Chapter 8
Dear Adam
I’m eighteen and I’ve never had a girlfriend (there, I said it). And it gets worse – I’ve never had sex, either. I’ve kissed a couple of girls but it’s never led on to anything else and now I’m at the point where I can’t ever see it happening. Is there something wrong with me? What can I do?
Charlie, Portsmouth
By the next morning my hangover had receded, but the sense of fear, sadness and shame lingered. I wasn’t worried about what my fellow-hens would think about my behaviour – Amelie was my sister, after all, and the rest of them were close enough to her that they’d forgive me pretty much anything by association. And anyway, I hadn’t behaved badly – I’d been pretty hammered, sure, but then it was a hen night and everyone had been hammered (apart from the pregnant one).
It was something more than that – something deeper and more secret. It was to do with Ross – to do with the contact we’d had with each other’s lives outside of work. But why did I feel so weird about that, I asked myself, as I stepped out of the shower, roughly towel-dried my hair and pulled on jeans, a T-shirt and trainers, without looking in the mirror.
Just as if it was a normal Monday morning, I got the bus to work, stopped off at my usual place for a tall flat white to go, and walked through the bright morning to the office. It had rained during the night and the pavements were sparkling with puddles, the sky a clear washed-out blue and the air clear and fresh. It was the sort of Monday morning that inspires optimism, the promise of eating my lunch outside in a garden square, of walking home through the balmy evening instead of getting the bus, of sitting out on my balcony later watching the moon rise.
But I didn’t feel optimism, only the same looming, shadowy dread with which I’d woken up that morning. And the feeling only increased as I approached the looming red-brick building where I worked. It had been some sort of a warehouse, back in the day, or perhaps a factory, maybe where dozens of women in headscarves laboured over cutting tables and sewing machines. Now we laboured over keyboards, but the building had retained its high ceilings and vast, steel-framed windows through which sunlight poured in the afternoons until someone complained they couldn’t see their screen for the glare, got up and shut a blind.
Work used to be my happy place. I never dreaded coming here – until I’d moved to Max!. Now, I had to share my workspace with a bunch of men, one of whom was Ross. And I’d be faced with even more men and their man-problems flooding into the inbox of someone called Adam, who I had no idea how I was going to learn to be.
The confidence I’d felt when I’d replied to Jonno’s letter had evaporated almost entirely. Greg’s response had been enthusiastic – the copy had gone to the subs’ desk and on to the design department, and I’d been left with a sense of pride and satisfaction. I could do this. I could be wise and empathetic, even to men.
But now I felt completely different, and I knew deep down that it was because of Ross. I’d thought we were beginning to be friends and even allowed myself to imagine that there could be something more there. I’d thought I could trust him – thought he might be different from other men. But however much I tried to rationalise it to myself, what had happened between him and Bryony had left me feeling disillusioned and betrayed.
He was just the same as all the rest of them, after all. He’d take a casual hook-up without hesitation if there was one on offer.
I tapped in the code for the door at street level and stepped into the lobby, greeting the concierge with a smile and heading for the lift. But its door was closing as I approached, and I couldn’t see who was inside. What if it was Ross?
Shaking my head, I turned away and walked up the stairs instead.
Ross was there already. As soon as I pushed open the heavy fire door, out of breath from my climb, I saw his head over the banks of monitors. It was like he was emitting a signal – a high-pitched beep transmitted over Bluetooth or something – that grew louder and louder the closer I got to him. The distance from the door to my desk felt limitless, as if it would take hours rather than seconds to walk across the polished concrete floor, pull out my chair and sit, mostly hidden from his view by my computer screen.
I crossed the room, silent in my trainers. My breath hadn’t returned to normal – if anything it felt like I was climbing higher and faster than I already had. My heart was pounding in my chest and my legs felt limp as cooked spaghetti when as last I sat down, resting my insulated coffee mug on the desk in front of me.
