Chapter Eighteen
‘I’m so grateful, Liz. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘No problem!’ I cried, hoping my voice sounded more cheery than fraught, or at least fifty-fifty.
I was on my knees in the beige-coloured bathroom belonging to Bill, my neighbour.
He lived directly above me, having taken over Marge’s old flat (Marge being Pebble’s previous ‘mother’).
I’d corrected his use of the name ‘Liz’ three times before just accepting he was never going to call me anything else.
He was a genteel, delicately mannered man of eighty-two, whose late partner had taken the lead in what he referred to as ‘maintenance issues’. His flat leaked water like a sieve.
He’d called me in a quavery voice that morning to let me know that the ‘er, lavatory’ was leaking and I was now attempting to stem the (mercifully slow) seep of water, which I was relieved to see was clean, with a mop, while speed dialling our usual plumber who was entered in my phone as ‘Sweary Jim’.
‘Hello?’ Jim said, in a deceptively cheery voice.
I attempted to explain the problem while Bill flapped his hands in the air by way of assistance.
‘All right – fuck! – sorry about that, just dealing with a faulty ballcock – you motherfucker – I’ll be there in about half an hour,’ he said.
I thanked him and rang off, calculating what that meant in Sweary Jim language. ‘He’ll be here in an hour or two,’ I told Bill. I piled another loose mop pad on top of the small pool. ‘Just keep wringing these out, it will be fine.’
‘Thank you so much, Liz,’ he said. ‘Is there any way you could just stay here until he arrives?’
Back downstairs, quite a while later, I had a missed Teams call from Sasha. I explained I’d been helping a neighbour with a leaky toilet, and she said ‘Why?’ in a voice that indicated I had lost my mind.
‘Let’s call it my good deed for the day,’ I said.
‘Okaaay. Anyway, the photos are through,’ she said.
It was the photo shoot for the Cali George interview, and the moment I opened the pictures I couldn’t suppress a groan.
Ajax and Esme were soft focus, bathed in gold light, both dressed in white.
They were draped over each other like footballer and WAG in the early 2000s.
The good thing was, it could now be read as ironic and retro rather than braggy.
As I looked at them, I received an email from Olly.
Dear Lizzy,
What do you think of the images?
Best, Olly.
So, it might have been me who had introduced a cooler tone to our frequent email exchanges, but it still looked odd to me.
Dear Olly,
A bit rich for my taste, but I am assuming the subjects are happy, in which case, I am.
Best wishes, Lizzy.
That was the current state of affairs with me and Olly. Nicely distant, nicely professional. Deeply unsatisfying.
As I started replying to my other emails, I heard the reassuring sound of Sweary Jim screaming obscenities at Bill’s toilet cistern.
Returning to work after two days at home, I felt surprisingly relaxed.
Bill’s toilet was no longer leaking, the Cali George interview was home and dry (even if we awaited publication), and I’d received a blue jar full of expensive, sweetly scented bath salts which were meant to ‘rebalance’ me, overnighted care of an online order by Sara.
I’d had long, hot baths on each evening working from home, and lying totally still, emptying my mind, had done wonders for my soul and my sleep.
And, most importantly, I had started to restore some of my own crumbling facade: I’d even managed to give myself a pedicure and a manicure and deep condition my curly (by which I mean frizzy) hair.
The space from being at work meant I could breathe a little.
When I left the flat, my brain had even slowed enough for me to be a tiny bit in the moment.
I noticed the glittering pavements spangled in frost, and the sight of a very perky robin who I saw as I walked across the churchyard on the way to the tube.
Although my commute had slightly put paid to my freshness (there’s nothing quite like sitting in a packed tube carriage in a winter coat), I arrived at The Hexagon feeling quite chilled, all things considered, head held high, immaculate, cheerful smile on my face.
That was, until I got to my desk, and stood, gazing at the many heart-shaped, foil-wrapped chocolates scattered across it, remembering the roses, feeling my heart sink.
‘Surprise!’
Sasha had temporarily marred her high-gloss, film star look by donning a pair of antennae on a headband, topped with hearts.
‘Not bloody Jack Dillane again,’ I said, carefully hanging up my (Nicole Farhi, care of Oxfam) coat. ‘First roses, now chocolates.’
‘What do you mean?’ She stood opposite me, looking bewildered, and I realised she hadn’t been in the office to witness Olly hurling Jack’s bouquet into a bin.
‘Just a ridiculous ex of mine.’ I sipped my coffee. ‘Sent me a shedload of roses not long ago, out of the blue.’
‘I know who Jack Dillane is,’ she said. ‘But that’s ancient history, isn’t it? Why would he send you flowers? These chocolates aren’t from him, by the way.’
I frowned. Had I really told Sasha about my relationship with Jack? Then it clicked. When I’d first come to EKArts we’d been at the tail end of our relationship, and he was always big on grand gestures, so she’d likely taken delivery of an elaborate bouquet or a bottle of champagne at some point.
‘No reason,’ I said. ‘Where did the chocolates come from?’
‘We all got them. They’re from Ajax and Esme.’
I raked them into my desk drawer, leaving one, which I picked up, peeling off its red foil.
Not exactly sustainable. B Corp status was feeling further away every minute.
The heart-shaped chocolate had an A she was usually at the head of any conga line. I watched her traipse back to her desk as I ate another chocolate, examining the stiff piece of card upon which the chocolates had been scattered.
Ajax & Esme, Esme & Ajax
invite you to
The Silent Disco
5pm in the covered courtyard
Relax, kick back, bond.
#lovealwayswins
I typed a message to Olly.
LIZZY: Did you know about the Silent Disco? #lovealwayswins #bleurgh
It blue ticked immediately.
Olly is typing
… typing
… typing
OLLY: No.
For a moment I wondered whether he might pop down from the upper floor, so we could joke about it.
A little light mockery to ease the grey mood I’d started the day with.
But, as hinted by his monosyllabic reply, it was to be an Olly-free day in my office.
Which was great, right? Good. Not dull at all.