Chapter 6
I spend the rest of the afternoon fantasizing about walking into Margaret’s office and resigning on the spot.
There are several scenarios that play out in my head.
In the first, I’m incredibly dignified. I walk through the door, looking her straight in the eye, and she just knows from the look on my face what I’m about to say.
“Becky . . . ,” she starts.
“Stop.” I put a hand out to stop her. “Don’t bother. Nothing you say will change my mind, I’m afraid.”
“But . . . Becky . . . I only promoted Jessica because you’re too important. I simply wanted to keep you by my side . . . But I see now that it was wrong of me. Of course you deserve a promotion. Look, I’ll create a senior management role . . .”
“Hush, Margaret,” I say. “It’s too late. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
In the next, she gets down on her knees and begs me to stay, but I remain unmoved.
In one, she demotes Jessica in front of everyone, and makes her recite “I never held a candle to Becky” while washing up my mug, but it’s still not enough to persuade me.
Then it takes a different turn. I scream at her, yelling that I’m the only person who knows exactly how she likes her tea.
I rip her favorite camel jacket from the coatrack and fling it out the window onto the street below, and then I run next door and tell everyone about the time she left her Slack open and I saw her call Mary from HR “a brainless potato.” In another, I pour milk all over her head.
At five, just before I’m about to leave, Margaret calls me into her office.
I’m so deep in daydreaming that actually walking toward her glass walls and immaculate desk feels surreal.
The time is now. Am I really going to do this?
I open her door. The camel coat glints at me from a corner. It would be so easy to grab it . . .
“Becky.” Margaret’s typing something on her computer and doesn’t look up. She’s very obviously avoiding eye contact. “The file you asked for is on my desk.”
Is that it?! Is that all she has to say? I’ve been here five years and she promoted Jessica above me, and she’s really not going to acknowledge it? I open my mouth. Words . . . forming . . .
But nothing comes out. I linger for a few seconds, staring at Margaret, but her eyes never leave her screen. I take the file and go.
When I exit the building, Max is waiting for me on the street. At the sight of him it’s like a plug is pulled inside me and all the stress starts draining away. So Margaret wants Jessica. Who cares?
We head to Scintilla, as usual. We still go there partly because they always have seats but mostly for the nostalgia. Hanging out in here always feels like being back in time, so it’s worth paying for the outrageously priced cocktails.
“I thought we’d established that hair of the dog doesn’t work for you, Becky,” Max says with a laugh as I order two dark and stormies. I grin.
No matter what time it is in Scintilla it’s always dark and there are always candles lit.
We settle in our corner, on a dark green velvet banquette.
There’s a stain on one of the seats from where I spilled a tray of cocktails all over a table of unsuspecting customers. Max and I still laugh about it.
“So, Becks, best birthday gift?” he opens as we sit down. “Mine, obviously?”
I smile. His BFI membership gift card was definitely my most thoughtful present.
“I don’t know.” I move my hands like scales. “BFI membership . . . tarot reading with Spellbound Sue . . .”
Max snorts. “Oh my God! Sara didn’t!”
“She did.”
“Please don’t join the armies of otherwise seemingly intelligent millennial women who believe in horoscopes. I don’t think we could remain friends if you started spouting about the romantic compatibility of Sun and Water signs.”
“Sun signs are just star signs. Water, Fire, Earth, Air are the . . .
You know what, never mind.” I can see Max giving me a look.
Definitely not mentioning that I downloaded Co-Star earlier. Or that, since Sara gave me the voucher, I’ve been increasingly curious about a tarot reading. I mean . . . it couldn’t make me feel any worse, could it?
“Becks.” Max clears his throat. “I have news.”
I’ve been playing innocent up until now, but suddenly I know I can’t hear him say the words. “Actually, I know,” I admit hurriedly. “Sara told me.”
Max looks up from his beer. “Oh. Fuck.” He leans back against the upholstery, looking me dead in the eye. “Sara ran into Fran at Point 22. I wanted to tell you first.”
“What? Sara’s not the first person you tell all your important life events to?” I joke, but it still hurts. The news itself and the fact I heard it last.
“No, Sara’s not.” He smiles, keeping on holding eye contact, and I know he means you are. Max finds it hard to articulate how much he cares about people, but he always says it nonverbally.
