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Authors: Rowan Coleman
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hypnotherapy session to make you all tidier. You know, something along the lines of seeing your in-tray full of paper making you feel compelled to process and file it. What do you think?’ she repeats.
I’m silent for a moment. The air-conditioning makes the wind chime by the door tinkle and I can see a tiny spider busily weaving a web between the leaves of her money plant.
‘You see, Georgie,’ I say slowly, ‘the thing is, hypnotism used in that way might, you know, contravene the basic human right of free will – don’t you agree?’
She looks disappointed. ‘I thought it might be a bit iffy, but I thought, well, as it helps everyone to improve themselves it might not be a bad thing? And we’ve got this American due to visit any day now, so I thought it couldn’t hurt to make a good impression.’
‘Yes, but there is something faintly megalomaniac-fascist-despot about that way of thinking, isn’t there?’
‘Well … if you say so. What about an early-morning yoga class?’
‘Super,’ I say, wanting to cheer her up even though the likelihood of the young ones getting in early enough or the more mature ones being arsed is slim.
‘Really?’ She smiles.
‘Great idea. Count me in.’
She smiles again and starts flicking through her Rolodex. ‘I’ll sort someone out now. Oh and Jen, love, there are some special deals I want you to take the team through today. We’re launching them tomorrow; the targets are on the sheets.’ She hands me our new project.
As I walk back to my desk Carla is sitting on Kevin’s desk and conspicuously holding a piece of paper as if it were her passport to flirting. When she sees me coming she gives him a little smile and goes back to her desk.
‘We’ve caught up on those faxes, Jenny,’ she says as I go past.
‘Super,’ I say, in a boss-like fashion. ‘Well done.’ And I walk back to my desk, still in awe that anyone pays attention to anything I say.
Chapter Eleven
One thing after another happens at work and I get in about fifteen minutes before the taxi is supposed to pick us up to go to Selin’s mum’s. Rosie is waiting for me, reclining on the black velveteen sofa in a nice pair of khaki linen trousers from Hobbs, her yellow hair in a neat French pleat and her face perfectly made up, all peaches-and-cream natural. By her feet there are three old cups of tea, two small plates with toast crumbs on and an empty foil carton that contained Chinese food some time last week. I get a little heavy feeling in my heart and I am glad the time is coming when we must finally be tidy.
‘Hello,’ she says, absent-mindedly staring at the TV.
‘Hi, how was the doctor’s?’ Aware that I won’t have time for my planned shower I sit at the three-legged table and reapply the make-up that I keep there over the make up that I put on this morning. Rosie, who would no sooner consider doing such a thing than she would eat leftover take-away out of a rubbish bin, looks at me with distaste.
‘You’ll clog your pores and your skin won’t be able to breathe and then you’ll go all grey and get spots, and then when you’ve got spots
and
wrinkles don’t come running to me for a miracle cure. The doctor was very nice. She gave me official confirmation and a leaflet. I have to make appointments for scans and things after that. You’ll come with me, won’t you?’ She waves a bit of pink paper at me and I nod mutely, contorted, as I try to drag the mascara brush through my already-mascaraed lashes.
‘Oh, God, I look like a drag queen,’ I say when I examine my handiwork. Talk of the baby seems like a distant reality. Almost like our childhood discussions of what we wanted to be when we grew up.
‘There are three messages for you, all from Owen. One polite, one whiny, one pissed off.’ I look at the blinking red number three on the answerphone and without any hesitation I press Delete. We both watch it as it makes its little whirring and clicking noises and resets
I’m silent for a moment. The air-conditioning makes the wind chime by the door tinkle and I can see a tiny spider busily weaving a web between the leaves of her money plant.
‘You see, Georgie,’ I say slowly, ‘the thing is, hypnotism used in that way might, you know, contravene the basic human right of free will – don’t you agree?’
She looks disappointed. ‘I thought it might be a bit iffy, but I thought, well, as it helps everyone to improve themselves it might not be a bad thing? And we’ve got this American due to visit any day now, so I thought it couldn’t hurt to make a good impression.’
‘Yes, but there is something faintly megalomaniac-fascist-despot about that way of thinking, isn’t there?’
‘Well … if you say so. What about an early-morning yoga class?’
‘Super,’ I say, wanting to cheer her up even though the likelihood of the young ones getting in early enough or the more mature ones being arsed is slim.
‘Really?’ She smiles.
‘Great idea. Count me in.’
She smiles again and starts flicking through her Rolodex. ‘I’ll sort someone out now. Oh and Jen, love, there are some special deals I want you to take the team through today. We’re launching them tomorrow; the targets are on the sheets.’ She hands me our new project.
As I walk back to my desk Carla is sitting on Kevin’s desk and conspicuously holding a piece of paper as if it were her passport to flirting. When she sees me coming she gives him a little smile and goes back to her desk.
‘We’ve caught up on those faxes, Jenny,’ she says as I go past.
‘Super,’ I say, in a boss-like fashion. ‘Well done.’ And I walk back to my desk, still in awe that anyone pays attention to anything I say.
Chapter Eleven
One thing after another happens at work and I get in about fifteen minutes before the taxi is supposed to pick us up to go to Selin’s mum’s. Rosie is waiting for me, reclining on the black velveteen sofa in a nice pair of khaki linen trousers from Hobbs, her yellow hair in a neat French pleat and her face perfectly made up, all peaches-and-cream natural. By her feet there are three old cups of tea, two small plates with toast crumbs on and an empty foil carton that contained Chinese food some time last week. I get a little heavy feeling in my heart and I am glad the time is coming when we must finally be tidy.
‘Hello,’ she says, absent-mindedly staring at the TV.
‘Hi, how was the doctor’s?’ Aware that I won’t have time for my planned shower I sit at the three-legged table and reapply the make-up that I keep there over the make up that I put on this morning. Rosie, who would no sooner consider doing such a thing than she would eat leftover take-away out of a rubbish bin, looks at me with distaste.
‘You’ll clog your pores and your skin won’t be able to breathe and then you’ll go all grey and get spots, and then when you’ve got spots
and
wrinkles don’t come running to me for a miracle cure. The doctor was very nice. She gave me official confirmation and a leaflet. I have to make appointments for scans and things after that. You’ll come with me, won’t you?’ She waves a bit of pink paper at me and I nod mutely, contorted, as I try to drag the mascara brush through my already-mascaraed lashes.
‘Oh, God, I look like a drag queen,’ I say when I examine my handiwork. Talk of the baby seems like a distant reality. Almost like our childhood discussions of what we wanted to be when we grew up.
‘There are three messages for you, all from Owen. One polite, one whiny, one pissed off.’ I look at the blinking red number three on the answerphone and without any hesitation I press Delete. We both watch it as it makes its little whirring and clicking noises and resets
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