The Time of My Life

‘Because most of the people I meet aren’t one hundred years old like you.’

‘I’m not going to be one hundred for at least two weeks.’

‘Ah. I see. Thirty? Forty? Fifty?’

‘Thirty.’

‘It’s all downhill from there, believe me.’

And he went silent, and I went silent and then it wasn’t natural any more and we were just two strangers on a wrong number who both wanted to hang up.

I got in there first. ‘It was nice talking to you, Don. Thanks for the offer of the ticket.’

‘Bye, toothless married woman,’ he said and we both laughed. I hung up and caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and I looked like my mother, just a face full of a smile. It faded fast at the realisation that I’d just spoken to an absolute stranger on the phone. Maybe they were right, maybe I was losing it. I went to bed early and at twelve thirty my phone rang, waking me in fright. I looked at the number flashing and didn’t recognise it, so I ignored it and waited for it to stop so I could go back to sleep. A few seconds later the phone rang again. I answered it, hoping it wasn’t bad news. All I could hear was noise, screams and shouts. I moved it away from my ear, then heard the music, then heard the singing, then recognised the song. He was calling me, Don Lockwood was calling me, so I could hear my favourite song.

‘If you think your life’s a waste of time, if you think your time’s a waste of life, come over to this land, take a look around. Is this a tragic situation, or a massive demonstration, where do we hide?’

I lay back on the bed and listened to the song, then when it was finished, I stayed on the line to speak to him. As soon as the next song started, he hung up.

I smiled. Then texted him.

–Thanks.

He texted back straight away.

–One less thing on your list. Nite.

I stared at those words for a long time then added his number into my phone. Don Lockwood. Just seeing it there made me smile.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A week later I awoke at seven a.m. in a stinker of a mood. I do believe that’s the technical term for it. I hadn’t been asleep for a week; it’s just the amount of time that passed until anything of note happened in my life. I knew I was in a bad mood as soon as I opened my eyes and realised that the apartment reeked of the prawn cocktail that I’d left out on the counter. I felt irritation to the very core of me; like that damp cold that goes right to the bone and is impossible to shake off. I also think that my body had sensed that a new envelope had arrived on the burned carpet even before I’d found it. I could tell it had recently been left there because it hadn’t been peed on and it had landed on top of the little pink marie-rose paw prints from when Mr Pan had knocked over the prawn cocktail and walked it around the carpet.

I had received a letter every day since I’d met Life the previous Sunday. I had ignored all of them and nothing was going to change this Monday. I stepped over the envelope like a child whose only power is to exercise authority on a dolly. Mr Pan must have known what he’d done and sensed my mood because he stayed clear of me. I showered, pulled a dress down from the curtain pole and was ready in minutes. I gave Mr Pan his breakfast, ignored the letter for the second week running and left the apartment.

‘Morning, Lucy,’ my neighbour said, opening the door as I stepped outside. I was suspicious of her timing; if I didn’t know any better I’d have guessed she had been standing at her door waiting for me.

‘Morning,’ I said and searched my irritated brain for her name but there was no room for information, only frustration. I turned my back on her and locked the door.

‘Do you mind if I ask a favour?’ Her voice sounded shaky and I immediately turned around. Her eyes were red and swollen as if she’d been crying all night. I felt myself soften as my bad mood took time out. ‘Would you mind leaving this at security for me? I’ve organised a courier to collect it but they said they wouldn’t come upstairs. He’s sleeping so I couldn’t leave him …’

‘Of course, no problem.’ I took the sports bag from her.

She wiped her eyes, and said thanks but her voice had given up on her and it came out as a whisper.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, thanks, I just … em …’ That shaky voice again while she tried to compose herself. She straightened her back and cleared her throat, tried to maintain some kind of dignity but her eyes kept filling up and she fought hard to control them. ‘My mother was taken to hospital yesterday. It’s not looking very good.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

She waved a hand dismissively to hide her embarrassment, tried to compose herself. ‘There are just a few things that I thought she’d need in there. I mean, what do you give a person who …’ She finished the sentence in her head.

