Kitabı oku: «The Love Solution», sayfa 4
CHAPTER SIX
Department of Behavioural Ecology
Fenland University
January 2nd
(Scientifically proven to be the most depressing day of the year)
Research Proposal
Objectives To determine why, when a human male asks you to dance at a party, calls you a “sexy nurse” and snogs you in full view of your colleagues, he then proceeds to drop you like you had Ebola.
To discover why male subject #2 allowed (half-witch/half-she-devil) female subject #1 to tie him to a bed and dress him up like a fairy. To discover whether there is a specific reason for this behaviour or whether man in question is just a shit, like 99% of the rest of his sex.
Design Longitudinal cohort study.
Setting Male #1 Research institute.
Male #2 County ambulance service.
Subjects Male #1. Fit and healthy, technically Scottish, demonstrably a genius and a fuckwit. Observed almost daily over six months and two weeks.
Male #2. Not quite so fit. Physically sound but clearly suffering from (temporary) insanity. Demonstrably a total shit with pervy tendencies. Observed daily over two years, five months.
Main outcome measures Determine male subject #1’s behaviour and reasons thereof. Create method to alter male subject’s pattern of behaviour to achieve desired outcome of date/sex/commitment, ideally all three.
Determine male subject #2’s behaviour and reasons thereof. Create method to spontaneously make his tiny dick shrivel up and his balls drop off and/or realise what he has done and crawl back on his belly to lovely, amazing sister who will then walk all over him in her stilettos and tell him to fuck fuckity fuck off.
Results To be advised but not hopeful.
Conclusions To be determined.
Molly stopped typing and stared out of the window of the lab. The sky was the colour of an old dishcloth and big wet snowflakes were settling on the statue of Isaac Newton outside her window. It was a grey, soggy January the second and even Isaac looked pissed off. It also seemed wholly appropriate considering what had happened over the past thirty-six hours.
She’d been woken at nine a.m. by Sarah sobbing down the phone. Apparently, she’d got home to find Niall having kinky sex with a naked woman who drove his ambulance. Sarah had been almost hysterical – not that Molly blamed her – and Molly had spent the rest of the day dispensing tissues, chocolate and vodka – for herself – at Sarah’s cottage.
Molly had listened to the whole sorry story, almost in tears herself. Niall had apparently begged Sarah to forgive him for three hours, until Sarah had finally untied him from the bed and kicked him out. He’d fled to his mother’s, blaming Sarah for causing Vanessa “mild hypothermia” and himself severe emotional distress. Sarah had then had to go around to her neighbour, Mrs Sugden, and apologise and explain that Vanessa wasn’t a prostitute, but a friend of Niall’s who’d been to a nearby fancy-dress party, got very drunk and sought refuge in the cottage before becoming violently deranged. Sarah couldn’t bear to tell her neighbour the truth yet.
Molly had to admit that next to Sarah’s woes, being publicly rejected by Ewan paled into insignificance. However, it was still humiliating and hurtful, especially as she had to work with him.
She returned to her paper, trying to concentrate until her desk phone rang. When she saw the extension number, she swore and braced herself.
‘Good morning, Professor Baxter.’
‘Um. Molly. Would you mind popping into my private office for a few minutes? If it’s convenient, of course. I’d like to discuss our next grant application for the Love Bug.’
Molly inspected her nails before replying. ‘Surely, you’re referring to Hormone XTB229, Professor Baxter?’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’
‘Of course not, Professor Baxter. I’ll be up in five minutes, Professor Baxter.’
‘Molly, can you please stop calling me Prof—’
Click. Burr. Molly winced. She’d dropped the receiver a nanosecond sooner than she’d really intended. Or maybe not. Ewan didn’t deserve an ounce of her guilt. She took a deep breath and attempted to get things into perspective. They’d both had too much to drink; it had been New Year’s Eve. Surely, you were allowed to make a pass at your boss, photocopy your arse, dress as a naughty nurse, ask him what was under his kilt? It was the Season of Misrule and anyway, it was only a kiss … followed by a moment of public humiliation that was excruciating but would pass. Eventually.
Not like Sarah had endured. Catching the bloke she adored and trusted shagging another woman; having her world turned upside down when she was at her most vulnerable. Molly should probably man up, although if “manning up” seemed to mean behaving like a cowardly louse, she’d rather stick pins in her eyes.
