Putty In Her Hands (7 page)

I pester Loretta to see whether
Dawn has texted her again. She’s amused by my interest but no, she
hasn’t. Damn.

An hour before lunchtime, Paul
approaches me at my desk.
Rob,
he says,
fancy coming out
for a drink at lunch?

I thought we were all meeting
up tonight.

No, I mean just you and me.

Just you and…? Oh.

I hope you don’t mind but I
need your advice on something.

You do?

But if you’re busy…

No, no, not at all. But advice
on what?

He appears uncomfortable so I
simply agree to meet him outside at one. Satisfied, he returns to
his desk.

Paul is one of these people you
don’t ask how he is, for fear he’ll tell you. A round-faced, 40
year-old with owl-like eyes, he’s an amenable chap but his personal
life is that of a soap opera and broadcast so widely to anyone
within earshot that it has higher listening figures than
The
Archers
. Five years ago, Paul met a girl half his age at work;
four years ago, they married; three years ago they had a child, a
boy; two years ago, he and his wife split up; one year ago, they
divorced; six months ago, a new man takes Paul’s place as husband
and father. And now he’s angry. He hates his ex with a
ferociousness bordering on psychotic; loses half his salary into
her bank account, and only sees his son one weekend a fortnight. I
like Paul but only at a distance; you can’t truly know him without
becoming fully acquainted with his personal Greek tragedy. And now
he’s asking me advice on a subject I know I’ll be ill-advised and
ill-equipped to give. I had planned to spend a quiet lunch hour to
myself, going through my head, for the umpteenth time, the various
scenarios of seeing Dawn for the first time in a week.

One o’clock. Fearful that
alcohol would only feed Paul’s moroseness, I steer him away from
the pub and into De Niro’s, a small café round the corner. I’ve
often wondered whether the great actor knows that there’s a small
café in North London devoted to his image. The food is Italian with
names like Spaghetti Bolognese De Niro or Taxi Driver Lasagne.
Their devotion to their hero is either touching or disturbing,
depending on one’s point of view. Having ordered our Cape Fear
Panini and Good Fellas Salad Baguette, paid for by Paul, at his
insistence, we sit down at a small table beneath a poster for
Raging Bull. I’m feeling uneasy; my relationship with Paul has
always been restricted to the office and now I find myself trapped
in a tete-a-tete in a temple to De Niro burdened by the expectation
of providing advice of, I presume, a confidential nature.

We start with our favourite De
Niro films, which seems like an obvious icebreaker; then move onto
father-talk and what we’ve bought for our sons for Christmas. I
manage to pan this out for quite a while before our reason for
being here starts:

Robin, I see you as a man of
the world.

I wouldn’t go that far.

No but you’re what I’d call a
level-headed kind of bloke, and a good barometer of how things
are.

A barometer?

You see, this is where I need
your advice.

These green peppers are nice,
aren’t they? Sorry, Paul, what were you saying?

Your advice, Rob.

Well, to be frank, I may not
–

There’s someone in the office I
like.

Is there? What do you mean by
‘like’?

Fancy.

Oh God.

What? I know what you’re
thinking; I’ve been there before –

A girl?
Well, it’s not you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Of course
a girl. A woman even.

Just making sure.

But I think she may be out of
my league; that’s why I need your advice.

Oh God.
I know where
this is heading.

Why do you keep saying
that?
He wipes a crumb of Panini off his tie and in doing so
sets off the merry Christmas tune.

I wouldn’t do it.

“
Jingle
bells, jingle bells…”

Why not; you don’t know who I’m
talking about yet.

I do.
She’s married.

Who?

“
Oh what fun
it is to ride…”

Dawn.

How did you know?
says
Paul quickly.
Has she mentioned me?
His owl-like eyes try to
see inside of me.

No but we all fancy Dawn.

“
Hey! Jingle
bells…”

Do we?
When I say fancy, I mean she’s quite attractive and all that –

“
All the
way…”

She’s beautiful.

Is she?
You just said you fancy her.

No, not me. I’m married.

So that excludes looking, does
it?

“
One horse
open sleigh.”

Yes. No. Can’t you stop that
music?
It’s on a loop. Look, this is not helping much.

I never knew there were so many
verses.

There it’s finished now. You
say she’s married?

Certainly accounted for.

Damn.

But listen, Paul, go for it
anyway. Chances are, they’re probably in the middle of a divorce.
What’s the worst that can happen?

Quite a lot, actually.

That’s what I thought.

What?

Look at the time; we’d better
get back.

Already?

Thanks, Paul, for lunch and
everything. Very nice.

Yes,
he says,
well
worth it.

2.30 p.m. Back in the office.
Everyone’s sending each other festive emails and making merry. I
feel pleased to have given Paul my advice and lived up to his
‘man-of-the-world’ label but why, I wonder, had I encouraged him in
his endeavours
vis-à-vis
Dawn. Surely, it wasn’t in my
interest. But of course I know perfectly well – I want to see him
fail where I’ve succeeded. His failure, and a failure it would
surely be, would only heighten my sense of achievement. Granted, a
minor risk is involved, in that Dawn may welcome his advances but
if she did I’d sit butt naked on top of the office Christmas
tree.