‘They won’t let you visit?’

‘Oh, they will. I just can’t get in to her because …’ She looked back into the apartment to her baby.

‘Oh.’ I knew what I was supposed to say next but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to, wasn’t sure if it was right. I spoke reluctantly, ‘I could babysit for you, if you want. For …’ I didn’t know whether to say him or her, ‘the baby.’

‘Yes. Conor.’ She cleared her throat again. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer but I don’t really like leaving him …’

‘I completely understand,’ I jumped in, relieved. ‘I’ll leave these at the desk for you.’

She whispered her thanks again. I was at the elevator when she raised her voice down the hall. ‘Lucy, if I change my mind, and do need you, if it’s, you know, an emergency, how will I contact you?’

‘Oh. Well. You could wait till I get back at around sevenish or …’ I didn’t want to do it, I didn’t want to give her my mobile. I knew it would lead to general annoyance down the line. ‘You could email me …’ I looked at her face, so distraught but hopeful. Her mother was possibly dying and I was telling her to email me. ‘Or you could call me.’ Her shoulders seemed to relax. I gave her my number and got out of there. I got a cappuccino from Starbucks at the end of my block; I bought a newspaper and had to miss seeing cute guy on the train in order to drive Sebastian to work. I had to bring him to the garage again that day and I was already dreading the bill. I used my ID card to get in through the turnstiles at the entrance to my office building. Mantic was outside the city in a new commercial outlet with architecture that looked like an extraterrestrial spaceship landing. Ten years ago they had moved the factory to Ireland and merged the offices together in a clever manoeuvre to increase productivity, and since moving here and paying extortionate rents, their profits had decreased and they’d had to lose one hundred employees from the twelve-hundred-strong company. Mantic was Greek for having prophetic and divine powers, which was ironic really, seeing all the trouble they were in, but no one was laughing at the joke. It seemed that, for the time being anyway, things had settled and we were assured that we were safe but most felt delicate after the shock of losing so many before. We were still surrounded by the empty desks and chairs of those who had already gone and though we held sympathy for the people who had lost their jobs, we had also enjoyed finding better-positioned desks and more comfortable seats.

I had been surprised I wasn’t one of the first to go. I worked as a translator in the instruction-manual section, which was now a team of six people. Translating instruction manuals for the company’s appliances into German, French, Spanish, Dutch and Italian may seem like an easy enough task and it was, only I didn’t speak Spanish, or I did, but not very well and so I outsourced that part of the job to a contact I had who spoke very good Spanish, in fact perfect Spanish because she was in fact from Madrid. She didn’t mind doing it and it was nothing that the gift of a bottle of poitín at Christmas didn’t sort. It had worked for me so far; however my contact was often lazy and slow and left me on tenterhooks by delivering the translations at the eleventh hour. I had received a first degree in business and languages and a masters in international business. I’d spent a year working in Milan, a year in Germany and I’d done my masters in a Paris business school; I’d taken night classes to learn Dutch as a kind of a personal project but it was on a friend’s hen night in Madrid where I’d met the woman who would become my Spanish alibi. Despite my not having studied law like my father and Riley or medicine like Philip I think my father was marginally proud of my university accomplishments and my knowledge of languages, until I moved to this job and whatever little delight he had for me went out the window.

The first person in the office I met every morning was Nosy Bitch, but who was christened Louise by her parents. I shall name her Nosy in the interest of taste. She was the administrator, was getting married in twelve months’ time and had been planning her big day ever since Day One in the womb. When Fish Face, the boss, wasn’t around, she flicked through magazines and ripped out pictures to create mood boards of her perfect day. Not that I was a woman of absolute substance but I liked to think I possessed at least some and I was tired of her incessant chat about all things cosmetic, which would have been the same choices regardless of the man she married. Her inquiry into other people’s “special day” was endless. She wasn’t so much a magpie for information as a piranha because she devoured every word as soon as it was spoken. Conversations with her were interviews and I knew every question was designed to suit her making a decision about her own life but never out of courtesy to ask about mine. She would turn her nose up at things she didn’t like, and when she heard something that she found pleasing she would barely listen to the end of the sentence before scurrying back to her desk to document her new findings. I disliked her quite intensely and the fact that she wore tight T-shirts, with ridiculous logos, that failed to cover her love handles continued to annoy me more and more every day. It was the minutiae of any person that watered the seeds of dislike, though on the contrary the things I hated most about Blake, like his teeth grinding in his sleep, ended up being the very things I missed most about him. I wondered if Jenna the bitch minded his teeth grinding.

