16. The Inner-Goddess of Teeth and Wisdom

I decide to temporarily hold off on the war that I’m planning to wage upon Mum and Dad over their invasion of my Bird-Ladies. Frankly, I can only deal with one battle per visit, and I’m still tired from the Battle of Pretend Vuitton.

Instead, I go home and spend the next two days being a nervous wreck, getting up an hour early, in order to properly overanalyze my hair and makeup and faux-nonchalant-attitude, without being late for work. It’s all very stupid behavior considering I’m not supposed to give a damn about David Phillips in my brand-new-fabulous-life, and I’m sort of acting like I do.

But then again, David Phillips wasn’t supposed to be an actual physical presence in my brand-new-fabulous-life. The contract between my new life and I was a two-way deal: I was going to expand the professional Non-Carer side of myself to include anything to do with David Phillips or my old life, and my new life was going to bring on the fabulousness. It has to know how utterly un-fabulous it is having to spend the majority of the day in the same building as David and his Polo Ralph Lauren cologne, so I’m not really sure how much I can be blamed for my failure to uphold my end of the deal.

On Wednesday afternoon, I sit at my desk and try to convince myself that I’m not having a nervous breakdown. I do this by verbally communicating to Patrice all of the ways that I don’t care about David being here, and in exchange for his listening, I allow him to paint my nails ‘Sassy Spearmint Green’ behind an upright file folder, positioned to block our nail art session from the view of Beverly. It is during this session that we all receive an email invitation for a night of champagne and canapés at The Dorchester, in celebration of the new official partnership between the Charles Hamilton Gallery and the Mauffer-Lynne P.R. Firm. This is followed, minutes later, by an email from Beverly to the entire staff, encouraging us to do our very best to attend. In other words, unless we’re in a coma, we better make an appearance unless we want to be stuck doing the art gallery equivalent of tile alphabetizing at a Scrabble warehouse. Little does she know that, personally, I would much rather organize the tiles in a hundred Scrabble warehouses than attend an event to which David will almost certainly bring Abigail Bloom.

‘We’re going,’ Patrice says when he sees me reading the email, ‘you know why? Because it’s on Saturday, and your welcome-home party is on Friday. That means you will have an entire twenty-four hours to make the fitness guy your date.’

I roll my eyes. ‘I’m not going to ask a guy to be my date to some fancy work event on the first night I meet him. Especially when it’s the next day.’

‘And why not?’ Patrice asks, looking me up and down.

‘Because that’s what crazy people do,’ I say.

‘And…?’

‘And I’m not crazy!’ I cry, probably while my eye twitches and my head does a 360 degree turn.

**

By the time Friday arrives, I feel confident that I have mentally prepared for all of the potentially awful situations that could occur upon being reunited with my long-lost friends and family.

At some point, I will spill on myself—that’s a given—and I will almost certainly lose track of my alcohol intake until after it’s too late.

Someone could have a heart attack.

I could have a heart attack. I could get diarrhea. I could hit someone’s car…with my body, since I don’t have a car. I could accidentally cut someone’s ponytail off. I could choke on a cheese cube until it is thrust back up my esophagus and propelled back into the world, most likely, into someone’s champagne glass at the very moment they are raising it for a toast. And then there is Mum’s inevitable temper tantrum that, naturally, I will be stuck dealing with.

Then there’s Arthur Macxis, who will probably bring his pack of stoner goons. They will be the ones to set off a chain reaction that will ultimately come to bite me in the ass. First, he’s going to shut himself in the toilets and light up a dubie. There is no doubt about that. This will then cause the toilets to be locked which will eventually be a problem for me, considering the amount of alcohol I plan to drink. So, due to the unfortunate circumstance of the toilets being permanently occupied, I will have to resort to taking a wee round the back of the pub in a bush, where, with my luck, I will be caught on video camera and the video will then be played for the entire party as a bit of “harmless humor.”  Then, Thomas Davison will never sleep with me and David will find out that I never slept with him to begin with. And all of this will happen because I am ridiculous.