The tiny sound of the mug meeting the wood made Ross glance up from his screen, and for a second his eyes met mine. And then a surprising thing happened. He blushed. A wave of colour rushed up his neck and over his face. I felt an answering flush burning my own face and looked away, hiding my face behind my computer monitor as fast as I could. We didn’t exchange a word for the rest of the day.
And what was more, it seemed like every time I lifted my eyes from my screen to think, answer the phone or get up to go for a wee, Ross would look up at the same moment and our eyes would meet. We’d blush furiously in unison and them look away, and I’d feel ashamed and unsettled for ages until I was able to focus on my work again, lose myself in it and forget the second-long eye meet had ever happened. And then, as if this was just a normal day in a normal week, I’d glance up again and – bam – the eyes, the blush, the excruciating awkwardness.
It was like it was Ross and I who’d snogged on a night out (or maybe more than snogged), not Ross and a friend of my sister’s who I barely knew.
But I knew one thing. Ross knew I knew. Even if he hadn’t seen me out on Saturday night, he knew I’d been there and he knew the girl he’d hooked up with was my sister’s friend. Otherwise why would he be like this?
Actually, even given that knowledge, why was he being like this?
I couldn’t understand it. I knew why I felt toe-curlingly embarrassed around him, but that was me. I was the one with the social skills of a washing-up sponge, the one who died inside at the idea of a colleague (okay, a man who I sort-of liked) seeing me out in a short dress and cock deely-boppers having a few drinks. That was normal for me, because that’s what I was like. But Ross?
As far as I could tell – and certainly as far as the evidence from Saturday night had shown – he was a normal guy, natural and at ease in social situations, and he had nothing at all to be embarrassed about.
I didn’t get it. But there were more pressing matters still for me to not get: the slew of emails that had landed in the AskAdam in tray. Whatever Ross’s problem was, it was only one problem compared to the – my inbox conformed – one hundred and twenty eight requiring my attention. I was going to have to pick two, edit them and come up with answers that wouldn’t result in the meltdown of relationships, the loss of jobs (particularly my own) or the abandonment of long-held dreams.
The responsibility weighted heavily on me, to say the least. It had never crossed my mind that there would be quite so many men out there with quite so many problems.
I’d have to read through them all, giving them due care and attention, eventually. But for now, I figured I might as well pick one that looked that it would be widely relatable, and try to come up with a solution. I scrolled through the unread messages and clicked on one at random.
To my surprise, I felt tears pricking my eyes when I read Charlie’s brief message. I remembered myself at that age, and how I’d felt about my contemporaries, the Charlies of their day. All those boys: tall and short, fat and thin, sporty and geeky – all equally unfathomable and intimidating to eighteen-year-old me. I still felt that way about men, and I realised I badly wanted to save Charlie from the same fate.
I copied and pasted his message into a Word document and read it through again. Then I pressed Enter twice and typed, ‘Dear Charlie,’ and hit Enter again.
Then I stopped.
Think, Lucy. What do you wish someone had told you eleven years ago?
‘First off, there’s nothing wrong with you,’ I typed. I didn’t actually know whether that was true – Charlie could have all kinds of things wrong in his life that I didn’t know about. But it felt important to say it. Then I channelled my own younger self again, and carried on. ‘I bet there are loads of girls you know in exactly the same position as you. I bet they share their worries with their closest friends, like you’ve shared yours with me. And I bet their friends tell them they’re great, they’re hot, they’re funny, and the right person for them will come along when the time is right – probably loads of wrong people, too, but eventually the right one.
‘In the meantime, try and hold that thought. Girls aren’t a foreign race or an alien species. They’ve got worries and insecurities, same as you. I wonder if you could try letting your guard down, trying to get to know girls, not treating them like they’re armed guards standing in the way of you having sex? Even girls you don’t fancy could end up being – wait for it – friends. And friendship could be the first step to achieving the romantic relationships you really want.’
I was suddenly besieged by doubt. Before even hitting Save, I copied the text and sent it to Amelie, without explanation but with a row of question mark emojis. She replied in a few seconds.
