Honeybee, page 12
She doesn’t look up.
‘I like my lettuce to be very clean,’ she says. ‘I can’t stand it when there are little bits of dirt in salads.’
‘OK,’ I say, picking up four leaves from the chair, putting them on the table and sitting down. ‘Flo, are you all right?’
‘Absolutely fine, why?’
‘I just didn’t realise you loved lettuce this much. I saw you and Phil talking today …’ She doesn’t seem to hear me, or maybe she just doesn’t want to.
‘It’s Dad’s birthday tomorrow. He’d have been forty-seven.’
Ah, I see what’s happening.
‘Flo?’
‘Yes?’
‘What do you need?’
‘Can you blot the lettuce leaves on the table, please. If we don’t get all the water off, they’ll go soggy.’
I pour myself a glass of wine and start to dry the lettuce leaves with a piece of kitchen paper. Because that is what friends do.
9
Flo
Your birthday is still your birthday after you’ve died. It’s still the day you came into this world. It’s still a day that should be celebrated by those you leave behind. Or so I think, anyway. The anniversary of someone’s death is grim. It’s like reliving the day itself. But their birthday, that’s a day when you can celebrate that they were ever here at all.
Every year I do something special on Dad’s birthday. Last year I got the train from Nottingham to London. I visited Big Ben at 2.03 p.m., the time he was born. He’d never been to London, and always said he’d wanted to go. I took a picture of myself with the clock way up in the sky behind me. I got the picture printed and brought it to Guernsey last summer, where I pushed the photo into a glass bottle and sent it out to sea to be with his ashes. I went back to the beach every day to see if the bottle came back. It didn’t, which I took as a sign he’d found it and was keeping it with him wherever it was he’d gone.
Mum still lives in the house she lived in with Dad before they split up. Whether she likes it or not, many of my happiest memories of him are in that house. From BBQs in the garden and the paddling pool he always set up for me, to Christmases by the tree. My favourite picture of me and Dad was taken at the dining table. In it we’re both laughing because he’d hidden a fake spider in my scrambled eggs and, when I found it, it made me jump so badly. It’s such a joyful picture. My brother Julian took it, apparently. Mum was pregnant with Abi at the time and sitting next to me. She’s laughing too. It’s a rare piece of evidence that we were once a happy family. It’s because of that photo that I find myself getting the bus over to my mum’s house on my lunch break, wondering if enough time has passed for us to at least acknowledge that there was love once.
I text Mum on the way: Maybe we could do something nice for Dad’s birthday today? Something just us? I’m on my way over now x
‘Mum?’ I say, pushing open the front door slowly. ‘Abi?’ Even though this has been my home for most of my life, I feel uncomfortable using my key. ‘Mum, are you home?’ The lights are on, and Island FM is blaring from the kitchen, but no sign of her or my sister. It’s the school holidays so maybe Abi’s at a friend’s house today. I head up the stairs and when I get to the landing, I hear that the TV is on in Mum’s room.
‘Mum?’ I say, knocking gently on her door. I push it open ever so slightly. ‘Mum, I’ve come round to get …’
There’s a man sitting up in the bed with the covers pulled up to his waist and no top on. He’s pointing the remote at the TV like this is his bedroom and his house. He’s on Dad’s side of the bed. We stare at each other, the sound of the shower seemingly getting louder and louder as the room closes in on me. I can hear my mother singing in the bathroom. The horrible ear-splitting sound of her joyfulness makes me want to throw up. ‘It’s my dad’s birthday,’ I say, wanting to pounce and punch this stranger. He pulls the covers up a little higher, then awkwardly says, ‘Well, Happy Birthday to him.’
He doesn’t even know.
I pull the door shut and run down the stairs, out the front door, and as far down the street as I can manage before my lungs can’t take it any more. I stand bent double, hacking as I try to cough up the rat. How could she do that, today of all days? Why couldn’t she have called me first thing, or sent me a text? Just something to mark the day, some indicator that my pain matters to her. But nothing. Instead she only thought of herself, like she always has and always will.