I could probably avoid all of these potential disasters if I just disappear for the whole night and then give the excuse that I had been thrown into the back of a van on the way there and found myself in Hyde Park the next morning. It could happen.

Actually, that wouldn’t solve anything. I need Thomas Davison to be my boyfriend by Saturday. And considering I have to meet him first, I feel like I’m already cutting it a bit tight, timing-wise. I wish 24-hour love potions existed. Well, I guess they do, and we just call it Tequila.

At work, Patrice insists that we absolutely must go shopping for new clothes because, apparently, it’s bad luck to wear something you already own to an event where the primary goal is to get someone new to sleep with you. ‘Something new for someone new!’ he tells me brightly. Then, he marches over to Beverly and tells her that he’s getting his wisdom teeth removed and will need me to go with him to help him get home afterwards, since the anesthetic will have made him too groggy to cope with life alone.

Beverly’s eyes narrow in on him suspiciously. ‘Don’t wisdom teeth removals have a recovery period of at least a week?’ she asks.

‘Yes, well, I meant wisdom tooth; I could only afford to have one removed,’ Patrice sighs, ‘That cuts my recovery time down by a fourth. Plus, I’ve always been incredibly good about nurturing my inner-goddess, so my body rejuvenates itself quicker than most. I should be all better by tomorrow’s event.’

This wipes any and all concern from Beverly’s face and she says, ‘Oh, well, in that case, excellent! Good luck with your tooth!’ Then she returns her attention to her computer as though we were never there.

‘Can you believe that?’ Patrice hisses as soon as we’re out of ear range.

‘I know…how could anyone believe that story? It was terrible.’

‘Not that,’ says Patrice, waving his hand, ‘I cannot believe she didn’t offer me a raise so I could afford to get all of my wisdom teeth removed! For all she knows, they could all be infected with gangrene and without immediate removal…I could die!’

‘I don’t think that’s how wisdom teeth work,’ I say.

‘Well she didn’t even ask!’ he cries, snatching his handbag off the desk and making a show out of his exit by flinging himself through the door like he’s just been the victim of domestic abuse. This dramatic fluster continues all the way to the shopping centre but is abruptly forgotten as soon as we walk through the doors of River Island.

However, while Patrice is in his happy place, I am in a place of inner turmoil due to the narrowness of walking space between each row of clothes. It’s like driving on back country roads, where, if you find yourself a victim of a grievous fate and meet a car going in the opposite direction of you, the process of passing each other becomes an automobile’s act of Cirque du Soleil, and usually results with one car going up onto the side wall until it is, more or less, hanging vertically like Spiderman. Even worse than this, is coming across a big van or truck going in the opposite direction of you. If this happens, you might as well just save everyone some time and drive your own car over the side, because if anyone is tumbling down the hill to their death, you can bet it’s not going to be the fatass van.

Anyway, this is how River Island is making me feel, especially after I make an ass of myself trying to pass someone and fall into a rack of jumpers. Like, actually into them, and the world becomes one big dark jumper. Maybe I should just stay in here. I won't have to go to my party if I remain hidden in Jumper-Narnia. I peer out to see if anyone has noticed that I'm in here and, as if on cue, in comes a parade of three mothers with big fat infant wheel barrows, barreling through the tiny rows, like tractors in a cornfield. They make it so that all other wheelbarrow-less humans have to literally walk all the way out of that row, into a corner, to make way for them, and the front tractor ends up bumping into my knee, which couldn't fit all the way inside jumper land. As if this isn’t bad enough on its own, she then adds a quick, ‘excuse me,’ while pursing her lips into a smug-pie smile and motioning her head down to the pushchair, like its presence is equivalent to an ambulance siren on the roads of River Island. Even the babies look embarrassed by their drivers’ warped sense of importance at this point. I get up, and all I want to do is stand firm in my narrow row, look them straight in the eye, and without flinching, say, ‘Maybe you should have considered a Babybjorn before trying to fit down Crop Top Canal. Or a condom.’

Of course, I don’t say anything, and just move out of the way like everyone else. One day though…one day I’ll say it. And when that day comes, I’ll know that I’ve reached the ultimate level of who I’m meant to be.