Polly James - Would Like to Meet

“What is it, Dan?” I say.

There’s a long pause, but whatever it is, it can’t be that important, because then he just shakes his head and says: “Nothing, Hannah. You’d better go.”

I do, in case the Fembot sacks me for poor timekeeping like the woman Esther was brought in to replace, but tonight, I’m not going to bed until I’ve had it out with Dan, once and for all. This whole thing’s ridiculous, and it can’t go on.

* * *

I can’t settle all day at work, even though Esther tries her best to cheer me up. As this mainly takes the form of telling me how unlucky in love she’s always been, it doesn’t actually serve its purpose, and nor do the cupcakes the Fembot brings in “as a treat” – not once she announces what she intends to do with them.

“We’re all going to take it in turns to bake cupcakes every evening from now on,” she says. “Then we’re going to photograph everyone holding their own cakes and upload the pictures to our social media streams. It’ll help our users get to know us, and to feel they’re a part of the team here at HOO.”

“Well, that’s our credibility shot,” I say to Esther, later on. “Now the whole world will find out that we’re part of the team at HOO – and they’ll know what we look like, too. I’ll never get a proper job as an artist, if prospective employers find out I’m responsible for that stupid ‘thumbs-up, happy face’ thing.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” says Esther, with a rare flash of humour. “I should think the Fembot will find an excuse not to use our photos. You’re too old and I’m too fat.”

Esther can’t be more than a size 12, so I do wish she wouldn’t keep going on about her weight, but when I tell her so, she just says that, even if fat isn’t an issue, her acne is. She’s only got one or two spots, as far as I can see, but she’s right about one thing, anyway: the Fembot isn’t going to use our photos.

At the end of the day, she calls us both into her office, and says, “I know you guys are busy, and you have a lot more personal responsibilities than the younger ones, so don’t feel you have to join in with the cake-baking thing. You can contribute in some other way.”

Honestly, I wouldn’t mind but, although I’ve got Joel and Pearl to think about, Esther’s only got a rabbit, and just wait ’til I tell Dan about it! There’s no way he can keep claiming his job’s worse than mine – not after this.

Oh, I forgot, he probably won’t be claiming anything, will he? Not if he’s still being as uncommunicative as he was this morning when I get back home. I shall just have to keep talking to him, until he starts talking back. Meaningful looks never solved anything.

* * *

Oh, my God, Dan’s moved out. He snuck out today while I was at work, the bloody, bloody coward. This whole separation thing was his idea and then he hasn’t even got the nerve to face me when he’s bringing our life together to a sudden end. No wonder he was giving me funny looks this morning: he must have been riddled with guilt and, if he wasn’t, he damn well should have been.

“Thought it might be easier on both of us this way, Han,” says the note he’s left on the kitchen counter. “I’ll be in touch about collecting the rest of my stuff, and money for outstanding bills, etc. Look after yourself.”

He’s underlined the last sentence and scribbled over something that followed it. I try scratching the ink off with my fingernails, and then with the edge of a paring knife, but I still can’t tell if Dan added kisses or something, by mistake. My eyes have gone blurry all of a sudden, which is also why I don’t immediately realise that he’s left his keys on the counter, too.

When I do eventually spot his keyring, the one containing a photo of us on our honeymoon, my eyes get a whole lot blurrier and my chest gets tight, and I think I may be about to have a stroke. I call Joel’s name, but there’s no reply, not even when I shout it at the top of my voice, so he must be out and I’m all alone, which makes things even worse.

I spend ten minutes breathing into a paper bag until I don’t feel quite so dizzy, and then I crawl up the stairs and spend the next three hours curled up on the floor of our – I mean, my – bedroom, sobbing and hiccuping into one of Dan’s old shirts. I found it at the back of his wardrobe, and it still smells of him.

I don’t even know why I’m crying, for goodness’ sake. If Dan doesn’t want me any more, I’m buggered if I’m going to want him either. I’m just being stupid and pathetic with all this crying, and I need to get a grip before Joel comes in and sees me in such a state.

I know, I’ll go and plant the viola from the garden at “Abandon Hope”, and see if it survives its change of circumstances.

If it can do it, then so can I.

* * *

Joel’s just come in and woken me up.

“What time is it?” I say, completely befuddled.

“Almost midnight,” he says. “Are you okay? I was in the pub with Izzy when Dad sent me a text telling me what he’d done, so I came home because I was worried about you. I had no idea he was planning to move out today. Did you?”

“No,” I say, though I’m not sure if Joel hears me, as the word comes out more like a hiccup than a “no”, so I shake my head, for clarity. Then I roll myself into a ball on the sofa and start to cry as if I’ll never stop.

“Oh, Mum,” says Joel, in an unusually quiet voice.

He sounds so sad, it makes me cry all the more, and then he tries everything to make me stop, from patting me ineffectually to pushing a large glass of neat vodka into my hand. It must have been left over from when he and Izzy were “pre-loading” before they went out tonight.

Once I’ve drunk the lot, wincing at the taste, Joel leans over me, slides an arm under my shoulders and pulls me to my feet.

“Come on, Mum,” he says, “I’m taking you upstairs to bed. Everything will seem a lot better if you get some sleep.”

“Will it?” I say, as we make our way up the stairs. “Are you sure?”

Joel doesn’t answer until we reach the landing, and then he just says,

“It has to, doesn’t it? It can’t get worse.”

Well, it’s been two weeks now since Dan left home and my mission to prove to Joel and Pearl that I’m coping is going well. Being single’s a doddle so far, even if I do seem to have signed up for rather more weekly evening classes than there are evenings in a week. In fact, I’m so busy that Joel told me to “take a chill pill and calm down a bit” last night, when I arrived home after mistakenly going to the yoga studio when I should have been at French conversation class. He doesn’t seem to realise that all I’m doing is “getting myself back out there”, like the self-help gurus advise you to – and if you keep busy, there’s no time to think, which is an added bonus.

The Fembot doesn’t know about the lack of thinking, but she does approve of the busy part.

“You’ve been coming into work unusually early, Hannah,” she says, first thing this morning. “I’m impressed. That’s what I expect from a dedicated member of the team. Are you after a promotion or something?”

“God, no,” I say, “I just can’t sleep, so I thought I might as well make myself useful rather than sitting around on my arse at home.”

The Fembot stopped listening at “God, no”, judging by her unamused expression.

Mine is more panic-stricken than unamused, as I probably should be chasing promotion, in case Joel doesn’t pay his new, realistic rent at the end of the month (the one he described as “extortionate” last time I mentioned it), but it’s too late now. The Fembot’s gone off to upload photos of her latest batch of cupcakes to the company blog. They’re owls, with faces made of chocolate icing and chocolate buttons, though I’m not sure about the Fembot’s claims that they denote the wisdom of our users. Most of their opinions aren’t worth having, as I discover when I scroll through the site while eating my lunch.