‘Great! I knew you could do it. Maybe also tell him not to be a dick? It’s always worth reminding them.’
I spent the rest of that week reading through all the questions in the inbox – that, and puzzling over the behaviour of another man, the one sat at the desk opposite mine. Ross’s behaviour, other than when he looked at me, seemed perfectly normal. Apart from the fact that he’d stopped talking to me. Before, he hadn’t exactly chatted for England, but he’d made the occasional effort at conversation. When I stood up from my desk at five past one, he’d ask if I was going for lunch, and what I was planning to get. At six o’clock when we logged off, he’d wish me a good evening. If he got up to make a coffee he’d offer me one. When I asked what he was having for lunch he’d tell me what was in his sandwich and then quote Seinfeld – ‘Women don’t respect salad eaters.’
Now, he’d stopped doing those things – which was probably just as well, because if we actually spoke to each other we’d probably both spontaneously combust.
But, by Friday lunchtime, I’d realised that spontaneous combustion was a risk I was simply going to have to take, because the alternative – the oppressive silence, the face-searing blushes, the crick I was getting in my neck from looking up sideways from my screen instead of directly ahead, so as not to meet his eyes – was simply intolerable. And besides, I knew that Ross was off on holiday the following week, so at least if my attempt to clear the air failed, I wouldn’t have to see him for a whole nine days and by that stage we’d have moved on from this cringy awkwardness – wouldn’t we?
I’d do it at ten thirty, I promised myself – a reasonable time to get up and offer him a coffee. But then, inevitably, ten thirty came and I found myself sitting in my chair like I’d been glued there. Okay, ten forty-five, I told myself.
But at ten fifty (I know, I know), I heard a voice from the end desk.
‘Holy shit.’ It was Marco.
‘What’s up?’ asked Barney.
‘Bomb scare on the underground. It’s just come over the wires now. They’ve closed three lines and they’re evacuating Bond Street station.’
My first thought was of Amelie – Bond Street was her nearest Tube stop. But hopefully she was safely home, working on the seating plan for her wedding reception or something.
‘Good news for you mate,’ Neil commented. ‘I mean, bad news for anyone who’s going to get blown to smithereens in the blast, but it’ll make good copy, right?’
‘Steady on,’ Chiraag said.
I looked up. Opposite me, Ross was doing the opposite of blushing – in fact, he’d gone so pale he looked like a pistachio gelato.
‘It’s been a while since we had anything like this,’ Marco went on. ‘Hopefully it’s nothing.’
‘And you’ll be back to reporting on the much-vaunted benefits of Brexit,’ Simon said.
Ross didn’t say anything. He got up from his desk and walked away towards the toilets in a not-quite-straight line, like he’d poured whisky instead of milk on his morning muesli.
‘It’s a developing story.’ Marco’s eyes were fixed on his screen. ‘Maybe I should start a live blog?’
‘And then if it turned out to be a false alarm, we’d all look like right fannies,’ Neil said.
‘Greg’s in a meeting,’ Marco dithered. ‘Otherwise I’d ask him what he reckoned.’
‘I’d hold fire,’ said Chiraag. ‘See if other outlets are reporting it. There’s nothing on the Beeb yet.’
I checked my own screen. ‘The Daily Express is running with it. They’re saying there could be thousands of deaths.’
Barney laughed. ‘Too bad, Marco, you’ve been scooped already.’
‘Hang on,’ Marco said, ‘Apparently there’s going to be a statement from the Metropolitan Police in a couple of minutes.’
I glanced over my shoulder, wondering why Ross wasn’t here with the group, joining in the horror-tinged excitement that had livened up this otherwise ordinary morning. But I couldn’t see him.
Marco was leaning in towards his screen, as if by getting closer to it he’d have a better view. His hands were poised over his keyboard like a pianist about to embark on a particularly challenging concerto. Then all at once he relaxed, pulling off the headphones and leaning back in his chair.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Some idiot left a pallet full of – get this – frozen vegan burgers on the station concourse, and a passer-by alerted the peelers. Stand down, team.’
