twelvemonth. Spasmodic nature of recent
skirt attendance suggests malingering
Cleave
Just sending back:
Message Cleave
Skirt is demonstrably neither sick nor
abscent. Appalled by management's
blatently sizist attitude to skirt.
Obsessive interest in skirt suggests
management sick rather than skirt.
Jones
Hmm. Think will cross last bit out as contains mild accusation of sexual harassment whereas v. much enjoying being sexually harassed by Daniel Cleaver.
Aaargh. Perpetua just walked past and started reading over shoulder. Just managed to press Alt Screen in nick of time but big mistake as merely put CV back up on screen.
'Do let me know when you've finished reading, won't you?' said Perpetua, with a nasty smirk. 'I'd hate to feel you were being underused.'
The second she was safely back on the phone 'I mean frankly, Mr Birkett, what is the point in putting three to four bedrooms when it is going to be obvious the second we appear that bedroom four is an airing cupboard?' I got back to work. This is what I am about to send.
Message Cleave
Skirt is demonstrably neither sick nor
abscent. Appalled by management's
blatently sizist attitude to skirt.
Considering appeal to industrial tribunal,
tabloids, etc.
Jones.
Oh dear. This was return message.
Message Jones
Absent, Jones, not abscent. Blatantly, not
Blatently. Please attempt to acquire at
least perfunctory grasp of spelling. Though
by no means trying to suggest language fixed
rather than constantly adapting, fluctuating
tool of communication (cf Hoenigswald)
computer spell check might help.
Cleave
Was just feeling crestfallen when Daniel walked past with Simon from Marketing and shot a very sexy look at my skirt with one eyebrow raised. Love the lovely computer messaging. Must work on spelling, though. After all, have degree in English.
5.45 p.m. Could not be more joyous. Computer messaging re: presence or otherwise of skirt continued obsessively all afternoon. Cannot imagine respected boss did stroke of work. Weird scenario with Perpetua (penultimate boss), since knew I was messaging and v. angry, but fact that was messaging ultimate boss gave self conflicting feelings of loyalty distinctly un-level playing field where anyone with ounce of sense would say ultimate boss should hold sway.
Last message read:
Message Jones
Wish to send bouquet to ailing skirt over
weekend. Please supply home contact no asap
as cannot, for obvious reasons, rely on
given spelling of 'Jones' to search in file.
Cleave
Yesssss! Yessssss' Daniel Cleaver wants my phone no. Am marvellous. Am irresistible Sex Goddess. Hurrah!
9st 2 (v. bloody g. but what is point?), alcohol units 2 (excellent), cigarettes 7, calories 3100 (poor).
2 p.m. Oh God, why am I so unattractive? Cannot believe I convinced myself I was keeping the entire weekend free to work when in fact I was on permanent date-with-Daniel standby. Hideous, wasted two days glaring psychopathically at the phone, and eating things. Why hasn't he ring? Why? What's wrong with me? Why ask for my phone number if he wasn't going to ring, and if he was going to ring surely he would amp; it over the weekend? Must centre myself more. Will ask Jude about appropriate self-help book, possible Eastern-religion-based.
8 p.m. Phone call alert, which turned out to be just Tom, asking if there was any telephonic progress. Tom, who has taken, unflatteringly, to calling himself a hag-fag, has been sweetly supportive about the Daniel crisis. Tom has a theory that homosexuals and single women in their thirties have natural bonding: both being accustomed to disappointing their parents and being treated as freaks by society. He indulged me while I obsessed to him about my unattractiveness crisis precipitated, as I told him, first by bloody Mark Darcy then by bloody Daniel at which point he said, I must say not particularly helpfully, 'Mark Darcy? But isn't he that famous lawyer the human-rights guy?'
Hmmm. Well, anyway. What about my human right not to have to wander round with fearsome unattractiveness hang-up?
11 p.m. It is far too late for Daniel to ring. V. sad and traumatized.
9st 2, alcohol units 4, cigarettes 29, calories 770 (v.g.but at what price?).
Nightmare day in office. Watched the door for Daniel all morning: nothing. By 11.45 a.m. I was seriously alarmed. Should I raise an alert?
Then Perpetua suddenly bellowed into the phone: 'Daniel? He's gone to a meeting in Croydon, He'll be in tomorrow.' She banged the phone down and said, 'God, all these bloody girls ringing him up.'
Panic stricken, I reached for the Silk Cut. Which girls? What? Somehow I made it through the day, got home, and in a moment of insanity left a message on Daniel's answerphone, saying (oh no, I can't believe I did this), 'Hi, it's Jones here. I was just wondering how you are and if you wanted to meet for the skirt-health summit, like you said.'
The second I put the phone down I realized it was an emergency and rang Tom, who calmly said leave it to him: if he made several calls to the machine he could find the code which would let him play back and erase the message. Eventually he thought he'd cracked it, but unfortunately Daniel then answered the phone. Instead of saying, 'Sorry, wrong number,' Tom hung up. So now Daniel not only has the insane message but will think it's me who's rung his answerphone fourteen times this evening and then, when I did get hold of him, banged the phone down.
9st 1, alcohol units 2, cigarettes 6, calories 998 (excellent, v.g. perfect saint-style person).
Slunk into the office crippled with embarrassment about the message. I had resolved totally to detach myself from Daniel but then he appeared looking unnervingly sexy and started making everyone laugh so that I went all to pieces.
Suddenly, Message Pending flashed up on the top of my computer screen.
Message Jones
Thanks for your phone call.
Cleave.
My heart sank. That phone call was suggesting a date. Who replies by saying 'thanks' and leaves it at that unless they but after a little thought, I sent back:
Message Cleave
Please shut up. I am very busy and
important.
Jones.
And after a few minutes more, he replied.
Message Jones
Sorry to interrupt, Jones, pressure must be hellish. Over and out.
PS. I like your tits in that top.
Cleave
. . . And we were off. Frantic messaging continued all week, culminating in him suggesting a date for Sunday night and me dizzyingly, euphorically, accepting. Sometimes I look around the office as we all tap away and wonder if anyone is doing any work at all.