Talking to Addison Read online

  ‘Uh … yars! Me too!’

  The women were all eerily like Kate: their hair was shiny, and their lips were pursed. In fact, it was quite difficult to track Kate down in the thicket of size-eight Nicole Farhi, but I spotted her eventually. She didn’t exactly appear overjoyed to see me, which pissed me off – I was feeling a bit off-the-beam as it was.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said a little stiffly – reminding me that we were only forty-eight hours from wanting to murder each other. I nodded stiffly back, handed her a parcel and looked around. There were about eight guys in various stages of hee-hawing: my kinds of odds, I thought to myself. All around were champagne bottles and buckets.

  ‘Great!’ shouted one of the men. ‘More champagne!’

  I realized they were talking to me, and I panicked. Meanwhile, Kate had opened my present – a furry penguin. I’d thought it would be funny, but everyone stared at it in disdain.

  ‘Oh, how charmante,’ said one of the blokes, before the company stared at me one more time, cottoned on to the fact that I probably wasn’t going to be buying them any champagne, then turned back to each other.

  Kate gave me a half smile, and handed me a glass of champagne, then prodded the man to her right.

  ‘James, this is Holly.’

  James grunted at me. Kate leaned over to the person he was talking to, and nudged him as well.

  ‘And this is James B.’

  ‘James B.’ I nodded.

  ‘And over there are Jamie Egbert, Jim, and, ehm, Finn.’

  Only Finn heard and tilted up his head. At first sight he looked a little odd, and I couldn’t work out what it was. Then I realized that his tie was loosened, and he appeared to be wearing dirty spectacles. This reassured me, and I gave him a rather gushy grin, which clearly terrified him, as he instantly returned to staring at his glass.

  ‘So!’ said Kate brightly. ‘This is all very nice.’

  ‘Who are all these Jameses?’ I asked her.

  ‘Work colleagues, mostly,’ she said.

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Err, yes.’

  ‘Birthdays can be horrid, can’t they?’ I said sympathetically.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she snapped.

  ‘Nothing! Lovely champagne.’

  I played with the glass for a second, then tried to lean into the two Jameses’ conversation. They were talking ferociously about tax liability and the nastiness of the government for trying to extract money from their enormous pay-cheques to finance boring old services, and they managed to avoid looking me in the eye for ages whilst I tried to think of a ploy to enter the conversation.

  ‘I hate tax too,’ I announced when one of them paused for breath. ‘Mind you, I don’t pay more than ten pee in the pound.’

  They raised their eyebrows at me. ‘Really? What do you do with it? Is it offshore?’ asked James 1.

  ‘God, I wish I could figure it out,’ said James 2. ‘Did you form a limited company? What’s your secret?’

  ‘Ehmm … actually, most years I, just, ehm, fall below the threshold,’ I mumbled.

  Their faces registered shock, then instant embarrassment at registering shock – after all, they were terribly well brought up boys.

  ‘Oh, lucky you,’ said one of them, then clearly wished he hadn’t. I felt an absolute pariah; you really shouldn’t go drinking in the City unless you have at least one toe made of gold or something.

  ‘What do you do?’ asked James 2, regretting he’d ever bothered to focus on me.

  ‘Ehm …’ I thought frantically. This conversation, however demeaning, was the only thing I had going on, and it was about to finish two seconds after I said ‘florist’. And they may all have been wankers, but they were handsome, rich wankers, so a girl has got to try. Now, let me see: Astronaut? Philosopher? Nurse? Ooh, they loved that.

  ‘I’m a nurse,’ I said. It was worth it just to see their little faces light up.

  ‘Way-hey!’ shouted one of them. ‘What kind of nurse?’

  I took another slurp of champagne. ‘I work in the … waterworks department.’

  James 2 turned white.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve washed my hands.’

  ‘Oi! Jimmy! Egbert! Finn! Come and meet Kate’s flatmate – she’s a nurse!’

  I hate boys.

  Kate shot me a deadly look. I cringed at her. I’d only meant it as a laugh, but if she blew me out, I’d have to basically destroy myself with humbleness.