“Congratulations,” I say. I think I manage to sound sincere. When I wasn’t imagining throwing Margaret’s possessions out of a window today, I was practicing for this moment. “That’s . . . wow. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“What? What are you saying?!” Max puts his hand across his heart like I’ve shot him.
“I don’t know. Living with a girl. It’s very grown up.” I force a smile.
“We practically lived together.” Max shrugs and takes a sip of his beer.
I look away. “I guess . . .” I try to sound as if I’m recalling faded memories, even though I think about those times every day.
Sleeping in Max’s T-shirt. Borrowing his pants and socks when I ran out and eventually abducting his entire wardrobe.
Keeping orange Body Shop face cream in his grimy bathroom cabinet, that Max’s housemate once ate when he was high.
Max buying Coco Shreddies because he knew I liked them even though he’s morally opposed to Nestlé.
I briefly wonder if he thinks about those times too.
He does bring them up a lot . . . I quickly squash the rising hope in my chest. Be quiet, Desperate Becky.
He mentions stuff from the past because we’re mates.
If he still thought about me like that it would be too awkward to mention.
Like how you can sing along to your friends when a dramatic love song is playing but not look people you actually fancy in the eye.
“Was it OK with work, by the way?” I change the subject, not wanting to dwell on his future flatmate any longer than necessary. “Did you get in trouble for leaving?”
“Oh, it was fiiiiiine,” Max says, and then he changes the subject.
He’s trying to cover, but obviously it wasn’t fine.
This is why it doesn’t really matter that Max is bad at expressing his feelings; his actions speak louder.
My heart warms as I realize he got into shit at work for me and he doesn’t want me to feel bad about it.
We spend the rest of the evening plotting my revenge on Margaret, ranking Sara’s plays in order of weirdness, and debating whether or not Ted likes a pinkie in the bum.
I say not, but Max thinks he’s got that glint in his eye.
Somehow it gets to nine o’clock. I see the time and panic.
Shit. If I don’t get home soon there will be hell to pay.
Mum goes to bed at ten and she can’t sleep unless I’m back.
Max sees me looking at my phone in horror. “Gotta go?” He smiles.
I grimace. This is why I love hanging out with Max. I never have to feel ashamed of any of the crap things about my life. He just takes me as I am.
We hug goodbye. As I’m holding him I smell his aftershave and it’s like a million memories hit me at once.
I see myself sitting across from him on his blue bedspread, his Polaroids strewn all over the floor.
I feel logical and free and life is full of possibilities.
I’m rationally explaining that we obviously need to break up.
Surprise crosses his face. He tries to cover it, but I’ve blindsided him and he’s in pain. I want to scream at Past Becky.
Present Becky pulls away. The same eyes from all those years ago stare back at me.
“Max . . . ,” I begin. There’s so much to say that’s on the tip of my tongue.
“Becks . . . ,” he mimics. Silence hangs in the air as he waits for me to speak.
“See you soon.” I chicken out. What was I planning on saying anyway?
Don’t move in with Fran? Abandon your solid two-year (two-year?
??) relationship and get back together with me instead, a girl who coldly broke your heart a lifetime ago?
It’s exactly what I want to say, and something I would never say unless under the influence of sodium thiopental.
We break apart and head in opposite directions. On the way home, I stew about how everything around me is racing forward and I, Becky, have stayed entirely still since my early twenties. In fact, I’ve actually gone backward since then. I’m a minus adult.
I try to adjust to my new reality. There was a part of me that genuinely thought Max and I would end up together. A tiny, ridiculous, unjustified part of me, but a persistent part. I feel like an idiot.
In a weak moment, I get out my phone to message Angie and Dami.
Since I’ve been out with Max there are sixty unreads in our thread.
I open them up and start scrolling through the pictures of Dami’s new wine rack, Angie’s new workout routine, and close it again.
Angie and Damilola have lives. Real lives.
What am I supposed to say? Guys, Max is moving in with his girlfriend who he’s been with for two years and somehow I’m shocked by this . . . give me sympathy?!
Deep in rumination, I notice that my feet are taking me on a slight detour, and when my brain catches up to my body I realize that I’m not headed to the tube station. A few minutes later, I find myself approaching Spellbound.