Today Nosy wore a blazer over a black T-shirt, which had a picture of Shakespeare and beneath read Prose before Hos. Sometimes I wondered if she even understood what they meant.

‘Good morning, Lucy.’

‘Morning, Louise.’ I smiled at her and waited for random question number one of the day.

‘Have you ever been to Egypt?’

I’d been there with Blake. We’d done the whole shebang: ridden camels in the Sahara, sat with the pharaohs, dived in the Red Sea, cruised the Nile. However, Nosy was asking for purely selfish purposes, not so she could float with me in my wonderful memory bubbles. ‘No, sorry,’ I said, and the hope on her face diminished. I went straight to my desk, threw my cappuccino cup in the bin, hung my coat up and headed off to make a fresh coffee. The rest of the team was squished inside the galley kitchen.

‘What’s this? A secret meeting?’

‘Good morning, princess,’ Graham the Cock greeted me. ‘Coffee?’

‘It’s okay, I’ll make it.’ I squeezed past him to get to the kettle. He leaned out from the counter a little so I had to rub against his crotch. I considered kneeing him. Graham was the office cock who had watched one too many episodes of Mad Men and was on the lookout for an office affair. Married with children, of course, he slicked back his hair in a greasy quiff in an effort to emulate his Madison Avenue advertising allies and wore so much aftershave you could tell that he’d arrived by the sweet stench that lingered in the air. I didn’t feel one bit complimented by his smarmy advances; I might have, if I’d wanted to spend a night with Pepé Le Pew and if his advances weren’t directed at every woman who so much as walked within a mile of his pong. To give him some credit, he might once upon a time have been attractive if his venture into a lifetime of commitment with the same human being who wanted to share everything with him including his soul, yet who would never understand the real him, hadn’t killed his internal spark.

I filled the kettle with water.

‘Did you hear?’ Mary the Mouse said in her voice that always seemed to be a decibel under a normal speaking tone. Mary’s eyes were almost twice the size of her head, an amazing miracle of nature. Her nose and lips were dots on her face, hence the nickname Mouse.

‘Hear what?’

‘Now, now, we don’t want to scare Lucy, she’s just walked in the door.’ That was Quentin, named Twitch because of his habit of blinking both eyes twice in twenty-second intervals which increased in meetings or when he was addressing a crowd. He was a nice man, if not a little boring, and I had no problems with him. He did the graphics for the manuals so he and I worked closely together.

‘We’re having a meeting in Edna’s office this morning,’ Mouse said, her little face still and her big eyes moving around like a frightened rodent.

‘Who told you that?’

‘Louise heard it from Brian in Marketing. Everybody’s section is having a meeting.’

‘Brian Murphy or Bryan Kelly?’ Steve the Sausage asked.

Explaining Steve’s nickname was simple. Steve, bless him, looked like a sausage.

‘What’s the difference?’ Mouse asked, eyes wide.

‘Brian Murphy spells Brian with an i and Bryan Kelly spells Bryan with a y,’ I said, knowing full well that’s not what she meant. I felt Cock’s breath on my neck as he laughed to himself and I was pleased. I was a laughter whore, I’d take it from anyone.

‘No, I mean why does it matter who told us?’ she asked timidly.

‘Because Brian Murphy is full of shit, and Bryan Kelly isn’t,’ Cock explained.

‘I’ve always found both of them to be reputable men,’ Twitch said respectfully.

Mouse pulled open the door. ‘Louise?’

