After a few hours of
helping me unpack and slathering me in ‘good lucks’ for my new flat mate
situation, Becca and Connor leave and I am alone once again. Well, Melody is
here. But she doesn’t quite count. I think about calling Mum for about a
millisecond. Instead, I choose to laugh at myself for even considering it. I
have no idea where the liquor is stashed in this flat; how do I expect to
manage one of those phone calls? But my phone keeps plaguing me. It’s my first
night back in London and I know there are probably loads of people I should call
to say hello. Why can’t I think of anyone? I have friends. No one I
particularly want to call, but still, I have them.
I notice the red light
on my phone blinking. A voicemail! It’s embarrassing how excited I get over it.
It must be from the phone call I missed earlier, the one that sent Melody into
a very organized ear-pressing conniption over dancing dads and Russian brides.
I tap in the code and hold up the phone.
‘Hello, I am calling
for…mmm… Natasha Bernier...oh excuse me…Berrr-nee-ay’.
This is Beverly Stating at the Charles Hamilton Gallery of…Contemporary Art. No
need to ring me back, I’m just calling to…remind you that your first day with
us is this Monday, the day after tomorrow. We start at 9 a.m. sharp…mmm…that’s
it then…yes, goodbye.’
I stare at the phone as
if it has the answers. I can’t tell whether she is doing a poor job reading
from a script or if her brain actually needs those pauses to process the end of
her sentences. So Beverly Stating is to
be my new boss. And by the sound of it she was going to be…mmm…what’s the word…
Oh yeah. Fucking fantastic.
**
On Monday morning, I get
up early and make sure to go through all of the necessary preparations to
ensure I have a great first day of work.
1.
Properly coordinated business casual attire that
is cleaned and ironed and has no unknown holes, tears and/or stains in
inappropriate places. Check.
2.
Shoes with a small heel so my 5’8” body won’t
ogre over everyone else too obviously. Check.
3.
Knickers that will not leave visible lines or
distract me from work due to constantly wedging themselves inside my asshole.
Check.
4.
French braided hair to eliminate chances of
looking like Diana Ross should it decide to rain. Check.
5.
Two cups of coffee, one plain, one Irish for
good luck and sunny disposition. Check.
6.
Inside handbag: wallet, mobile, lip balm,
deodorant, tampons, keys. Check.
7.
Briefcase to insinuate professionalism and
importance. Inside: an empty file folder, pens and an emergency blouse in the
probable case I am spilled on (by me). Check.
8.
An intellectual novel to read…err
9.
A Cosmopolitan
to read. Check.
10.
Look through Melody Wetzel’s bookshelf and find
intellectual-sounding book called A
Cognitive Approach to Social Restrictions: OCD to put on desk and feign
impressive intelligence. Check.
Okay, all set.
I shut the door to my
bedroom and push an unpacked box in front of it hoping Melody will take it as a
‘do not disturb’ sign. God knows what she is capable of planting in there that
could eventually grow into an over-sized Venus Fly-trap and eat me in my sleep.
I wasn’t taking any chances.
After one final look at
my reflection in the window, I pat my briefcase proudly at how smart I look and
head out the door. ‘Nice and put together with a good head on her shoulders’
was what I was aiming for and I had definitely done well, if I do say so
myself. So far, the first day of my fresh start is looking good.
Once on the bus, I find
a seat near the back and pull the Cosmo
out of my bag, wondering what new fact I’m going to learn about my g-spot
today. Scanning the articles advertised
on the cover, my eyes land on the title ‘10
Signs That He’s Cheating’. What? How in the hell does Cosmo come up with ten entire signs that a man is cheating? When I
was being cheated on I had absolutely no idea whatsoever.
And I lived with the
guy.
At least now I have in
writing the ten things I should have seen if I wasn’t so busy being a moron.
Well, that doesn’t apply. David and I had fantastic sex up until the
very end. If I recall correctly, even the night before I woke up, blindsided,
to an apartment with only my things left in it, we had fantastic sex. Actually,
I’m sure of it because I had been wearing my lacy green thong the last night I
ever had sex with David. It was the thong I was wearing when I woke up to the
worst day of my life, as well as the thong that eventually got burned, along
with many other David Phillips memorabilia, in the bonfire I had in New York
with the two Chinese guys on my floor and their chemistry set.
Unless, of course, they’re talking about the
other kind of intimacy? The non-sexual kind. Considering the source though…no,
probably not.
2. Increase in work hours, office functions
or late nights.
David was the vice president of a
very prestigious P.R. company; he was always over-working. I hadn’t noticed any
particular increase in the amount of time he spent working because he just
always was. He was his work. Did that mean he had been cheating from the moment
I met him? Was I a whole new class of idiot? Or could it be possible that he
was actually working when he said he was?
3. He takes up a regular hobby that doesn’t
involve you.
Nope. No hobby. Just working.
Well, and cheating, of course.
4. You catch him telling white lies.
Unfortunately, I can’t
really claim to have caught him in any lies. Because I didn’t. Obviously I
wasn’t paying close enough attention. Either that, or I was too stupid to
investigate the things I should have been investigating. I make a mental note
to give my next boyfriend weekly email checks and urine testing.
Then I shut the Cosmo angrily without finishing it. What
a stupid article, anyway. All it did was confirm that I’m an idiot and David is
so good at being a piss-head that he didn’t leave any Cosmo signs of his infidelity. I hate David. Why is he so good at
everything? Even the art of piss-heading. He couldn’t just be a piss-head, could he? No. He had to be good at it, too.
Not wanting to poison
the positive prospects of my fresh start day any further, I hand the Cosmo to the primary school girls
sitting next me—no doubt brightening their day—and get off the bus at what I
hope is the right stop for those of us trying to find the location of our new
fantastic career:
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