Jane Sigaloff - Lost and Found

For the twenty-first consecutive minute Sam stared out of her window, mesmerised by the moon rising over London. Perfectly round and almost whitely luminescent against an increasingly deep blue sky, it was the sort of scene you expected Elliot to cycle across with ET in his basket. And a timely reminder of the fact that the world was still doing its spinning thing while she remained powerless.

Sam swivelled back to face her desk and reached for another file-shaped dose of reality. Give her a complicated deal any day over the emotional stuff.

The writing was much messier now. And in a different pen.

Richard Blakely is a wanker.

Richard Blakely is an arrogant wanker.

Richard Blakely is an arrogant, misogynist wanker.

Richard Blakely is an arrogant, misogynist wanker who wields his (not exactly enormous) sexuality like some sort of power tool.

Richard Blakely is a tool, an egomaniac, and my boss. Fucking marvellous.

A smudge. Her hand? A tear? Neat vodka?

How can this be happening? Tired of being an adult. Want someone else to take responsibility for me. To help. Am so tired.

‘You’re making me feel guilty, just sitting there. Why don’t I meet you in that enormous shop you love and I hate?’ Ali’s voice came sailing out of the changing area.

‘What?’ Grumpy at the interruption, Ben tuned back in to his life just as Ali appeared with an armful of rejects and further requests for the assistant.

‘The Virgin Megastore.’

‘The last thing I need now is a virgin.’

‘Benjamin…’ The warning tone. ‘Just go.’

Carefully he closed the magazine. ‘What you still fail to understand is that you can never have too much music. Fashions come and go. The soundtrack of your life is ever-expanding.’

‘Whatever.’

‘It’s true. Certain tracks are like milestones.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘Which song did you have your first French kiss to?’

‘Um, George Michael—“Careless Whisper”.’

‘1984.’

‘You’re a freak, do you know that?’

‘And what were you wearing?’

‘God knows.’

‘See.’

‘Please, be a music anorak with my blessing…just leave me out of it. But really you might as well go on ahead. You must be bored out of your mind.’

‘Bored?’

‘I know what I’m like when I’m on a mission. I’ve still got a few more things I want to try here, and then I need to go to Barnes & Noble and Sephora.’

‘Here you go, miss.’ The assistant had returned with Phase 6 of the try-ons and another pseudo-genuine smile from her collection.

‘Thanks…could you find me a belt too?’

‘Sure.’

Ben rolled his eyes at the girl and she did her best not to reciprocate. Hey, the customer was always right. One belt selection coming right up.

‘Okay, I admit it. There’s no such thing as a selfless good deed.’ Ali headed back behind the curtain. ‘But you know how much I hate it when you insist on walking up and down every aisle, including the Country, World and Extreme Reggae departments. Maybe if we were married I’d find it endearing. Then again…’

‘I’ll go later…or tomorrow.’ Ben tried to focus.

Why is he even here tonight? Why can’t he understand I am not now, nor ever will be, interested in him? Can’t believe he actually suggested we have a fling. Correction, an affair. Jesus. Much worse. OK, I admit have been ignoring some signs, a few glances, a couple of compliments, but I never thought he meant anything until now.

And to think he said it wouldn’t change anything…

‘Ha. Busted. Extreme Reggae. I invented a whole new musical genre and you didn’t even notice.’

…that he actually suggested that fucking the boss, as he so delicately put it, might be exciting. That I’d be the perfect mistress. Mistress. He didn’t even want a one-night stand. What is it with me? What is it that I exude that makes men want to sleep with me, yet date and marry someone else?

‘Yup.’ Ben selected a monosyllabic random response and hoped it fitted in with the general gist of Ali’s conversation.

God, I’m stupid to have let him come up here when he said he just wanted to collect some papers. Honestly didn’t think I was being naïve. I only went to the bathroom for a minute and then there he was, in my bed, his clothes abandoned in a pile on the floor. How can Richard think of me as some sort of emotionally detached sexual predator? Increasingly unsure whether I even have a romantic core any more. Think Paul may have packed it, along with my Crowded House CD, when we split up. Must repurchase.

Nodding sympathetically, he turned the page. Julia had squirrelled away quite a few of his old favourites, but it had seemed a bit petty to bring it up at the time.

Could it be that I’ve only got as far at 3L because Richard…? Know I am being ridiculous. Am bloody good at what I do. But suddenly everything feels sordid. Why does it always have to boil down to sex? Why can’t it be more like school? End-of-year exams. Pointless rules. Regulation hockey socks. Gym knickers. But no sex. Well, not for me at any rate.

Ben’s eyes darted along every line, taking in as much as he could in as short a time as possible. Ali was bound to interrupt again any minute.

At least I kept my cool. Didn’t overreact. He apologised. Questionable sincerity. Claimed too much to drink. Got carried away. Should be carried away. Such a smooth operator. I never want to be a wife if this is what happens. Am adult. Can cope.

Still don’t know how EJ managed to be so laid back (laid back!) about NG thing. If it gets out her life at GB is as good as over, and all for the sake of a few orgasms. Then again, when was the last time I even had one of those? Maybe he wanted her to be his in-house counsel. But now his wife is expecting a third. And he never pretended his marriage was in trouble.

And why would I leave one of London’s top firms when I can almost see my name on the headed paper? Guess it’s just business as usual, then. I can do professional and so can he. I’m not the one with a wife and children. Sometimes the world is so disappointing. Wanted my life to be St Elmo’s Fire, not Carry On Up Against the Filing Cabinet.

Ben laughed before attempting to segue into more of a cough when he realised there were other people listening.

Ali waltzed out in a different outfit.

‘Hey. What about this?’ Ali pulled the back of the top down, tightening it across her chest. ‘Is the sweater too pink? Or not pink enough?’

Startled by her speedy return, Ben had barely enough time to tilt the magazine to his chest.

‘Nice.’

‘What?’

‘The pants. I mean the trousers.’ Twenty years of living in London and he was almost fluent in English.

‘Get with it. They’re the same.’ Ali wasn’t doing a great job of disguising her impatience. ‘It’s the top I want to know about.’

‘Quite tight. Good colour on you.’

‘It’s supposed to be tight.’

‘Then it’s fine.’

‘Fine? Just for the record “fine” and “nice” are not acceptable answers when clothes-shopping.’

‘It’s great. Splendid. Marvellous. Exquisite. Really, it suits you.’

‘Not too tight?’

‘No.’

‘And not too big either?’

‘No. Tight. Definitely tight.’

‘Sexy tight?’

‘I guess.’

‘But not tarty tight?’

‘No.’

‘Nor shrunk-one-size-in-the-wash too tight.’

‘No.’

‘Which is a good point.’ Ali twisted the seam until the care instructions were in her grasp. Dry Clean Only. But, fingering the wool, she was sure she could hand-wash it carefully. ‘Do you think David will like it?’ Ali was contorting her chest in the mirror and tilting her upper body through ninety degrees, presumably in case she ever needed to wear cashmere to a gymnastics meet.