The blind rattled in the draught and the snow, now sleety, skittered against the pane. Molly held her finger on the file delete button and then changed her mind. Instead she pressed save and salted away the study in a file marked: “Reminder to reorder glove supplies” in a folder marked “Missellaneos”, which was deliberately spelled wrongly to remind her not to attach it to a real email.
Gathering up her notepad, she trudged down the corridor towards Ewan’s “private” office. So he wanted to discuss the abstract, did he? Well, she could tell him a few places where he could shove his “abstract”. That was one of the advantages of having a PhD in behavioural ecology.
For half an hour, they discussed the abstract while Molly simmered silently. Judging by the way he kept fiddling with his pen, Ewan was squirming as much as her. Finally, the discussion was over.
‘OK. I think that will do it,’ he said, sounding relieved, like he’d been let off a life sentence.
Molly got to her feet, clutching her notebook to her chest. ‘Right, I’ll get back to work. I’m so busy in the lab.’
Ewan stared at her from his deep espresso eyes. Molly suddenly decided a stain on the tiles was intensely interesting.
‘Before you go, I think it would be a good idea if we discussed the elephant in the room.’
Molly couldn’t help herself. ‘What elephant’s that, then, Ewan? Are we moving on from primate research to pachyderms?’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm. I’m trying to be mature about this.’
‘Really? And it was mature to snog me and pull a party popper out of my top and then get cold feet?’
‘First, that party popper could have gone off at any moment and second, I didn’t get cold feet.’
Molly snorted.
‘I didn’t get cold feet,’ Ewan said. ‘Believe me I wanted to …’ His voice tailed off.
‘Wanted to what?’
‘You know …’
Molly put her notebook back on the desk and raised an eyebrow. ‘Not really. Could you be more precise, please, Professor Baxter.’
‘I wanted to take you to bed!’ Ewan burst out then threw up his hands and groaned. He lowered his voice. ‘Please don’t make this any harder for me.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of making anything hard for you. Not after the other night.’
Ewan covered his face with his hand. Molly hated him and herself for the shivery tingle in her limbs when he’d said, “take you to bed”. It was pathetic.
‘If you wanted to do it, why didn’t you?’ she said. ‘Are you that worried about what those idiots in the lab think?’
‘No, of course not!’ He tapped his pen on the table. ‘No, that’s a lie. Yes. Yes I am but not because I’m put off by a few stupid comments. It’s what those comments have made me realise.’
‘And that is?’
‘I don’t have to spell it out, do I? It would be unprofessional of me. If I sleep with you, start seeing you, how can I supervise you and work with you after that? What if I need to promote you or interview you for a job? What if I have to …’
‘Discipline me?’ she cut in.
‘For God’s sake. Can you please not say things like that?’
‘Why not?’
His pen clattered onto the desk top. ‘You know perfectly well why not and there’ll be no need for discipline, because you – and I – are going to behave with utmost discretion and professionalism. We are going to focus one hundred and ten per cent on our work.’
‘I don’t think that’s actually possible, Professor Baxter, or did you fail statistics?’
He glared at her. Molly fancied him more than ever, if it was possible. ‘We are going to focus totally on our research, making this project a success and publishing our results. There will be gossip and speculation, naturally, for a few days but it will pass. People will soon realise that there is nothing between us beyond a professional relationship.’
‘Of course not, Professor,’ Molly said coolly.
‘Please stop calling me Professor. You’ll thank me for this one day. One day very soon. There is nothing worse, believe me, than a relationship failing, and that’s when the two people have to see each other every day at work. If you want to know what it’s like to hate the sight of someone you once cared for, then let’s go ahead and shag each other’s brains out for a few weeks but then it will all go wrong. Office romances are a recipe for disaster. Trust me.’
She was momentarily stunned into silence by this outburst.
‘So you care about your career more than being happy?’ she said, eventually.
‘No, I care about yours.’
His phone rang. He mouthed “fuck” before snatching up the handset. ‘What is it? I’m in a bloody meeting … Oh, yes, Dame Eleanor. I’m so sorry. Yes, I was working late last night and went to the party on New Year’s Eve. You’re right, I should probably get more sleep but you know how busy we are … Come to your office now? No … no … I’m almost done here. I’ll be up in five minutes … Yes, coffee would be a great idea.’