Nosy joined us in the already crammed kitchen. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Was it Brian Murphy or Bryan Kelly who told you about the meeting?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Because Bryan Kelly is full of shit,’ I said, deliberately mixing it up. Cock smiled again, the only one who noticed.

‘And apparently Brian Murphy isn’t,’ Mouse said. ‘So who said it?’

‘Which guy is Brian Murphy?’ Nosy asked. ‘Is he the redhead or the one with the bald patch?’

I rolled my eyes, made my coffee as quickly as possible and pushed my way through the group. ‘Either way it means more cuts, doesn’t it,’ I said to no one in particular. And no one in particular answered. Everyone just stared into the distance and retreated to their minds, thinking about the personal dangers ahead.

‘I’m sure everything is going to be fine,’ Twitch said. ‘Let’s not all worry.’

But they already were, so I returned to my desk to do my crossword and left them all at it.

Commonplace, lacking originality or wit.

I looked around.

Banal.

When I heard the office door open, I hid the crossword under some paperwork and pretended to concentrate on new manuals as Fish Face tottered by, the smell of leather and perfume following after her. Edna Larson was the boss of our section and looked very much like a fish. Her forehead was high, her hairline started far back on her head, her eyes popped, and her cheekbones were sucked in, emphasised even more by the bronzer she applied to show off their already quite evident height. Fish Face went into her office, and I waited for the Venetian blinds to open. They didn’t. I looked around and noticed that everybody was doing the same. After a while of waiting for the meeting to be called we realised it was business as usual and the rumour had been merely that – which sparked off a small debate about the strength of Bryan Kelly’s word versus that of Brian Murphy.

We went about our morning. I took a cigarette break on the fire escape so I wouldn’t have to go all the way downstairs to get outside, but even though I didn’t smoke I had to actually smoke because Graham came with me. I turned down both his offers of lunch and dinner, and as though understanding that those two things were far too much commitment for me he came back with a counter-offer, so I then turned down his suggestion of no-strings-attached sex. Then I sat with Twitch for an hour over the new super-duper steam-oven manual that neither of us could afford even if we sent all our own home appliances to a pawnshop. Edna still hadn’t opened her office blinds and Louise hadn’t once taken her eyes off the windows, even when she was on the phone.

‘It must be personal,’ Louise said to no one in particular.

‘What must be?’

‘Edna. She must be having a personal issue.’

‘Or else she’s dancing around naked and lip-syncing to “Footloose” on her iPod,’ I suggested, and Graham stared at the windows with hope, planning new offers in his head.

Louise’s phone rang and her perky phone voice replaced her dull tones but she quickly lost her enthusiasm and we could tell there was something wrong immediately. We all stopped working and stared at her. She hung up slowly, eyes wide and looked at us. ‘Every other department has just finished their meetings. Bryan Kelly is gone.’

There was a long hushed silence.

‘That’s what you get for being full of shit,’ I said quietly.

Graham was the only one who got the joke. Even though I wouldn’t sleep with him, I appreciated that he still took time to laugh at my jokes and for that, he commanded my respect.

‘It’s Brian Murphy that’s full of shit,’ Louise said, frustrated.

I pursed my lips.

‘Who was that on the phone?’ Sausage asked.

‘Brian Murphy,’ Louise said.

That was it, we all couldn’t help but laugh and we were joined together for the first time ever in a moment’s laughter during a horrible awkward time in their lives. I say ‘their’ because I didn’t feel it, I didn’t feel worried or anxious or afraid because I didn’t feel like I had anything to lose. A redundancy package would have been quite nice, and quite the bonus after my last job dismissal. Then Edna’s door finally opened and she looked out with red-rimmed bloodshot eyes. She looked around at all of us in what could only be described as a lost apologetic way and for a moment I searched myself to see what I was feeling but the only thing I felt was completely indifferent. She cleared her throat. Then:

‘Steve. Can I see you, please?’