I don’t even remember the walk, I’m just suddenly here: outside the house where Dad died. He’d separated from Mum a while before. It was a horrible little house. Run-down and depressing. And now it’s painted white and has a bright pink door. There are rose bushes and window boxes and the lawn is freshly cut. Someone has worked hard on this sad house and made it a happy one. I wonder if everything that is sad can be made happy. I hope so.
The last time I ever saw Dad was inside this house. I said goodbye one morning and off I went to school, never imagining the horrible news I’d receive just hours later. This house is precious to me, it makes no sense at all that it isn’t mine. Do the new owners even know what happened to my dad on their front lawn?
I stare at the garden, a tiny patch of grass that is having the most made of it. I walk over and slump to my knees on the spot where he was apparently found. The air is loud from the sound of bees humming, the sun is shining. The smell of roses wafts over me and the emotion I’ve kept bottled for so long starts to well up. ‘Happy Birthday, Dad,’ I say to the beautiful summer’s day. ‘The sun came out for you.’
‘Can I help you?’ a voice says behind me. I turn to see a pretty woman with a baby on her hip. ‘Are you OK?’
I don’t know what comes over me, but I can’t pretend to be OK for this stranger. ‘My dad died,’ I tell her, staying on my knees and putting my hands on the ground to feel it. ‘He died right here, did you know?’
She looks over each shoulder, as if what I said frightened her in some way. But then rather than telling me to leave, she kneels down, she puts her baby on the grass and he smiles. He thinks we are playing.
‘I did hear that the previous tenant had passed away,’ she says, gently. ‘So he was your father?’
‘Yes. And it’s his birthday today. I’m not mental, I promise,’ I tell her, realising how this may look.
‘I don’t think you’re mental. What’s your name?’
‘Flo.’
‘Hi Flo, I’m Annabel. This is Isaac. Say hello to Flo, Isaac.’ Isaac looks at me and waits for me to do something silly. I put my thumb on the end of my nose, wiggle my fingers and stick my tongue out. He giggles.
‘I’m sorry I’m here, it’s not fair. I just … I needed to feel close to him and this is where he … but it’s not fair on you, I’m sorry.’ I get up and brush grass off from my clothes. ‘I’m sorry, I hope you’re really happy in this house. I’m sorry I came.’ I walk away.
‘Flo, why don’t you come inside? I’ll make you a cup of tea. You can tell me about your dad? Come in.’ I wonder if I should, but I’m not sure I’m made of strong enough stuff to walk into that house, memories of Dad still lingering in the air.
‘I can’t, but thank you,’ I say as I walk away, a feeling of despondency leaving my body. The emotion is there, writhing away, but it feels lighter for the moment. It’s amazing how kindness from one person can dissolve the cruelty of another. A smile forms across my face as I walk back down the road. Dad sent Annabel to cheer me up, I’m sure of it. ‘Thanks Dad,’ I say, looking at the sky. ‘Happy Birthday to you.’
10
Renée
Flo is passive-aggressively reorganising the newspapers in reception because I forgot to do it this morning. ‘Can you put those in the recycling, please,’ she says, flopping yesterday’s news onto my desk. Ben enters reception and I feel inclined to say something impressive.
‘Funny, isn’t it? All that effort to create these papers and then after one day we throw them out, like what happened yesterday doesn’t matter any more.’ I stare wistfully at the Guardian front page. ‘Did it even happen if you didn’t read about it?’
Flo looks at me and mouths ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Ben says nothing for a while, which makes me think I should probably listen to Flo.
‘How profound,’ he says eventually. ‘I like it. Does it even happen if no one knows about it? What a question.’
‘Right?’ I say, making a ‘Fuck you back’ face at Flo, who rolls her eyes. ‘I want to be a writer, but I think books, not journalism. Words that will last forever, not just get tossed away.’
‘Well, you clearly have a way with words,’ Ben says, looking at me with admiration. Flo stares at us, as if she can’t believe he is responding to my nonsense. I smile at Ben, he smiles back. We hang there for a moment, admiring each other. Neither of us looks at Flo.
‘Do you know what, Renée – and please say no if you don’t want to. I need some copy written for a new campaign for the Island Cheese account. Would you be interested in giving it a go?’ he says, looking at me enthusiastically, which makes me feel amazing.
