Keith Waterhouse - Office Life

'I go west,' said Pam, with a smile as explicit as an engraved invitation card.

They walked — strolled, Gryce would have said: Pam seemed in no hurry and he certainly wasn't — along Gravechurch Street, talking of this and that. The chief topic was the gristly quality of the veal and ham pie which, as was quickly established, both had had at their separate tables in the Buttery that day. The coincidence gave Pam an opportunity, which she did not take, of apologizing for not having had lunch with Gryce. She probably felt too embarrassed.

Pam's bus-stop was only two hundred yards or so up the street. Gryce's was opposite, or so he pretended. In fact his bus didn't stop there at all and he would have to retrace his steps east to get the No. 13 for London Bridge. But it had been worth it.

The parting of the ways, then. Pam tagged on to the end of the longish queue and Gryce hovered by her side.

'Request stop, thirty-eight and one-seven-one,' he read aloud. 'Which is yours then, the thirty-eight or the one-seven-one?'

'Both. Either.'

'You live where? Islington, that way?'

'Islington, yes. I go as far as the Angel and then it's just three minutes' walk. I say the Angel, it's the next stop, actually.'

'So you're home in next to no time. What is it — seven pee, twelve pee?'

'Nineteen, if you don't mind! That's when they bother to stop!' retorted Pam as two thirty-eights, both crammed with standing passengers, sailed past.

Gryce wondered how long he ought to wait. This was all very pleasant but they were bang in the middle of the rush hour and there were a good twenty people ahead of Pam. He would be here all blessed night at this rate.

He was about to ask her if she had ever thought of walking east where she would have a better chance of getting a thirty-eight or a one-seven-one before they filled up, when she began to strip naked in front of him.

That, at any rate, was the sensation that came across to Gryce as he heard her saying, with studied airiness, 'When the seventy-three used to stop here, I always used to wait with Mrs Rashman. And I knew what she was going to say every night, before she even said it. "Oh, bubbles to it, let's go and have a drink."'

Although she was taking care to speak casually, Gryce thought he caught a tremor in her voice indicating the same excitement as he felt himself. Hoping, in vain, that his own voice would remain steady, he said thickly:

'I believe there's a wine bar in the vicinity.'

'Just round the corner. The Pressings. Do you know it?'

'I've passed it. I've never ventured over the threshold.'

'It's not much, but at least you can sit down.'

And so here they were, on their second glass of Soave, and she was asking him all kinds and manner of personal questions such as was he married? Gryce felt quite lightheaded.

It was early days, probably, to confess that his wife didn't understand him but a hint or two in that direction wouldn't go amiss.

'Oh, very much so. More years than I care to remember. So of course, we don't live in one another's pockets any more. But' — a generous little sigh here — 'it's all very amicable.'

He hoped he was striking the right note.

'Does your wife work?'

'Part-time. For a local firm. She just looks in each afternoon, keeps the books straight. Gives her something to do.' He hoped it didn't reach Pam's ears that Peggy was working in a betting shop. Lucas of Personnel probably knew: he seemed to have familiarized himself very fully with Gryce's life story. And if Lucas knew, then it was very much on the cards that he had told Seeds. ('Yes, the wife joined the Liberal Club at the same time, but she's even less interested in politics than he is. Bit of a dimwit, between you, me and the gatepost. Yes, works in a betting shop of all places.') And Seeds, who did not seem averse to passing on bits of gossip, was well in with Pam.

Gryce wondered, not for the first time, exactly how well in with her Seeds really was. They would have to see. If the present tête-à-tête continued as promisingly as it had started, friend Seeds might end up with his nose being put severely out of joint.

'She works evenings quite often,' added Gryce recklessly, 'so we don't see all that much of each other. And I suppose we've — well, not drifted apart, but we do have different interests.'

'What are they?'

'Oh, she's very much involved in the—' He was about to say 'local dramatic society'. Given what he hoped would be his own involvement in the Albion Players one of these fine days, that would never do. In the nick of time he substituted, 'local women's organizations type of thing.'

'I meant what are your interests?'

'Ah. Wrong end of stick. What are my interests? Well, let me see, there's lifting the elbow for one, as at present. Could you manage another glass of this Spanish-type grape juice, by the way?'

'Actually, it's not all that bad, considering.'

'Oh, no, we could have travelled further and fared worse. What do you think?'

'I don't mind. If you're having one.'

Gryce went up to the bar and got another two glasses of Soave. In future he would definitely buy a bottle. He was paying way over the odds at this rate.

'And — what else?' he continued, after an observation about them not exactly believing in filling their glasses to the brim. 'I watch the box a good deal, as who doesn't? Did you see Oh No It's Selwyn Froggitt at all last night?'

Pam shook her head.

'I like it!' asserted Gryce as if he'd been challenged, 'I think they get some really good twists, whoever dreams it up.'

Pam was still shaking her head, but more slowly, suggesting mystification or total lack of interest rather than an acknowledgement of her sin of omission. He would be losing his audience at this rate.

'Actually I spend far too much time stuck in front of the box, it's only habit, I don't get out as much as I should, that's my trouble.'

'Where do you go when you do get out?'

'Well, that's it, isn't it? Where is there to go?' Gryce took the plunge. 'I really ought to join something. What was it you were saying the other day — the Albion Players, was it?'

'I thought you weren't interested.'

'Oh, on the contrary. Let's say not uninterested. I'd certainly like to come along one evening, have a look-see. You never know, I might finish up playing Hamlet!'

Pam smiled, but said nothing. Gryce added that assistant spear carrier was probably more in his line but she still didn't rise to the bait.

Instead, she changed the subject.

'What do you think of Perfidious Albion after your first week on the treadmill?'

But for the voice, that might have been Seeds talking. Gryce had heard of chameleon-like women who picked up the mannerisms of their lovers. He felt a pang in his chest which, though unfamiliar, he recognized as jealousy. That was absurd at his age. He would put it down to the acidity of the wine.

'What can I say? I find it highly congenial.'

'But not over-tiring?'

'I don't think anyone could accuse Perfidious Albion of running a sweatshop.'

'And it doesn't bother you?'

'How do you mean, bother me?'

'It's a straightforward question, does it bother you?'

For the first time it began to register with Gryce that Pam had an inquisitorial, some would say hectoring, way with her. He had noticed it during their lunch with Seeds the other day but had not really taken it in. It had to be admitted, in fact, that he had not given much thought to Pam's personality at all. He had simply decided that there was some ingredient missing from his life and that it was time he had an extra-marital flutter to give it that added bit of spice. His move to a new billet gave him the opportunity, since what his wife learned of his working pattern would be entirely up to him, and Pam looked the likeliest candidate. Whether he actually liked the woman was something he supposed he would have to consider sooner or later.