I arrive at the office by 8.15 a.m., and although I haven’t managed to go to the gym I enter with my kit bag over my shoulder to give the impression that not only is it business as normal, but I am healthy and sane. I’m wearing a charcoal-grey Armani suit – emotional armour – and dark glasses to hide the bags under my eyes, induced from lack of sleep and endless crying. But then I do work in media and as long as the glasses are designer no one thinks twice about my wearing them inside.
I walk through the glass, open-plan offices, cursing (not for the first time) the architect. Had he considered my public humiliation when he put together his design? I nod to a few faces and ignore the sniggering and whispering. I walk the marathon to my desk, sit down and put on my PC. I ring Jaki’s extension number.
‘Jaki, can you bring me a double espresso, please,’ I ask, as I do every morning.
‘You’re back!’ She doesn’t trouble to hide her disbelief.
‘I am. I had summer flu. But I’m back now.’
‘Er, glad to hear you’re better,’ she stutters.
‘Thank you, Jaki. Can you bring me my diary? Oh, and can you make room in it so that I can see Bale today?’
‘Well, actually your diary is clear.’
I get it, but pretend not to.
‘Fine, then I’ll have time for some invoicing and it shouldn’t be difficult for you to get me an appointment with Bale.’ I hang up.
Bale agrees to see me at 11.00 a.m. In the meantime the entire staff studiously avoid me. My leper-like state is due to the widely held belief that luck is catching – both good and bad. When I was fast-tracking my way through promotions I’d been an extremely popular girl. Trixxie is the only exception. She does pop by my desk to say hi. But then I suspect that in her drug-induced state she has no idea what happened on last week’s show.
I choose to wait until five past eleven before I walk into Bale’s office. Fi is sitting there already.
‘Bale, you’ve put on weight,’ I smile. Pleasantries over, I close his office door. He reminds me of a walrus, his pink fleshiness indefinitely merging nose into lip, lip into chin, chin into neck into chest and suddenly we arrive at his feet. I try to think of his good points. I can’t. He doesn’t even close his mouth when he chews his food. I turn to Fi. She, on the other hand, looks magnificent. Triumphant, glowing. I think of Lady Macbeth. She’s wearing an Alberta Ferretti suit, which, as I’ve never seen it before, I can only assume was bought from her ratings-achieved bonus.
‘Nice suit, Fi,’ I comment. ‘I didn’t realize that they took blood money at Harvey Nics. Thought it was just charge cards.’
‘Oh, come off it, Cas. You know the game.’ She looks sensational and I know for certain that my team will now be worshipping at the temple of Fiona. They can’t see through her. Because they are dazzled. She’s dazzling.
‘Have a seat, Cas,’ offers Bale. I note it’s the low one. They’ll tower inches above me if I sit in it.
‘I prefer to stand.’
‘Oh, not stopping?’ asks Bale. They start to snigger.
‘Did you catch the show on Saturday?’ asks Fi. Which sends them into raptures.
‘Have you seen the runs? Aren’t you going to congratulate us on the ratings? You always said a show with Darren Smith would break all records,’ pursues Bale.
‘Ratings? Ratings? Is that all you think about?’ I snap. Despite my vows to remain cool and calm throughout.
‘Yes, Cas.’ He thumps the desk and suddenly turns serious. ‘Ratings are all I think about. And up until recently, when you fell in lurve, that’s all you thought about.’
Slapped face. Even this repulsive cliché knew more about me than I did. I don’t think there’s any point in my trying to explain that the cost of ratings rocketing is hearts plummeting.
‘You let us down, Cas. Running up north after that hippie gypsy. Coming back with loads of mumbo-jumbo ideas on emotionally profitable programmes. You’re a disappointment.’
‘Just because Darren isn’t a materialistic, hedonistic, Fascist, that does not make him a hippie gypsy,’ I yell back. I think about it for a moment and then add, ‘And anyway what’s wrong with hippie gypsies?’
Bale and Fi roar with laughter. Her boobs and his belly bounce up and down as their laughter ricochets around their bodies. I stay still.
‘I expect this type of thing from you, Bale, but you, Fi – you’ve surprised me. How could you do this to me?’ Fi stares back, insolent and unashamed. ‘You knew that Josh and Darren would both be hurt and that I’d become public property.’
‘Yeah, I heard that Dazza did a runner,’ sneers Bale. ‘Bad luck, Cas.’
‘Still, look on the bright side,’ comments Fi. ‘There’s been so much publicity about your abilities in the sack that, besides Darren, absolutely every man in the country wants to shag you.’
‘And the bright side is?’
‘Oh, come on, Cas. You’ve never been one to turn down a shag.’
‘No,’ I sigh and rub my forehead. ‘Not in the past.’ I’m sick of the small talk. ‘Well, as jolly as it is passing pleasantries with the pair of you, I think it’s time I got to the point. I’m resigning.’
‘Accepted. I was going to fire you, for your recurring absences without doctor’s certificates, but then we’d have to negotiate severance pay. It’s so much cleaner this way. Although not as financially advantagous to you,’ he taunts.
I don’t care about the money. I turn to Fi.
‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Fi. I thought you were going to have to fuck Bale to gain his favour. Instead all you had to do is fuck me. Good choice – I’m far prettier.’
I let the door slam behind me.
I walk out of the office, past my desk. I don’t even bother to empty my cupboards. I walk to the lift, through the reception and keep walking out of the door.
And I surprise myself, because as the door swings behind me, I feel better than I’ve felt for a long time.
So I get my hair cut. All off.
‘My God, your hair!’ squeals my mother when I pop round to see her and Bob on Thursday night.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not an act of self-loathing or penitence. I just wanted… I don’t know… a change.’
My mother looks as though she’s about to cry and so I’m grateful when Bob says, ‘It’s very fetching, Cas.’ Bob’s OK, quite a decent bloke, once you look past the brown cords.
‘Thanks.’ I force a smile across the fish fingers and beans. I see him gently nudge my mother.
‘Well, I expect it’s a good idea to herald a new beginning,’ she stutters heroically. ‘You might shake the press for a day or two.’
My head’s much lighter – I estimate that my hair weighed pounds – but my heart is still heavy. After supper I turn down the offer to stay the night and hurry to catch the tube.
I spend the next day on the telephone. I re-call Darren’s mobile, flat, lab and office. No joy. I make a list of National Parks and call each one of them to see if he’s working with any. He’s not. I then start on London’s parks and when I still don’t unearth him I try twenty or thirty others up and down the country. There are plenty of sick trees but Darren’s not ministering to any of them. I walk the streets hoping to spot him. It’s futile. I then gather my courage and call the Smiths in Whitby.
His father answers the phone.
‘Hello, Mr Smith. You probably don’t remember me.’ I had the impression that my stay at the Smith household passed Mr Smith by. I was merely an interlude between Countdown and the chat shows. ‘It’s Cas Perry. I’m a friend of Darren’s. A sort of friend.’ Somewhere between archenemy and fiancée.