Honeybee, page 10
‘Oh, no thanks. I got my first pay-cheque and thought I’d go into town to get some new clothes. The summer sales are on, I’m hoping to grab a bargain because paying rent sucks, doesn’t it?’
‘It all sucks, Renée. To think we spend our childhoods so desperate to grow up. Kids are idiots. You sure you want to choose new clothes over watching the slow drip of the bees’ hard work plop into a jar?’
‘Yes. You two have a romantic afternoon making sweet honey. It sounds like you could do with getting sticky together. Talk to him, Aunty Jo. You shouldn’t feel like this on your own.’
‘Hey, who is the grown-up here?’ she says, hugging me.
I have to admit, she does feel quite clammy.
All the good stuff in the sales has gone. The best thing I’ve found so far is a pair of dark green skinny trousers for £18 and a cute shirt with little tortoises on it for £9. The green of their shells matches the green of the trousers perfectly. It’s not your standard office wear, but I’m wearing it until someone tells me the office is no place for a tortoise motif. I’m desperate to express myself through my clothes, but the shops are rubbish if you have zero budget.
I remember there’s a posh new shop on the high street that sells women’s clothes. It’s surprisingly fashionable for Guernsey and way out of my price range, but there is a ‘30 per cent off’ sale on, so I go in anyway. A KOOKAÏ dress catches my eye. It’s strappy and short with a floral print. Not my usual style, but I’m bored to death of my normal style so I take it off the rail. The sale price is £30, which translates to almost three hours of sitting on reception. Three hours for one dress. And I have to save, or I’ll never get to London. Can I justify it if it’s for work? I could wear it with tights and a shirt over the top so it’s not too revealing, then if we go out after work I can take the shirt off and slide up and down the stripper’s pole in Follies looking sexy as hell. I take it into the changing room; it can’t hurt to just try it on. There are three cubicles, two are taken, so I go in the third. Just as I zip the dress up, I hear a familiar voice.
‘Oh my God, I love it. Quick, Gem, come see.’
There is a screeching sound of a curtain against a metal pole. And then another very familiar voice.
‘You have to get that. Look at your waist, you look teeny. It’s perfect for the rehearsal dinner.’
‘It really is,’ says the first familiar voice. It’s Carla. I suddenly don’t want to move in case they recognise the sound of me breathing. I went to school with Carla and Gem. They were sort of my best friends before I met Flo, but really I was just the third wheel in their friendship. They were inseparable. Lovely, but nauseatingly nice. I tried so hard to be in their gang, but looking back I don’t know why I wanted to be so much. We’re different kinds of people.
I turn quietly to look at my reflection. The dress looks nice, but my waist does not look tiny. I’m immediately catapulted back to the past, and how inferior I felt in their presence. They never did anything mean, but being around perfection when you are flawed is never good for the soul. I can’t afford this dress, I just want to get out of here. I pull the zip down and step out of it. But my foot gets caught and I trip. I fall through the curtain and land in front of Carla’s feet.
‘Renée? Oh my God, Renée!’ They squeal and jump, just as they did when we were teenagers. They’d make me feel so special, so happy to see me, and then they’d always go off together when they’d had enough.
I get myself to standing. I’m just wearing my bra and pants, my tummy feels so flabby. They’re still both so thin. I use my big personality to hide my insecurity.
‘Oh my God, Carla, Gem? What the hell?’
We all hug. My body slaps against their bony frames. I want to be confident, one of the girls, not care. But I do care, I care so much. I duck back into the changing room to put my top on. They would never have done that; they’d just stand there in their bra because they don’t know what belly fat feels like. Thank God we’re not friends any more, so I don’t have to feel like this every day.
‘We thought you’d moved to Spain?’ says Gem. She looks even thinner than she used to, gaunt, even. I heard she was on a £60k salary. If I earned that much, I’d be massive.
‘I did, but I’m back now. Flo and I have got a flat on Mill Street and we work at Magic Marketing.’
‘What? Wow. That’s so cool,’ Carla says, clearly stunned. ‘I know Magic Marketing, they’re a great company. They did a campaign for us when we were promoting the finance sector in schools. What brands are you on?’
