Lisa Owens - Not Working

“…”

She scours the ceiling for inspiration. “What do you like, then?”

“…”

“Oh. Right…Who do you support?”

“…”

She’s shaking her head. “Never heard of them.” Her lips have disappeared. They leave, exchanging grimace-like smiles of resignation, just as Rachel finally appears.

—

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” says Rachel. There’s a deep stress-line between her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, and she bursts into tears. The human rights lawyer she’s been sporadically texting (and even more sporadically sleeping with) has finally put an end to things.

“He said, ‘I don’t think this is right for me anymore. I need some time to myself.’ As if seeing me once every three weeks was too demanding.”

I teeter perilously on my bar stool to embrace her. “I know it feels really shitty at the moment, but I think this is ultimately a good thing. It’s so much better to have a clean break than to be embroiled for another six months or a year. Now you can focus on meeting someone worth your time and emotional energy.”

“I really thought he was, though.”

Coming from such an intelligent person, this strikes me as beyond ridiculous, but I proceed with caution.

“You just said you saw him once every three weeks.”

“I know I always complained about him, but he could be so sweet: he cooked me shepherd’s pie after I told him it was my favorite. And the last time I saw him, he said he thought I’d get on really well with his sister.”

I try to look impressed by this gallantry.

“I honestly thought it was going somewhere. What if he was the One and now I’ve pushed him away and I’ll be alone forever?”

I tell her there’s no such thing as the One. I tell her it’s a conspiracy, a myth peddled by the Big Three: Hollywood, the government and the free market.

“How do you explain you and Luke, then?”

“Look, let me put it this way,” I say, “that was nothing more than pure luck and good timing. Luke’s great, obviously, but believe me he is far from perfect — and I don’t have to tell you I’m no picnic. There are a million little compromises involved every single day. Doesn’t it seem too unlikely that there’s only one person out of seven billion who’s right for you? And if that were even true, what are the chances that I, of all people, have found mine?”

“Okay,” says Rachel, “but you know I could say the same to you about a job.”

“Well, that’s a bit different—”

“How? You’re always talking about finding the right thing. But who’s to say there aren’t five or twenty or fifty jobs you could love if you were just a bit more open-minded? Doesn’t it seem equally unlikely that there’s only one thing that’s right for you and all the rest of us have found ours?”

“But…No. It’s not…Okay. Maybe. Fine. Why don’t we agree we both have a point?”

She holds out a hand, and we shake on it, firmly.

“Deal.”

—

We leave after last orders, and at the bus stop just a few feet away, who do I see but the very same couple from the unsuccessful date, kissing with the fervor of a departing soldier and his sweetheart, while the night buses sweep up and down the wet roads.

Where? my scrabbling fingers scream into the gritty depths of my bag.

Same place, my phone, cool and oblong, answers, as the last twenty-five times you checked.

One tiny little error in judgment (the number of tissues you think you’ll need) is all it takes to become who you thought you never would (the person hawking back phlegm on the bus).

Seven different varieties of hummus; zero varieties of apple, lemon, carrot.

I’m woken by Luke, propped on an elbow, singing “Happy Birthday” in creepy falsetto.

“Come and get me when you’re done,” I say, burrowing under the duvet.

He lingers on the last note, feeling for my hand, and presses a small wrapped cube into it.

“Ooh.” I rip off the paper. “Earrings?” I guess.

“Not ear rings but…” he says as I lift the lid of the box, “ a ring!”

“Oh!” I look at him then at it until it blurs.

“What?” he says. “Is it okay?”

I nod.

“Are you sure?”

The rapid nodding continues as I extract it from its little velvet bed and lay it flat on my palm.

“This is from the same place as Sarah’s — I remembered you really liked hers. But obviously it’s a different ring. Try it on.”

“Obviously. Because Sarah’s was an engagement ring.” I slide it on. There’s a pretty gold rose where the stone would be, were it an engagement ring.

“Exactly. The woman called this one a ‘cocktail’ ring? But I think that just means ‘normal ring.’ ” I try to smile, but my bottom lip will not play ball. “So, to confirm: you do like it,” he says.

“I really do.” My shoulders are bunched around my ears; when I try to drag them down, they ping back up.

Luke crawls around on top of the covers so that he’s kneeling in front of me. “And you definitely…don’t… want …it…to be an engagement ring?”

“No! No. No, no, no.” I turn my head slowly left to right, left to right. “No way. Not yet. We talked about this. You know I don’t.”

“Do I?” Luke takes my head in his hands. “Claire, look at me.” I open my eyes. “Are you crying?”

“I always cry on my birthday; it’s a tradition. I was born crying: ask my mother.”

The bell goes and I open the door to see the postman, already retreating.

“Hey! Hello?” I call, and he turns, seeming astonished and irritated that ringing the bell has resulted in someone opening the door. In his personal life, he might be a biker: his ears, eyebrows and abundant beard are spiked with piercings, and he’s accessorized his uniform with a paisley bandana that no one could call regulation. He hands over a huge pink envelope, far too big to fit through the letter flap.

“You know, some people have mobility issues,” I say. “You should wait a bit longer before assuming no one’s in.”

He sighs. “Sorry?”

“Some people can’t get to the door that fast,” I say slowly, enunciating carefully. “The elderly, for one. I sprinted downstairs and still nearly missed you.”

“I heard you?” he says. “I was apologizing?” His manner could not be less apologetic.

“Oh. Right. Well. Good. Thank you. I appreciate that. And sorry if I overreacted, but…you know. I’m a bit…It’s my birthday today.”

He nods, hitching the mailbag more securely on his shoulder. “Happy birthday. Enjoy your massive card.”

—

In the hall, I look at the envelope, which is addressed to Claire Flannery in the neat all-caps style my father has in common with psychopaths. It might be, excepting forwarded bank statements, the first thing he’s ever posted to me.

I rip it jaggedly open and coax out a correspondingly huge card adorned with ribbon, glitter, glued-on satin rosebuds and the words FOR OUR SPECIAL LITTLE GIRL, featuring multiple fonts, scalloped edges and a poem spanning many pink pages — really, it’s more of a booklet than a card — an epic in blandness, which leans rather too heavily on “day” as an end-rhyme (preceded by “to-,” “birth-,” “special,” “ev’ry,” “on this,” “birth-” (again), “your big,” “wonderful” and “lovely”); in other words, an all-frills job, which, through its scale and flamboyance, serves only to highlight the very lack of motherly love it was doubtless trying to disguise. I leaf through it in search of a personal message, and about to give up, turn over and see on the back, CLAIRE at the top, and FROM DAD AND MUM beneath the words “Time 2 Celebrate”; not a message, as my father apparently thought, but the manufacturer’s logo.