She sat, arms folded, enjoying him squirming as he spoke to their eminent head of faculty.
Eventually, he put the phone down. ‘And, that,’ he said quietly, ‘is exactly what I meant about bringing relationships into the workplace. Now, as you heard, I have a meeting with Dame Eleanor. I expect you to go back to the lab and get on with the abstract for that paper. I want to get into a decent journal with the two of us as co-authors, which can only be good for your career. And the next time we meet, I also expect things to be back on civil, professional terms. Am I making myself clear?’ he said coldly.
There was something in his tone that told Molly not to argue. He was, after all, her boss and she’d pushed him further than she ever thought she’d dare. It was all hideously unfair of course, but possibly, maybe, he had a point and she really wanted her name as co-author on the paper. It would be a big thing to be associated with Ewan Baxter, in scientific terms if not in other ways.
She picked up her notebook again. ‘Perfectly clear,’ she said and walked to the door, hoping that the clogging in her throat wasn’t the start of an infection.
‘I’m sorry, Molly. It just wouldn’t work between us,’ said Ewan. ‘No matter how much I like and respect you. Let’s not spoil what is, after all, a great working relationship.’
Molly’s favoured replies included an expletive but she stopped short. ‘You’re probably right,’ she muttered and shut the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the Tiara Kabin, Sarah fixed on a smile as her first wedding client of the year unfurled a list of demands that would rival a hip-hop diva. She just hoped her customer wouldn’t notice her puffy eyes, but luckily Cassandra Burling rarely noticed anything that didn’t stare back from her own mirror.
‘I’d want the pearls dyed to exactly match my shoes. I’ve brought one of them so you can see what I want,’ said Cassandra Burling, ‘and there will be six matching hair slides for the bridesmaids and two smaller ones for the flower girls.’
‘I’m sure I can help …’ said Sarah with a smile, while silently screaming.
‘And I want a Swarovski crystals dove with a pearl in his beak to symbolise our union. And I want the bridesmaids’ hair clips all done to match but not as nice as mine, obvs. Then there’s the necklaces for my mum and his mum, not that the evil cow deserves anything but we can’t leave her out or she’ll probably cut us out of her will …’
Finally Cassandra drew breath. She picked at the plastic on the edge of the coffee table with a Barbie-pink nail.
‘You can do that by the end of the month, can’t you?’ she added, flicking a piece of plastic onto the floor of the workshop.
Sarah swallowed down a gasp of dismay. ‘The end of this month? As in the end of January?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘I thought you told me your wedding was in May?’
‘Oh, it was but we’ve got a cancellation at a theme park. It’s on Valentine’s Day and there’s a cable telly contest for Valentine’s Day brides. I want to have the ceremony on the Termination ride at Adrenalin Park. We’ll be upside down while the celebrant marries us but I still want to look ahm-azing. If you win, the telly company give you all your money back for the wedding and honeymoon.’ Cassandra folded her arms. ‘No one will be able to beat that idea.’
Sarah wanted to vom at the very thought of being upside down. ‘No. I doubt if they will, but won’t the headdresses fall off on the ride?’
‘Oh, you’ll come up with something and if I win, your tiaras and stuff will be all over Brekkie.’
‘Wow,’ said Sarah.
‘Anyway, we’ve brought everything forward and I need the headdresses for a trial run at the salon at the end of January. You can do it, can’t you?’ Cassandra’s voice took on a vaguely menacing tone.
‘Well, there’s a lot of work, especially if I have to adapt them to being worn upside down, at high speed with all that G force.’
‘Well, I’d have thought you’d have been gagging for the work, and maybe offering me a discount if I’m going to advertise your work on Brekkie … but if you don’t need the business, I could try someone else.’
‘Yes, I do. Of course, I want the business and of course, I’ll do it.’ Sarah forced a smile to her face. She needed the business more than ever now that Niall had moved out. ‘Don’t worry, everything will be ready for your big day,’ she said soothingly.
‘Good, because I want it all to be totally one hundred and ten per cent perfect.’
‘Of course, it’s once in a lifetime.’