‘What brands am I on?’ I ask, unsure of what she means.
‘Yeah, what accounts do you look after?’
‘Most of them. It’s not for long though, I’m just saving up some money because I’m moving to London to work as a writer.’
‘No way!’ says Gem, with very excited eyes. ‘That is so cool, we always knew you’d make it. Who will you be writing for, The Times? Oh my God, the Observer magazine?’
They both look at me with utter conviction, like they wouldn’t for a minute think I’d be capable of anything less.
‘Oh, I don’t know yet,’ I say, as confidently as I can. ‘I’ve had quite a few offers so I’m just back here getting together a deposit to buy a flat in London so I can go and pick the job.’
‘Wow, I’m so proud of you,’ Carla says. ‘Buying a property is no joke at our age, but look at us all. Who’d have thought we’d all do so well?’ She admires herself proudly in the mirror. I don’t understand how anyone who enjoys life can be skinny, do they just not eat chips?
‘Well, anyway. I’d better pay for this and go back to the flat,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a few articles to work on.’
‘Amazing to see you, Renée.’ They both step forward and hug me at the same time. It’s an awkward embrace between the three of us.
‘Great to see you both. Congrats on everything.’ I walk out of the changing room, but Carla comes running after me.
‘Hey Renée, wait! I wanted to tell you, I’m getting married.’
‘Oh Carla, that’s amazing, congrats!’ I pretend I don’t already know. ‘Wow, so cool. Married, wow, yay!’
‘Thanks. My fiancé Will is so great. His dad is CEO of a trust fund. They only moved here five years ago. He suits Guernsey so much you’d think he was from here, and luckily he never wants to leave. He’s blond, he surfs, he’ll probably take over the business one day. He’s …’
‘He’s perfect,’ Gemma says, finishing her best friend’s sentence just like she used to. They both look smitten with Will. I could throw up with jealousy.
‘Would you come to the hen do?’ Carla says, excited. ‘I’ll send you an invite. What’s your address? And Flo too, it would be so nice to have you both there. It’s a bus party, remember those? The wedding is at St Pierre Park Hotel, in December. I could definitely squeeze you and Flo in.’
I shout ‘Christ’ but manage to make it sound like a cough. That’s the only five-star hotel on the island – getting married there must cost a fortune.
‘Um, yeah, that would be lovely. Thanks. The address is 14c Mill Street. Honestly, I’m so happy for you. Honestly, I am. I really, really am.’
‘You’re still funny, Renée. You haven’t changed. See you there.’
They both disappear into the changing rooms to try on more nice things that will fit perfectly and cost a fortune. For a few seconds I just stare at the curtains. They act so grown-up, but it feels silly somehow. Don’t they feel awkward with their nice handbags, their credit cards and talk of marriage? Like they’re little girls playing dress-up, pretending to be ladies. How can they be so comfortable with those things when we were just kids five minutes ago? Or do some people just wake up one day all sorted? I feel like I’m being dialled in slowly. Like if I went full throttle into adulthood, I’d crash and die.
I hang the dress on a rail and stuff the tortoise shirt into my bag. No one wanted it anyway.
8
Renée
Flo left the house and ran back upstairs three times this morning. Each time pretending to have forgotten something when I know she was just stalling. I offered to make her a coffee but when she lifted her hand, it was shaking so much we both agreed that a hot drink, especially one with caffeine, probably wasn’t a good idea. In the end, I snatched her keys out of her hand and pushed her down the stairs just hard enough that she didn’t fall but had to go down. I swear I could see her chest moving, her heart was beating so fast.
Mrs Mangel obviously came out to see what all the noise was about. She said we ‘sounded like a herd of elephants going up and down the stairs’. That she was ‘trying to concentrate’, and she couldn’t ‘hear herself think’. What the hell does she have to concentrate on: the crossword? I stood and apologised while Flo faffed about. To be fair, Mrs Mangel was wearing another amazing outfit. A purple jumper with a high-waisted A-line skirt. A gold chain belt, navy tights and green Mary Janes. Her nails painted red, her hair neat. Where on earth does she go that it means she has to dress up like that?