  The other lads came over. They were a bit pissed, and up for ribbing someone they appeared to think was somewhat akin to a prostitute, but with an even kinder heart.

  ‘Do you have to, like, you know, rub ointment in, like Joanne Whalley-Kilmer in The Singing Detective?’ asked one of them, breathless.

  ‘Sometimes.’ I nodded sagely. ‘Usually when I’m on night shift.’

  There was a collective groan.

  ‘Do, ahem, nurses still wear uniforms these days …?’ asked one of them, under the pretence of historical analysis.

  ‘Oh yes. At St Mungo’s our uniforms are white: it’s like a hangover from the days when it used to be run by’ – my pièce de résistance – ‘nuns.’

  ‘Ooh.’

  ‘What do you find most interesting in your field? I mean, aren’t you working a lot on prostate disease? Do you find this is becoming more of an environmental syndrome, or does it retain its genetic antecedence?’

  Shite! This came from Finn, the one I’d noticed earlier, with the smeared glasses. Smart aleck bastard. A collective groan went up from the other boys. I wondered what a prostate was. I knew it was something to do with willies, but I didn’t know what.

  ‘Ehm … really, with the greenhouse effect it’s all getting pretty environmental,’ I stammered.

  ‘Really? Is that true? How fascinating! Where else do you see this type of phenomenon …?’

  Annoyingly, the other boys were starting to turn their backs on me. They were obviously used to whoever this mega-nerd was, and sexy nurse was being replaced with scientist nurse. Boo. Kate was still throwing visual daggers in my direction.

  ‘Oh, all over the place,’ I said carelessly.

  ‘Really … oh, I know you’re off duty now, and I hate to bother you, but medicine is a real interest of mine and …’ He flushed. ‘Ahem … would you like to get together to discuss it sometime?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. You really have to be a troll for me not to agree to go on a date with you. I’ve always figured it’s a law of averages. Of course, that probably explains a lot about my life.

  ‘OK! OK, brilliant,’ he said, clearly surprised and a bit overwhelmed. ‘Ehm … I know, what about the Natural History Museum?’

  What? But you’re a rich City person. I mean, surely I deserved the Oxo Tower at least?

  ‘Next Saturday? Are you on duty?’

  I reluctantly said no, I wasn’t on duty, which at least was the truth.

  ‘Great! I’ll meet you there at two! OK! Fantastic! Brilliant!’ Unable to stop thanking me, he retreated back to his group of Jameses, where I was disgusted to see him being slapped on the back by his friends. And I wasn’t too proud of myself, either.

  Kate came over. ‘Well, you’ve certainly made an impression. Do they know you actually run a daisy hospital?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Kate. No one would have spoken to me otherwise. AND, hey, it worked! I got a date!’

  ‘Finn is not a date. He’s a walking CD-ROM.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too bad to me. What does he do?’

  ‘He’s developing string theory for stock markets.’

  ‘Wow, I don’t know what that is, but it sounds like he must be RICH.’

  ‘No – wow, he must be DULL. Just a friendly warning … Oh, and he actually works for the University of London, doing a research project, so he’s not even rich.’

  ‘I’m going to the Natural History Museum with a student?’

  ‘And he’s going with a nurse.’

 
The ‘party’ didn’t last too long after that. Bizarrely, the pub shut at nine – it was probably run by the banks, making sure their bonus-slaves didn’t stay up too late enjoying their youth. So we found ourselves back round the kitchen table, slightly drunk, by ten o’clock, opening another bottle of wine. Kate was talking about how much shit she put up with at work, but I kept getting confused with all those Jameses, so I just nodded along generally.

  Josh finally returned, a bit wobbly on his gin and tonics.

  ‘I got a date!’ I hollered, as soon as he walked in the room.

  ‘No!’ he said, clearly amazed.

  ‘Yeah, a full-on nerd date,’ said Kate, leaning into her glass of wine.

  Josh sat down, his eyes shining.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘how did he ask you?’

  ‘Well, he just said, “Would you like to go to the Natural History Museum …?”’