‘Pity,’ Neil remarked. ‘I was hoping we might all have been sent home early.’
‘I was hoping thousands of deaths would be averted,’ Chiraag said. ‘Guess what I’d rather have happen?’
Relief-fuelled, good-natured bickering broke out, but I didn’t stick around to listen to it.
I got up and walked towards the kitchen, in the direction Ross had gone. But the kitchen was empty. The gents’ toilet was closed, of course – not that there was any way I’d have gone in there to look for him.
Then the lift doors swished open and he emerged. He wasn’t greenish-pale any more, but I could see beads of sweat on his forehead and his shoulders were hunched like it was freezing outside instead of a balmy twenty-two degrees.
‘Hey, Ross.’ I stepped up him, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine,’ he muttered. ‘Just went out to get some air. I felt a bit weird there for a bit. What’s – has Marco heard anything more?’
‘It’s all fine,’ I said gently. ‘False alarm. Absolutely nothing to worry about.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’ I told him about the vegan burgers and he smiled, colour returning to his face.
‘Guess I’d better get back to work, then.’
Together, we set off back towards our desks, but as we passed the kitchen I stopped.
‘Ross?’ Now I could feel colour in my own cheeks – too much of it. That all-too-familiar blush was doing its thing.
‘Yo.’ He looked at me, and I saw the same thing happening to him.
‘Fancy a coffee?’
He glanced at his watch. It was still only ten to twelve.
‘Don’t worry, you’re safe,’ I teased, remembering his strict watershed policy. ‘So long as you drink it fast.’
He smiled. ‘Thanks, Lucy. That would be great. Reckon my sleep is safe if I have it now.’
‘I’m on it,’ I promised, and hurried to the kitchen, feeling my burning face gradually return to normal. I made a flat white for myself and a double espresso for him and returned to our desks, carefully gripping the two white china mugs by their handles. I put mine down on my desk, then walked all the way round and placed his carefully in front of him.
‘Thanks, Lucy,’ he said again.
I wanted to ask him again if he was okay, to try and reassure him that whatever he’d thought was going to happen, hadn’t, and that everything was normal. But I sensed he wouldn’t want me to – that whatever impulse had made him get up and leave when he had would also make him reluctant to talk any more about it, to expose himself to the risk of too-edgy banter from the rest of the team.
So I began, ‘Do you?—’
At exactly the same time, he said, ‘So do you?—’
We both stopped, our words colliding in mid-air. I felt the blush threatening to overwhelm me again and saw the tips of his ears turn bright pink.
I waved my hand in a ‘carry on’ gesture, and he said, ‘Do you have anything nice planned for the weekend?’
‘Not much. Feels like I need a quiet one after my sister’s hen do.’
I noticed his ears turning pinker and looked away, hoping he’d recover.
‘Did you have a good time?’ he asked, after what felt like so long I was worried my coffee would be cold.
‘It was great!’ I managed to sound enthusiastic. ‘Er… How about you?’
‘Yeah, it was a top night. I didn’t feel too good on Sunday.’
‘Me neither.’ Although that was mostly because I saw you kissing Bryony.
He smiled in what I guessed was intended to be a rueful fashion. ‘Guess you get to do it all over again at your sister’s wedding?’
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘I’m chief bridesmaid. I’ll have to be the responsible adult in case my sister ladders her tights or there’s some emergency like that.’
‘Hopefully there won’t be. I guess you’ll be able to tell me all about when I’m back from Croatia.’
‘I’ll show you the photos,’ I said. Then I smiled too, and returned to my coffee and my work.
There, I told myself proudly. You did it. You had a normal conversation like normal people and no one died. Strong work, Lucy.
But I didn’t feel especially proud of myself. All I could think of was that he was off on holiday and I wouldn’t see him, or laugh with him, or make him blush, for a whole two weeks.