‘WHAT?’ Flo shouts, terrifying us both. She never raises her voice in the office. ‘Sorry, I mean, pardon?’
‘Well,’ he says, smiling. ‘Renée mentioned she would like to write, and usually I’d get a copywriter in. But I wondered if maybe you’d like to try?’
I stand up, I must look like I’ve just won an Oscar. ‘Really? Me?’ I say in a breathy voice.
Flo, meanwhile, is just staring at Ben with her mouth open.
‘I mean, it’s no book deal,’ he says. ‘But if you think you can make cheese sound interesting, then I’m happy for you to try?’
‘I’d love to. I mean, I love cheese. Cheesus Christ, I love cheese.’
Ben laughs. ‘Great,’ he says, collecting himself. ‘Island Cheese are looking to tap into the teenage market. Promoting it as a healthy snack as opposed to all the junk food teens are eating these days. I can email you a full brief for the campaign now I know you’re open to it.’
‘Oh, I’m open. I’m wide open.’ I sit down, regretting being wide open.
‘Please CC me so I can make sure I’m across it,’ Flo says sharply, acting like she’s the boss and we’re the kids who need to be kept in line. I know she must be wondering what the hell’s going on.
‘OK, Flo, sure.’ Ben nods at her and goes back to his desk.
‘Weren’t you going somewhere?’ I say to Flo, nodding at the bag on her shoulder. She tries to catch my eye, but I can’t quite look at her. ‘Flo, stop staring at me. I have to work.’
‘I thought you found the idea of marketing cheese funny?’ she says, sarcastically.
‘I get it now. Sorry I laughed before. Are you done? I’ve got a lot to do.’ I pick up a few blank pages of paper and shuffle them like a secretary. I lay them down and write ‘ISLAND CHEESE COPY’ at the top and underline it three times. ‘Flo, what?’
‘Nothing,’ she says, spinning on her heel, clearly disgruntled. ‘Cheese it up, cheese face.’
Cheese, it will have you on your knees. Cheese please. Cheese means … Eat cheese, please
Wow, it’s really hard to make cheese sound cool. I have about fifty Post-it notes stuck to the inside of my desk with scribbles on them. I can’t believe Ben asked me to do this. It’s so stressful having this much responsibility. Is this how adults who have important jobs feel every day? There was something so nice about just being a receptionist. Since mastering the phones, everything else has been a breeze. Now, it’s so much pressure. At least Ben comes to chat to me more now, which always lets some of the steam off. I’m sure he fancies me, or I could be imagining that. But yesterday, he even ate his lunch in reception while he read the paper. He kept sparking conversation with me about various news stories. I’m not that great on politics, so I did a lot of nodding, but at one point he read an article about a cat that barks like a dog. We both did impressions of what that might sound like, which was a pretty unguarded thing for a boss to do with his receptionist. We just get on really well, it’s not my fault. And now he’s asked me to write a slogan for him, he must fancy me. Or maybe he just believes in me. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.
I have a theory about his wife. I think she has bipolar disorder. He said it was complicated, that she isn’t dying, and that they will get through it. My dad had a bipolar friend in Spain, his wife left him last year because he was so hard to live with. So I imagine it must be really, really hard for Ben. And he probably isn’t very happy. It’s not like he has the perfect marriage. Is it cheating when you’re not in a happy relationship? Not that he is cheating. Other than in my head. All day long. It’s really hard to focus on the cheese.
‘Renée, any idea where Flo is?’ says Chloe, making me jump as she approaches my desk. I’m sure she’s putting on weight, it suits her. She looks overdressed in a sheer floral blouse with enormous puffed sleeves and a neat navy pencil skirt. She has on a selection of statement bracelets and some silver hoop earrings. It’s everything I want to look like, but can’t afford. Also, she has a little booger. This makes me smile. I wonder what kind of women she sleeps with. I can’t imagine her having sex, but weirdly in my head she looks way better with a woman than a man. I don’t know why I imagine everyone having sex the way that I do. Always been the same.
‘Yes, she’s just popped out,’ I say, realising I have no idea where Flo has gone. ‘Can I help?’