Eventually, Flo builds up the courage to leave for work. ‘OK, let’s go. I mean, I have no choice, do I?’
‘You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about,’ I say as we walk towards Trinity Square, her nerves creating a force field so powerful that I wonder if I can catch her anxiety. When we reach the Magic Marketing office, Flo starts to visibly shake and hyperventilate. I feel bad for her, but she needs to get over it. I drag her into the toilets and give her a proper talking-to.
‘Flo, as far as we know, Phil didn’t see anything, and you didn’t even kiss. What about me? Matt went down on me, and I fell asleep, I should be the embarrassed one. Get over yourself. Life is to be enjoyed. We are in our twenties, we are single, occasionally men see our vaginas, it is not the end of the world. Own it, like the adult that you are.’
‘Aren’t you embarrassed? Nervous to see Matt?’ she says, panting.
‘No. I mean, I kind of wish I hadn’t gone that far with him because he wasn’t very good at it, but I’m not embarrassed for getting drunk and getting it on with someone. He might be embarrassed. Well, he should be. He’d have woken up naked and alone in our living room. If anyone should be dreading work today, it’s Matt, not you. OK?’
‘OK,’ she says, unconvincingly. She knows she has no choice but to walk into the office, no matter how much she wants to run away. When we get in, Matt is sitting in reception reading a newspaper. It’s Friday’s paper, I haven’t laid out today’s yet. He’s blatantly waiting for me. The way men and women handle the day after the night before is wild.
‘Morning,’ he says, jumping up. Flo slams her eyes to the floor and runs off like a frightened penguin into the office. At least she’s in.
‘Morning,’ I say, smiling politely and getting quickly behind my desk. I don’t fancy him, I don’t want a repeat performance, but I’ll try not to be mean because this is work.
‘You went to bed,’ he says, obviously full of further questions.
‘You passed out,’ I say, stating a fact.
‘Honey, you could have woken me up.’
I buckle at being called honey, why is that so annoying? Does he call all women honey? Or did he just claim me as his honey? Either way, I hate it. And why am I responsible for everyone passing out now? First Flo, then Matt. What the hell is this?
‘I tried, but you were out cold.’ This is a lie; as soon as I saw that he was asleep, I pegged it up to bed and locked the door, presuming he’d wake up and sort himself out.
‘OK, well, Friday was fun. Maybe we can meet up at lunch?’ He raises his eyebrows repeatedly while staring me directly in the eye. I think that means he wants to get it on at lunchtime?
I don’t.
I offer a forced smile but say nothing. I don’t want to have to dump someone I got off with when I was drunk. I just won’t reciprocate any flirting; he’ll get the message. I’m saved by the phone ringing. Luckily, it’s for Matt. I gesture that he should hurry back to his desk to take it, and he does. Flo immediately enters and begins whispering in a highly paranoid way, ‘He isn’t here, do you think he quit because of me?’
‘Who?’
‘’ill,’ she says, mouth barely moving, as if no one will know who ‘’ill’ is if they overhear.
‘He’s probably just late,’ I say. ‘Go back to your desk. Google “fluffy kittens”, stop worrying.’ She puts her tail back between her legs and disappears into the office.
Chloe arrives, her usual uptight self, looking incredible in a mini dungaree dress and a white blouse with a large collar and lots of bangles, the playfulness of her outfit not reflecting her personality at all. She makes her way past me, managing to muster a Mona Lisa-style smile.
Next, I see Ben coming out of the lift. He’s holding his phone, frowning, clearly having a difficult conversation with someone via text. Maybe a client has pulled out of a deal, or Jordan is being difficult as I imagine he often is from my short interactions with him on the phone. Ben looks stressed, and unusually tired. He puts his phone in his pocket and stands for a moment, rubbing his head with his hands. I could be imagining it, but I swear he wipes away a tear. He notices me watching him, and I quickly pretend to look away but it’s too late, I was clearly staring. He comes through the door after a quick and deliberate change of mood.
‘Morning, Renée,’ he says, with fake cheer.
‘Good morning, Ben, all OK?’
‘Of course. Everything’s fine. The sun is shining, and I got the last almond croissant at the coffee shop. What more does a man need?’
