turned the phone onto loudspeaker as it slid across the room. Instead, paralysed, not really believing that this is happening to me, I just sit on the floor staring at it, as the voice changes and the message is beamed out loud and clear:

‘Katie. This is Harry. I’ll come straight to the point. I’ve tried not to contact you. I’ve tried not to think about you – but it’s no good. I need to hear your voice. I need to see you! You’ve got my number. Ring me …’

Finally, much too late, I pull myself together sufficiently to crawl after the phone, snap it off and just about find the self-control to refrain from hurling it out of the window. Mrs Blake is looking at me with a curious expression.

‘Wrong number,’ I tell her wretchedly.

I don’t think I’ll get the job.

He tries again the next day. I don’t recognise his number from the caller display; it’s been a while since I deleted it from my Contacts.

‘Katie!’ he begins, sounding relieved that I’ve answered.

‘I was in an interview!’ I say, furiously. As if it was his fault. ‘I won’t get the bloody job now.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Yesterday. When you called. The phone went under the desk, and then I answered it instead of turning it off, and …’

He’s laughing!

‘It’s not funny,’ I say, petulantly.

‘No. Sorry.’

But I can hear him still smothering a chuckle. The annoying thing is, it’s making me want to laugh too.

‘Anyway,’ I continue, taking a deep breath and trying hard to stop myself from imagining him smiling. Imagining the way the smile would be reaching his eyes, the way his cheeks would be dimpling. What’s the matter with me? ‘What do you want?’

There. That was impressive, wasn’t it?

Actually, it sounded rude and aggressive, but I can’t afford to let my guard drop.

‘Well,’ he says, having taken a sharp breath at my rudeness and aggression. ‘I
was
going to suggest we meet up for a drink.’

‘No. I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

Short of just hanging up on him, I couldn’t be a lot more discouraging, could I?

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ he persists. ‘Why is it not a good idea? I thought we got on well in Ireland – didn’t we? I know you’ve just broken up with your boyfriend. I just thought maybe we could stay friends, Katie. I’m not talking about … ’ he laughs, ‘having a
relationship
or anything!’