We all looked on in horror as Steve made his way in. There was no more laughter. Watching Steve leave the office afterwards was like watching an ex-boyfriend move out. He packed away his things quietly with tears in his eyes: his photograph of his family, his mini basketball and basketball hoop, his mug that said Steve likes his coffee black with one sugar, and his Tupperware of lasagne that his wife had made him for his lunch. And then after handshakes from Twitch and me, a back pat from Graham, a hug from Mary and a kiss on the cheek from Louise, he was gone. An empty desk just like he had never been there. We worked in silence after that. Edna didn’t open her blinds for the rest of the day and I didn’t take any more cigarette breaks, partly out of respect for Steve but mostly because they were his cigarettes that I used to smoke. Though I wondered how long it would take any of them to think about Steve’s desk and how the lighting was so much better there.

I left them at lunchtime as I always did, this time to bring my car back to the garage for the second week running. Once there I was handed another letter from Life and I returned to the office in an even worse mood.

I cursed to high heaven as I sat down and then sprang back up again.

‘What’s wrong?’ Graham asked, looking amused.

‘Who put this here?’ I lifted the envelope and waved it around the room. ‘Who put this on my desk?’

There was silence. I looked at Louise at reception, she shrugged. ‘We were all in the canteen for lunch, nobody saw, but I got one too. It’s addressed to you.’ She came towards me with the envelope.

‘I got one too,’ Mary said, handing it to Louise to pass to me.

‘There was one on my desk too,’ Twitch said.

‘I was going to give it to you later,’ Graham said suggestively, taking an envelope out of his inside pocket.

‘What do they say?’ Louise asked, collecting the envelopes and bringing them to me.

‘It’s private.’

‘What kind of paper is that? It looks nice.’

‘They’re too expensive for invitations,’ I snapped.

She backed off, uninterested.

Including the letter I’d found in my apartment this morning, and the letter he’d sent to the garage, he had written to me seven times in one day. I waited until the usual busy work hum had started up before I rang the number on the letter. I expected American Pie to answer. She didn’t. Instead it was Him.

He didn’t even wait for me to say hello before saying, ‘Have I finally got your attention?

‘Yes, you have,’ I said, trying to hold my temper.

‘It’s been a week,’ he said. ‘I haven’t heard from you.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Busy with what?’

‘Just doing things, my God, do I have to explain every little detail?’

He was silent.

‘Fine.’ I planned to kill him with my monotony. ‘On Monday I got up and went to work. I brought my car to the garage. I went for dinner with a friend. I went to bed. On Tuesday I went to work, I collected my car, I went home, and I went to bed. On Wednesday I went to work, I went home, I went to bed. On Thursday I went to work, I went to the supermarket, I went home, I went to a funeral and then I went to bed. On Friday I went to work, then I went to my brother’s house and babysat the kids for the weekend. On Sunday I went home. I watched An American in Paris and wondered for the hundredth time if I’m the only person who wants Milo Roberts and Jerry Mulligan to get together? That little French girl just played him like a fool. This morning I woke up and then I came to work. Happy now?’

‘How very exciting. Do you think that continuing to live like a robot is actually going to make me go away?’

‘I don’t think that I’ve been living like a robot but regardless of what I do, quite obviously you’re not going away. I brought my car to the garage today and Keith the mechanic handed me a letter from you, which he had already opened and in no uncertain terms suggested that sex with him would sort me out. Thank you for that.’

‘At least I’m helping you meet men.’

‘I don’t need help meeting men.’

‘Perhaps in keeping them then.’ That was low and I think even he knew that. ‘So when can we meet again?’

I sighed. ‘Look, I just don’t think this whole thing is going to work out with you and me. It might be good for other people but not for me. I really like my space, I like to do things without someone breathing down my neck all the time so I think the mature adult thing to do here is for you to go your way and I’ll go mine.’ I was impressed by my tone, by my firmness. Hearing my words, I wanted to separate from me, which weird as that is, was essentially what I was trying to do. I was trying to break up with myself.

He was silent again.

‘It’s not as if every moment together is a bag of laughs either. We don’t even enjoy each other’s company. I mean, really, we should just walk away.’

He still didn’t speak.