Chapter Nineteen #3
“Jack Harper, many thanks for talking to us…” the interviewer starts saying. “Next week we’ll be chatting with the charismatic king of motivational videos, Ernie Powers. Meanwhile, many thanks again to…”
She finishes her spiel and the program’s music starts. Then someone leans forward and switches the television off.
For a few seconds the entire room is silent. Everyone is gaping at me, as though they’re expecting me to make a speech. Some faces are sympathetic, some are curious, some are gleeful, and some are just jeez-am-I-glad-I’m-not-you.
“But…but I don’t understand,” comes a voice from across the room, and everybody’s head swivels avidly toward Connor, like at a tennis match. He’s looking straight at me, his face red with confusion. “How does Jack Harper know so much about you?”
Oh, God. I know Connor got a really good degree from Manchester University and everything. But sometimes he is so slow on the uptake.
Everyone’s head has swiveled back toward me.
“I…” My whole body is prickling with embarrassment. “Because we…we…”
I can’t say it out loud. I just can’t.
But I don’t have to. Connor’s face is slowly turning different colors. “No,” he gulps. He looks as though he’s seen a ghost. And not just any old ghost. A really big ghost with clanky chains, going “Whooo!”
“No,” he says again. “No. I don’t believe it.”
“Connor,” says someone, putting a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off.
“Connor, I’m really sorry—” I falter.
“You’re joking!” exclaims some guy in the corner, who is obviously even slower than Connor and has just had it spelled out to him word for word. He looks up at me. “So, how long has this been going on?”
It’s like someone opened the floodgates. Suddenly everyone in the entire room starts pitching questions at me. I can’t hear myself think for the babble.
“Is that why he came to Britain? To see you?”
“Are you going to marry him?”
“You know, you don’t look like you weigh 135 pounds.”
“Do you really have a Barbie bedspread?”
“So, in the lesbian fantasy, was it just the two of you, or…”
“Have you had sex with Jack Harper at the office?”
“Is that why you dumped Connor?”
I can’t cope with this. I have to get out of here. Now.
Without looking at anyone, I get to my feet and stumble out of the room. As I head down the corridor, I’m too dazed to think of anything other than I must get my bag and go. Now.
As I enter the empty marketing department, phones are shrilly ringing all around, and the habit’s too ingrained; I can’t ignore them.
“Hello?” I say, picking up one at random.
“So!” comes Jemima’s furious voice. “ ‘She borrows designer shoes from her roommate and passes them off as her own.’ Whose shoes might those be, then? Lissy’s?”
“Look, Jemima, can I just…I’m sorry. I have to go.” I put the phone down.
No more phones. Get bag. Go.
As I zip up my bag with trembling hands, a couple of people have followed me into the office and are picking up some of the ringing phones.
“Emma, your granddad’s on the line,” says Artemis, putting her hand over the receiver. “Something about the night bus and he’ll never trust you again?”
“You have a call from Harveys Bristol Cream publicity department,” chimes in Caroline. “They want to know where they can send you a free case of sweet sherry.”
How did they get my name? How? Has the word spread already? Are the women on reception telling everybody?
“Emma, I have your dad here,” says Nick. “He says he needs to talk to you urgently.”
“I can’t,” I say numbly. “I can’t talk to anybody. I have to…I have to…”
I grab my jacket and practically run out of the office and down the corridor to the stairs. Everywhere, people are making their way back to their offices after watching the interview, and they all turn to gawk as I hurry by.
“Emma!” As I’m nearing the stairs, a woman named Fiona, whom I barely know, grabs me by the arm.
She weighs about 300 pounds and is always campaigning for bigger chairs and wider doorways.
“Never be ashamed of your body. Rejoice in it! The earth mother has given it to you! If you want to come to our workshops on Saturday…”
I tear my arm away and start clattering down the marble stairs. But as I reach the next floor, someone else grabs my arm.
“Hey, can you tell me which charity shops you go to?” It’s a girl I don’t even recognize. “Because you always look really well dressed to me.”
“I adore Barbie dolls, too!” Carol Finch from Accounts is suddenly in my path. “Shall we start a little club together, Emma?”
“I…I really have to go.”
I back away, then start running down the stairs. But people keep accosting me from all directions.
“I didn’t realize I was a lesbian till I was thirty-three.”
“A lot of people are confused about religion. This is a leaflet about our Bible study group—”
“Leave me alone!” I suddenly yell in anguish. “Everyone, just leave me alone!”
I sprint for the entrance, the voices following me, echoing on the marble floor. As I’m desperately pushing against the heavy glass doors, Dave the security guard saunters up and stares right at my breasts.
“They look all right to me, love,” he says encouragingly.
I finally get the door open, then run outside and down the road, not looking right or left. At last I come to a halt in a small pedestrian square. I sink down on a bench and bury my head in my hands.
I have never been so completely and utterly mortified in all my life.