4 p.m. Heather’s given us the
nod to go home. Little work has been achieved in the last seven
hours and bugger all will be in the remaining hour, so why prolong
the agony? So everyone piles out in one big happy mass, either
heading home or adjourning to the pub. Everyone, that is, except
Heather and me. I couldn’t face sitting at the bar trying to make
conversation whilst staring at the door, my heart jumping every
time it opened in the hope it was Dawn. So I’m still here, writing
up my diary, my thoughts turning, again, to having sex with Dawn. I
still can’t imagine having sex with another woman after all these
years. I’m so used to Emily, and her preferences and foibles, and
the familiar and lovely contours of her body. I imagine myself all
fingers and thumbs with another woman, having to endure comments
like:
No, not like that;
or
Not there;
or
Is that
it?
It’s too painful to contemplate. And I am beginning to
regret my animalistic boast. What if I get first night nerves, and
my lovemaking proves more guinea pig than lion?
Well, Dawn, when
I said animalistic…
And what if I’d misread the signals. Do
sentences like:
What are you like in bed,
and
I so want
to sit on your face
mean she wants to sleep with me? Perhaps
she’s merely flirtatious in the extreme and one move and I’d be
hauled up in front of Heather for inappropriate conduct. How good
would that look on my End-Of-Year Review?

5.30 p.m. Time to go; the Horse
and Carrot awaits. Heather’s still in her office. I knock on her
door and pop my head round the corner. I find her applying a fresh
layer of lipstick, holding up a compact mirror.
I’ll be off
then.

OK,
she says, her eyes
still fixed on the reflection of her puckered lips.

Happy Christmas.

And festive greetings in
return.
Heather never uses the Christmas word if she can help
it; she considers it too faith-specific.

And so, fearful of what the
night might have in store for me, I head off, saying my goodbyes
and Happy Christmases to various reception staff, security guards
and porters. My route to the pub takes me along the canal path,
busy with suited workers wobbling and giggling. December
5
^th
already seems like a distant memory; that first kiss
with Dawn feels like something that happened to someone else.
Perhaps it was Paul. Now, as I approach the pub and see the festive
crowd within and hear Wizard singing out from the jukebox, the
steaks seem so much higher. And that much more serious.

The place is packed. I head
straight for the bar, wanting to avoid the obligation of buying a
huge round of drinks. It took a while to fight to the front,
surrounded by loud boys and underdressed girls, all surely too
young to be in here. I found myself besides Sean, holding a tray,
trying to make himself seen from his wheelchair. He said something
but what I don’t know.

What can I get you,
mate?
barked a barman.

I think my friend was here
before me.

It took him a few seconds to
realise who I was referring to. Sean looked awkward, craning his
neck, the bar towering above him like a sheer cliff face. How we
take things for granted, I thought.

I found the others, occupying
several tables and much space: Ernie, Karen, Paul, Loretta and
others. But no Dawn. It’s still early, I told myself. I made a
beeline for Loretta and after some banal chitchat ask her
nonchalantly whether she’d received a text from Dawn. Yes, she
says, she was on her way.

Really
? I could have
kissed her, my mood transformed in an instant.
Well, Loretta,
what are you doing for Christmas?

An eternity later, having
escaped Loretta’s history of Christmases past, Paul nudged up to
me.
Did I hear you ask about Dawn?
he asks, his eyes round
with anticipation.

Yeah, apparently she’s on her
way.

Great. Thanks, mate, for
finding that out.

Shit, I thought, I could
without Paul muscling in.

She’s so hot, isn’t she,
he says.

Yes but Paul –

I reckon I stand a good as
chance as anyone, don’t you?

Well, perhaps, but listen, Paul
–

Oh fuck, look, here she is.

Is she? Where?

We must have looked comical, or
desperate; two eager men, heads turned, almost salivating as Dawn
came in, ignoring the admiring glances around her. Every male pair
of eyes followed her as she glided through the pub. If anything, my
memory had diminished her beauty; seeing her again reminded me how
stunning she was.

She came straight towards us,
looking divine in a dark blue jacket, yellow blouse and tight jeans
with a flower motif up the calf.

Hi, Paul, Hi,
Rob
.

Hi, Dawn,
I said.
Lovely to see you again.

And you,
she said,
tilting her head to one side, her teeth gleaming. Paul shot us
puzzled glances, probably wondering what was going on; whether I
was moving in on his gal.

You look…
Paul put me
off my stride and I trailed off with a feeble
nice.
Twenty
seconds in and he was already cramping my style.

More than ‘nice’,
he
said, trumping me.
You look wonderful.

Why, thank you,
Paul
.

Let me buy you a drink.

Thanks, Paul, that’s kind of
you, a dry white wine, please.

Ha, I thought, tactical error
number one – it now means you have to leave us together while you
spend an eon at the bar.

He hesitated for a moment,
realising his mistake.
Right you are, dry white wine it is then.
And you, Robin?

Just got one in. Thanks anyway,
Paul.

So I see.

With Paul safely
dispatched, Dawn waved at some of the others, then motioning with
her eyes, took me to one side.
Nice to see
you again, honey.

And you, Dawn. I didn’t think
you’d make it.

I nearly didn’t. I had such a
relaxed week in Westminster, I didn’t want to leave.

But you did.

Yes. I wanted to see you.

I couldn’t help
but grin.
Wow, I’m touched.

So you should be! Did you miss
me?

Heck…

Yes?

Maybe, a little.

She
laughed.
Me thinks you did!

You really look gorgeous.