Cassandra examined her nail. ‘Well, yeah, I suppose so. If it lasts. But that’s marriage, innit – a lottery?’ she added cheerfully.
Cassandra didn’t sound the slightest bit bothered by the prospect of her relationship not lasting and Sarah couldn’t say she was shocked or even surprised. Cassandra wasn’t the first bride she’d had who looked on the wedding mainly as an excuse to have a party and be a princess for the day. And after all, wasn’t that what she was selling? Be a princess. Wear a tiara. Pretend you’re Kate or Meghan or Princess Aurora? Sarah was in the fairy-tale business after all, but she’d liked to think she had a slightly less cynical approach than some of the suppliers – a more personal touch, a genuine sincerity that most customers recognised even if they didn’t all appreciate it.
‘The headdresses will all be ready,’ she said, hardening her heart and opening her appointments book. ‘Shall we say you come round for a fitting four weeks from today?’
‘Fab.’ Cassandra studied the Kabin, sighing wistfully. ‘What a cute little hut this is. It reminds me of a fairy grotto. I wish I could give up my job and play around with crystals and beads.’
Sarah restrained herself only by a great effort of will. ‘So do I.’
Digging her Swarovski-encrusted pearlescent pink iPhone out of her Mulberry bag, Cassandra left the Kabin with a tiny finger wave.
After she’d left, Sarah made herself a ginger tea and sat down. She couldn’t really criticise Cassandra. Who was the deluded one? Cassandra who was determined to make a statement on this one day – and stuff the lifetime afterwards, which was optional anyway? Or Molly who was, despite her protests, patently in love with her ambitious, frigid boss.
Or Sarah herself? Deluding herself that she and Niall were different. Special.
Until now Sarah had been happy that she’d given up a decent job with a bank to pursue the creative hobby she loved. She’d spent enough time helping other people get their businesses up and running in the decade or so that she’d worked at the bank. Although she didn’t begrudge a nanosecond of the time she’d devoted to making sure Molly had a good start in life, she’d been so excited at finally being able to do something for herself that was a bit risky, a bit crazy and a lot wonderful.
So what if some people at the bank had thought and told her she was selling brides a cheesy, sparkly pipe dream? She was doing what she loved best, while trying to make a future for herself and her baby.
Closing her appointments book, she took a few deep breaths and told herself to snap out of her gloom and get on with her work. Cassandra was her only appointment for the day, although she had several workshops to prepare for later in the week.
In fact, she ought to get started on Cassandra’s commission right now, but she simply couldn’t face it. It was far more tempting to curl up in bed and bawl her eyes out again – although even that would mean sleeping in the bed where Niall had been shagging Vanessa.
She locked the garden gate as Cassandra roared off in her BMW and a lump formed in her throat. The early morning drizzle had cleared and the sky was now an unblemished blue. Birds cawed from the cottage chimney, the sun gave the creamy stone a mellow hue and the whole place looked impossibly cute and picturesque. She and Niall had worked their butts off to afford it. She swallowed down her tears as she heard the “beep beep” of the bin lorry reversing up the lane. It wouldn’t do to blub in front of the bin men and anyway, she would never have Niall back again, even if he begged her on his knees in front of the bin men.
She hurried back to the workshop. Anger had replaced the initial shock of finding Niall in bed with Vanessa, combined with worries about what their split meant for her future and that of the baby. She needed to make her business work more than ever if she was going to be a single mum.
Another wave of nausea washed over her but she took a few deep breaths. She had to think of the baby now though it was hard to imagine a life beyond the cottage and the Tiara Kabin. She remembered the days they’d toiled on it in rain, hail and shine the previous autumn. It had a space where she could run her small workshops and entertain clients, with a tiny kitchenette for preparing drinks and snacks. Niall had got a mate to plumb in the sink and Sarah’s electrician cousin had wired it up to the mains. It was hardly the Grand Arcade but she loved it and the investment had finally been starting to pay off.
Closing the door behind her, she took some long, slow breaths. If she had to move out of the cottage, she’d have to find somewhere with room for the Kabin. But where and how could she possibly afford another place near Cambridge with outdoor space on her own?
On the desk, a light flashed on the phone. A message had come in while she’d shown Cassandra to the gate.