  ‘Under false pretences,’ said Kate.

  ‘And you said yes,’ said Josh, breathless with admiration.

  ‘Yup!’

  ‘He just said, “Would you like to go to the Natural History Museum”?’

  ‘Apparently they let you in half-price if you don’t know anything about science,’ added Kate.

  ‘And that’s all it takes to ask a girl out.’

  ‘That’s all it takes to ask me out,’ I said, before Kate pointed it out.

  ‘Wow,’ said Josh. ‘It’s that simple.’

  ‘It’s that simple.’

  We all stared at our drinks.

  ‘Kate,’ said Josh, ‘would you like to go to the Natural History Museum?’

  Kate’s head snapped up and she looked perturbed.

  ‘Are you asking me out on a date, or are you just testing?’ she said crisply.

  ‘Don’t be daft, this is practice. Do you think I can pull it off?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Kate. ‘No, that would never work.’

  ‘Right. OK. Fine,’ said Josh.

  ‘It’s not a universal chat-up line,’ I said consolingly.

  ‘No, Holly is what’s technically known as easy,’ explained Kate.

  ‘OK,’ I said, rising somewhat unsteadily to my feet. ‘If you’re going to be horrible, I’m going to talk to my other friend around here, Addison.’

  I lurched out of the kitchen, a tad unsteadily, and wandered across the landing, to the fast becoming familiar under-door blue glow.

  I pushed the door ajar.

  ‘Addison!’ I said loudly, for the benefit of my ex-friends sitting in the kitchen. He did that gorgeous rigid back thing. God, I love that.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I leaned forward, peering over his shoulder. To my amazement, instead of indecipherable computer babble, on his monitor was a picture of a hugely breasted fat lady.

  He coloured and immediately dived for the escape button, but it was too late.

  ‘Addison!’ I said again, shocked. In my slightly drunk frame of mind, I felt deeply insulted. After all, here I was, and he still felt the need to … well.

  ‘Addison,’ I said a third time. He still wasn’t meeting my eyes. ‘Do you know lots of women?’

  His beautiful dark gaze was focused solely on his computer keyboard.

  ‘Because, you know, you might find … what you’re looking for … closer than you think.’

  I couldn’t believe I was being such a tart. On the other hand, tart tactics were required when dealing with someone as shy as this. Plus of course I was pissed – that wonderful moral leveller.

  I took his hand.

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘you’re very attractive.’ Really, I like to take all my chat-up lines from Dynasty, circa 1986.

  His hand lay in mine like a piece of wet melon. Not noticing, I leaned over and kissed his forehead. He smelled of that wonderful Banda paper you used to get in schools: fresh and dry and inky.

  He wasn’t kissing back though. I realized this after say, thirty, maybe forty seconds. No reaction. Nada. Nothing. I kissed his head again. He didn’t even move.

  ‘So,’ I said tartily, ‘ehm, you know where I sleep …’

  Sheesh. This was it. This was the pits. Robocop or the Natural History Museum. Even I hadn’t plumbed my own depths before.

  Amazingly, he simply took my hand off his forehead and squeezed it. Less amazingly (given he was a sober person who’d just been come on to by a mad harpy), he then handed it back to me and returned to his keyboard. I stood there for about ten seconds more – just to prolong the humiliation, I suppose – then retreated backwards slowly, whilst he busied himself with some computer stuff which, as far as I could see, had nothing more to do with big-breasted Betty.

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘You’ll get over it! You’ve got over worse stuff!’

  ‘Like what, exactly?’

  ‘What about that time you taught yourself to snowboard to impress big Eric and broke your ankle?’

  Josh was failing to comfort me at the breakfast table. Not only this, but I had an interview today for a real live flower shop, which I had to do after the utter humiliation of basically prostrating myself in front of my flatmate. I wasn’t sure that counted as extenuating circumstances.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve done much worse things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know … what about that time I got bitten by a dog?’

  ‘Ehm, you know what, Josh? I don’t think that really embarrassed the dog. So it does NOT compare.’