‘She was processing an account for me. It’s a small file, yellow. Have you seen it, or do you have any idea where it is? I need it for a call in five minutes?’
‘Oh, let me have a look on her desk.’ I get up and hurry to Flo’s desk. I’m aware Ben can see me from his office, so I hold my tummy in and stick my bum out a bit. Chloe is standing on the other side with her arms crossed. She’s trying to be nice, but she’s obviously pissed off that Flo hasn’t given it back to her and feeling very impatient. Her left foot is doing a gentle tap on the floor. I sift through all the files on Flo’s desk but don’t see it. I open her bottom drawer, nothing. The middle drawer, nothing. Feeling the heat from Chloe’s impatience, I hope the file is in the top drawer. I open it, then slam it shut immediately.
‘It’s not here,’ I say to Chloe. ‘I’ve looked everywhere. She must have taken it with her.’
Chloe huffs like a bitchy schoolgirl and stomps back to her desk. I stand still, my heart beating too fast. Slowly, and gently, I pull open the drawer one more time. I hadn’t imagined it. There are five empty miniature bottles of Gordon’s gin at Flo’s desk. What the hell?
‘I’m back,’ says Flo half an hour later. She walks out of the lift carrying seven packets of copier paper. She has her rucksack on her back and is struggling to see where she’s going.
‘Flo, why didn’t you tell me we’d run out of paper, I’d have come down to help you?’ I say, taking three of the packs and following her to her desk. ‘Chloe was looking for a file just now. A yellow one?’
‘Shit!’ she says, putting the rest of the paper on the reception desk and rummaging in her rucksack. She pulls out a yellow file and looks nervously at Chloe’s desk. Chloe is on the phone. Flo rushes over, tripping a little but catching herself. She puts the file in front of her. Chloe hardly even looks up.
‘So, there’s a team meeting at two thirty. Shall I set up the meeting room?’ I ask Flo when she comes back.
‘I’ll do it,’ she says, walking towards the photocopier. I watch as she puts some new paper in. ‘What, Renée? Why are you watching me?’
I look around the office; everyone is concentrating on their work and not taking any notice of us. Apart from Matt, who is looking at me like a bull that’s about to charge. Surely, he’ll get the message soon? It’s like being stuck in a room with a dog that won’t stop humping your leg, he’s on a relentless pursuit of sex.
I pull Flo into the kitchen. ‘Look Flo, when you were out, I …’ Matt comes in and starts making a cup of coffee. I’m standing in front of the sink, and he puts both hands on my hips to move me out of the way. ‘Excuse me, honey.’ It makes me recoil, but I don’t say anything, I need to remain focused. If I don’t respond, he’ll just go away. Eventually, after adding milk, then sugar, then deciding he needs a different mug, he leaves the kitchen. All the while Flo is gathering various crockery items and putting them on a tray.
‘Flo, when you were out I …’
‘Can you fill the jug up with milk, please,’ she says, oblivious to my concerns.
I do as she asks and try again. ‘So, when I was looking for Chloe’s file I found …’
‘It’s so lovely outside,’ she says, smiling. ‘Town is so pretty in the sunshine.’
‘You took ages, I thought you were just going to the Press Shop to get paper?’ I just got a whiff of her breath, did I smell booze? ‘Flo, we need to talk. I was at your desk and I found—’
‘Renée, come on, the meeting starts soon and we—’
I stand in her way, pulling my face into an expression that says I have a problem and we need to talk. ‘Flo, you’re acting really weird. I know things have been really shit with your dad’s birthday and everything, but what the fuck is going on?’ I block the exit so she can’t get out.
‘Move out of my way,’ she says, forcibly. I don’t know what is happening, but I know I can’t move until she has acknowledged my question.
‘Flo, what is going on with you?’ I say, firmly. ‘This isn’t like you.’
‘Get OUT of my way,’ she says, her face turning red. She is holding a loaded tray of china cups and a jug of milk.
‘No, not until you tell me why you have empty bottles of gin in your drawer. Are you drinking gin at work?’ I whisper.
I see a lump in her throat as she tries to swallow it down. ‘I’ll count to three and if you haven’t moved I’ll—’
‘Flo, you don’t need to—’