He’s joking, of course. But I want to suggest that maybe he needs the sweet loving of his hot new receptionist to really top off his day.
‘You’re nailing life, Ben. Look at you!’
We smile at each other. Our eyes linger a fraction longer than what would be normal. He knows I know he’s not OK, having seen him in the hallway, but of course there is no need for him to share anything with me. He heads toward his desk, then turns back quickly.
‘Oh, Renée.’ I stand up, which is weird. ‘I’ve got a meeting here with some of the London team at one p.m.’
‘Yes, I saw that in the diary,’ I say, like a brilliant receptionist.
‘Can we get lunch in, something nice? I was thinking sushi. From that new little Japanese place in the market.’
‘Sushi, on Guernsey? Are you sure?’
‘I know, mad right. Sushi and a black man, it’s like a boat from the rest of the world actually made it to the island.’ I laugh, but I’m not sure if it’s OK to laugh. I wonder what it’s been like for Ben here. He seems very happy, so I hope people have been kind and welcoming. I’m not sure how you could be anything but kind and welcoming to Ben. He’s so wonderful it’s overwhelming.
‘Do you mind ordering and picking it up? I don’t trust sushi delivery. Last time we got it, half the fish had come off the rice.’
‘Of course, what’s it called? I’ll do it now,’ I say, reaching for a file that’s full of local menus. When I find it, he obviously notices the worry on my face as I read the menu.
‘Oh God, what? You’ve eaten there? Was it awful?’
‘No. Um …’ I just have to tell him. ‘I’ve never eaten sushi. I have no idea what any of this means.’
He laughs – nicely, not patronisingly – and comes behind my desk. He very innocently leans over my shoulder and looks at the menu. I want to lick him. I bet he tastes as good as he smells. I feel a swirling in my knickers. A heavy thud as moisture gathers, ready to receive him.
‘Salmon rolls, tuna sashimi, California rolls,’ he says, among other jargon that I don’t understand. He’s so close to me that the smell of his aftershave wafts up my nose. It’s gentle, citrus. He smells so clean. ‘Basically ten from that menu, four from that menu, some edamame and a couple of miso soups should be plenty. If you phone and order, you can pay when you pick up at 12.15. That’s enough time to get the meeting room set up but it will still be nice and fresh. Thanks Renée.’
‘No worries, Ben,’ I say, inhaling his smell as he walks away. Lost in a sensory fantasy, I nearly leap a thousand feet in the air when Flo appears in front of me again, looking like someone who just got mugged.
‘Have you seen him yet?’ she says. ‘Has he quit?’ She means Phil.
‘Flo, he’s at a meeting. It’s in the diary. He’ll be back after lunch, which gives you plenty of time to pull your shit together.’ It’s weird that she hasn’t even looked at the diary. She’s usually so on it with who is where.
‘What did Matt say? Was he laughing about me?’
‘Flo, all Matt can think about is my fanny. He didn’t even mention you, so stop it. Let’s go out for lunch, we can get sushi?’ I suggest, aware she’ll need to get out of here for a bit for a breather.
‘Sushi, on Guernsey?’
‘I know right?’
‘I can’t,’ she says, abruptly. ‘I better stay here, wait for Phil.’
And off she goes again. I google ‘fluffy kittens’ and send her the link. If there was ever a need for cat therapy, I think it’s now.
A lady yells ‘MAGIC MARKETTIIIING’ across the market, and plops two huge plastic platters with clear lids onto a table. I’m the only person waiting for takeaway, so the volume of her screech was completely unnecessary. The ‘market’ is inside a huge building at the tail end of town. There are lots of stalls selling everything from local jams to giant marrows. The new sushi stall is tiny with a little table in front of it. The smell of raw fish does not make me want to eat it. I pay with the money from the petty-cash tin and take the boxes outside. Walking back to the office, I peer into the sushi. Is that it? Lumps of raw fish on white rice? What’s all the fuss about?
I manage to get all the way into the lift without a single piece of fish falling off the rice, which I’m pretty pleased about. As the doors are closing, a huge hand appears between them making me jump. I make a really embarrassing screech and the two trays start tumbling towards the floor.