It could be Niall again … saying he’d made a massive mistake and begging her to let him back. She wouldn’t, of course … absolutely no way.
Sarah listened then rolled her eyes as she heard heavy breathing then a clatter and a groan and someone muttering, ‘Oh bugger.’ Her finger hovered over the delete key. The last thing she needed was a pervert asking the colour of her knickers.
‘Erm. Really sorry about that. I dropped the phone.’
Sarah listened. It was a man’s voice. Neutral accent, older than her, maybe, but not much? There was more heavy breathing. Sarah’s finger touched the button then he spoke.
‘I was wondering if you er … had any places left on your tiara-making workshop?’
Sarah removed her finger from the button. OK. Probably not a pervert and it wasn’t unheard of for guys to attend a workshop but … She’d had a couple, once, who wanted to make matching Swarovski crystal cravat pins for their civil partnership but, without stereotyping people – actually she was stereotyping people – she was ninety-nine per cent sure this guy must be gay. Or he could be a cross dresser, of course, which was fine, or at a push, the director of a local am dram group.
‘The tiara’s not for me, of course,’ he said.
‘Of course not,’ Sarah muttered to herself.
‘It’s for my daughter who’s getting married …’
Sarah arched an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘I know it must sound strange …’
‘Just a little.’
‘But it’s something I want to do.’
Sarah sighed. She really didn’t need to know all this in an answerphone message but this poor guy clearly needed to get it off his chest.
‘So if you can phone me back, I’d appreciate it.’ Brisker now, faster and more confident. He’d obviously got through the worst part and felt on safer ground. ‘And if you could call me back as soon as possible, I’d be grateful. I’m in a bit of a rush, you see.’
‘A rush? Hey, you should meet Cassandra.’
‘Thanks.’
The phone went dead.
Sarah sighed and tidied up the bundle of bridal magazines that Cassandra had flicked through while Sarah had made her a coffee. Behind her the phone started buzzing again. Sarah’s heart beat a little faster. This time it really might be Niall but she was frozen to the spot, not knowing what to say to him if he called.
The answerphone pinged again and the same voice echoed around the workshop.
‘Erm. Sorry for this but it’s Liam Cipriani again. I don’t think I left my number in the last message. Or my name for that matter. But as I said, it’s Liam. Cipriani. Here it is. 0787 …’
‘No shit, Sherlock?’ Sarah’s shoulders slumped as with another apology and a further request to “phone him back as soon as she possibly could”, Liam rang off.
She hovered by the phone a few moments longer, just in case he felt the need to tell her his life story or provide his inside leg measurement, before stacking the magazines in the middle of the table. As she rubbed the lipstick off Cassandra’s mug in the sink, she wondered why Liam had booked when he sounded as if he’d rather have his chest hairs plucked out one by one than attend a tiara-making workshop. Why was he coming at all, rather than his daughter?
And she really should phone him back right now.
‘Hello!’
Startled, Sarah saw a face at the window. A bald red-faced guy in a hi-vis vest grinned back at her. She opened the door and the cold hit her.
‘Erm, excuse me, love, this dropped out of the bin and I’m not sure you want to throw it out or if you dropped it on your way to your shed?’
The bin man held up the tiara, slightly deformed but still recognisable. It had a string of spaghetti dangling from it.
‘Oh, I see. I …’ Sarah couldn’t think of a way to say why she’d thrown the tiara in the bin, but worse than that, she couldn’t let the tiara go. Not even after its last wearer had been Niall, and Vanessa had possibly worn it too, for all she knew.
‘You want it then or shall I chuck it on the wagon?’ he asked.
‘No. I’ll have it.’
She took the tiara from him, shivering. ‘Thanks.’
He grinned. ‘Pleasure. Happy New Year.’
Sarah looked at the tiara. It was slightly bent but it had always been a reject. It was one from the early days when she was still learning her craft. Not good enough to sell but one of the first she’d actually been pleased with. The first one worth keeping.
The bin man jogged back up the path, steam rising from his head in the chilly air. Sarah stood by the door, the tiara between her frozen fingertips. The string of spaghetti slithered to the paving stones. Why hadn’t she let him take the bloody thing to the tip, which was what it deserved – just like Niall.