  Kate of course had already gone to work, presumably clear-headed and ‘motivated’.

  ‘Yes, but I cried when I got my tetanus shot.’

  ‘You must have been about eight years old.’

  ‘Still embarrassing, though.’

  ‘And they gave you a cream cake at the end of it, which really means that it does not compare. Now, ask me a question about flowers.’

  ‘Ehm … what colour are tulips?’

  ‘OK, ask me a question about a flower you’ve actually met.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I took the church prize in our village for flower arranging three times in a row!’

  ‘You surprise me.’

  ‘They were very … manly arrangements. OK, how do you grow a sunflower?’

  ‘Stick it in any old shit and ignore it for months.’

  We both paused for a minute.

  ‘That’s my life,’ we both said simultaneously.

  I couldn’t believe a flower-shop interview could be so intense. There were three people in the tiny office at the back of the shop: an old bloke who might conceivably have been dead; a woman with very high hair, a monobosom and an imperious expression; and a sullen Indian girl with either a very large bogey or a bolt through her nose – it was hard to tell in the gloomy room.

  ‘Now, here at That Special Someone, we take our customer care extremely seriously,’ announced the big woman (I’d known she’d start the talking). ‘Can you give us a particular example of good customer care you’ve been involved with in your previous jobs?’

  I fucking hate job interviews. They are crap. They ask you all these bloody questions, whereas really they only want to know what you smell like, and how much you’re prepared to say you agree with their bizarre views on racial hygiene.

  ‘Well,’ I began, modestly, ‘once, these schoolkids came into the shop; one of their little chums had been knocked down by a car – on the school-run, ironically enough – and they’d clubbed all their pocket money together to buy him a princess bouquet, but they didn’t have enough for the delivery charge. So, I took them to little Tommy myself.’

  They were buying this. I couldn’t believe it! The big woman was practically wetting herself.

  ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, it turned out that Tommy’s dad owned a major chain of conferencing suites, and we got the contract to do all of them after that.’

  The bolt/bogey girl smirked worryingly, but the big lady was overwhelmed. Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie – I
mean, if charitable situations like that ever presented themselves, I’d like to think I’d rise to the challenge. None had, that was all.

  ‘Well, that’s just wonderful. Perhaps you can bring a little bit of that magic to That Special Someone, don’t you think, Mr Haffillton?’

  Mr Haffillton declined the chance to appear any less dead.

  ‘I thought so. So, Holly, what about your horticultural qualifications?’

  What about them? They didn’t test you on telephone manner and Cellophane wrapping, the only two genuine skills required.

  ‘Yes … obviously, I’ve been gaining experience out of London’ – I took the bet they wouldn’t know where Harlesden was, and I was right – ‘but I’ll be back down the Chelsea Physic Garden right away, you bet!’

  ‘Not on our time, of course!’

  ‘Ha ha ha! Of course not.’

  God, I wish I didn’t need this job, but Tash had given me a wedgie the other day and I’d had to hide and have a cry.

  ‘Chalitha! Wouldn’t you like to ask a question?’

  Chalitha shrugged her black-clad shoulders petulantly.

  ‘Come on now, Chalitha! We’re all just one happy family here!’ Big Lady grimaced at me as if Chalitha had just made some enormous joke.

  ‘I dunno … What’s your favourite band?’

  I judged the situation carefully.

  ‘The Sex Pistols.’

  ‘Cool.’ She nodded her head and turned to the old dead man. ‘She’ll be all right, uncle,’ she announced. Aha. She turned back to me.

  ‘The last girl liked Mariah Carey.’

  Actually, the question clearly wasn’t any more or less stupid than any other job interview question, and certainly got to the heart of the matter.

  ‘I couldn’t have worked with her,’ I said confidently.

  ‘No, can you imagine? She’d have worn little miniskirts and warbled emotionally all day.’

  ‘I just spit,’ I said reassuringly, then burst into a fake laugh when I realized Big Lady was staring at me with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Ha! ha! Only kidding. Ehm, I think a happy work place is essential to provide the very premium in customer service, don’t you?’