Lisa Owens - Not Working

2. Wednesday, 4:23 p.m.

“Hi, Claire, yes, no, just a quickie to say I saw Dr. Patterson and he was wondering had you found a job yet, and I said you hadn’t — I hope you don’t mind…No, not that you should mind, well, you know what I mean — but anyway, his nephew, Brian is his name, I think, works in recruitment in London, very high up in, see if I can remember what it’s called — no, it’s gone, but it’s a big firm, you’ll probably have heard of it, I hadn’t — but anyway, Dr. Patterson thought he might be able to put in a good word, so I’ve given him your email to pass on to the nephew — I do think it’s worth following up, Claire, because you never know the doors it might open, and it would help, you know, if you wanted to go for the Dee Oh Ell Ee, it’s your business, but you’d need to show you’re being proactive about looking for a job — I was thinking you might as well do that, you know [whispered] sign on, you wouldn’t need to tell anyone you were, but when you think there are plenty without your education and experience taking full advantage — but anyway, that’s your business, and I’ll let you get on with it, but give me a ring if you get this, just to touch base. I know you’re busy, so no rush. Okay, bye now, bye…”

3. Thursday, 12:18 p.m.

“I’ve seen a dress in Marks & Spencer that is absolutely you and I’m wondering will I get it? I thought if you were going to a wedding or summer party, it would be just the thing. I’m looking at it now, lovely shape, flattering, flares out at the waist and has little sleeves and a collar, not right for me at all, but for you it’s perfect, more your age, really, trendy, in a sort of abstract pattern with circles, orange, roses, are they? But I’m not really doing it justice — a pinky sort of orange, very pretty print. I’m wondering if I should chance it anyway…I think I will, I’ll treat you to it — you can look it up, the girl I spoke to said they’d have it on the website, type in ‘orange dress’ and it should come up, or try ‘pink’ if not or ‘cerise’ …Do I mean cerise?…Sorry? Oh, would you? Yes! I’m on to my daughter…Yes, oh, Claire, the lady next to me just said salmon…Thank you, yes, it is exactly salmon with flecks of green…Anyway, you’ll find it, I’m sure. Get back to me, I’ll wait until — what are we now? Twenty past — I’ll wait until half past, but I can always bring it back, I suppose, and I really think it’s so perfect for you, so: yes, I’ve decided, I will, I’m going to do that, I’d like to do this for you. No need to call back. Okay, speak soon. Bye for now. Bye.”

At six p.m., my friend Polly calls to ask Luke and me to a “spontaneous supper” at the new house in Wimbledon she’s bought with her fiancé, Will, a hedge-fund manager boasting aristocratic roots (hence “supper”). I’m standing in the bath wearing old boxers of Luke’s and a sleep T-shirt I’ve had since I was eight — it’s a big T-shirt: I was a big eight — scrubbing the blackened grouting with a toothbrush and bleach. I tell her Luke’s working late, but I’d love to come.

“I won’t be drinking, though, just to warn you — I’m not pregnant, just giving the old liver a rest. Who else will be there?”

“Mainly Will’s friends.”

“Oh.” I hesitate, almost retract the not-drinking pledge but decide this is exactly the sort of challenge I need to face up to. “Fun! If it looks as if I’m about to cave on the booze front, please, please will you stop me?”

“I’ll do my best. See you seven thirty for eight?”

I turn up at eight fifteen to avoid awkward sober mingling and make voluble but vague apologies about buses as I take the only remaining seat at the table — a corner spot on a flimsy folding chair.

I can’t help but feel that the delicious-smelling food — billed as “eight-hour Moroccan lamb”—exposes Polly’s claims of spontaneity to be somewhat bogus, and more relevant to my invite than the “supper” itself. Certainly, it seems unlikely that so many apparently important, successful people would have been free at such short notice.

“Hi. I’m Claire,” I say to the girls — women, really — on my right, both vaguely familiar and wearing dark, sleeveless clothing that seems designed to showcase their slim, toned arms.

“Okay, hi,” says the brunette.

“Sorry, what are your names?”

“Clem, Totty,” says the blonde, pointing first at herself, then her friend.

“Lottie?” I say, thinking I must have misheard.

“Totty? As in Antonia?” says Clem, and with a condescending smile leans away on an elbow to thwart further interaction. I take a moment to recover, then turn, beaming, to my left.

“Matthew,” says my gingery, freckly, toothy neighbor, offering his hand. I’ve definitely met him before.

“Claire. You don’t remember me, do you?” His brow crimps in confusion and I wish I’d just played along with his ignorance. “Don’t worry, happens all the time. I don’t tend to make a first impression.”

“I think you make a very good impression,” he says with the bullish politeness of the extremely well bred.

“No, no, I don’t make any impression — you’ve just proven my point. We met at Polly and Will’s engagement drinks. You’re a radio producer for the BBC…specialist factual, recently bought a flat in Battersea?”

He shakes his head. “Amazing. You should be a spy.”

“We prefer ‘intelligence officer.’ ” He looks a tiny bit alarmed. “Obviously I’m kidding — when you’re as prodigiously bland as I am, even MI6 fail to take any notice.” I shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

“Their loss,” says Matthew. “So what do you actually do ?”

“Um. Well. I guess at the moment I’m a housewife.”

“That’s terrific!” He laughs, delighted at the novelty. “I’ve always said there are too many people and not enough jobs — good for you for opting out of the rat race and directing your efforts where I’m sure they’re most appreciated.”

I hold up a hand. “Whoa, hang on there. Sorry, Matthew, before we go any further, I should say I was sort of joking.”

“Ah. So you’re not a housewife at all?”

“Well, it wasn’t a deliberate career move. I’m in a sort of flux period.” I tell him about my plans to take some time out to discover my purpose, and how I’ve somehow ended up being made redundant by the company I originally quit. “Which has set progress back even further, sadly. I feel pretty useless most of the time, if I’m honest. It’s scary how steep and quick the descent has been from productive human to waste of space. So that’s my story: any suggestions gratefully received.”

“How about some Shiraz?” He must have noticed me gazing at it like a lovelorn adolescent, and hovers the bottle temptingly over my glass. “Or why don’t we start there, anyway?”

“Thank you, but I’m on the”—I consult one of the two organic soft drinks I bought on the way over, which together cost more than I’d normally spend on a single bottle of wine—“wild raspberry and elderflower water, gently sparkling. Cheers!” I take a sip, and wince at its perfumed sweetness.

“Claire’s boyfriend Luke’s a brain surgeon!” Polly calls down the table, apropos of someone else’s conversation.

All startled faces turn my way.

“Well, trainee, ” I say. “He’s not fully qualified yet.”

“Oh, wait,” says Totty, “you’re Claire as in Luke and Claire?”