Lisa Owens - Not Working

“Luke and Claire, Claire and Luke. Both work. You know Luke?”

Totty is eyeing me with sudden snake-ish interest and instantly I decide this is much, much worse than being ignored. “A great friend of ours, Fi, works with him…at UCH?”

Fiona. Ugh. She would have awful friends: I should have recognized them from her Facebook photos. “What a small world,” I say.

“So. You’re. Claire. Huh,” says Totty.

Clem, the blonde, grins darkly.

“I’ve never met Fiona, but I know Luke thinks she’s wahn-derfuuul.” I seem to be unintentionally mimicking Totty’s plummy vowels, and pray no one’s noticed.

“Isn’t it so exciting about Johns Hopkins?” says Clem.

“Sorry — John who’s that again?” I say, flustered, and Totty bucks back in her chair with an unconcealed snigger.

“ Johns Hopkins? The hospital? In America? Where they’re doing the six-month exchange.”

Everything dims, sort of fizzes at the edges.

“Six months?” I say stupidly, then get it together. “Of course. Sorry, I’m with you now. Yes. Amazing news. Really exciting!”

“Will you go out and visit, do you think?” asks Clem. “No, wait — you don’t work, do you? Are you planning to tag along for the whole residency?” Speechless, I guzzle my soft drink, throwing my eyes around in a goofy who knows? sort of way.

“Well, anyway, tell Luke that Tots and Clem say hi,” says Clem, who, having had her fun, turns her fabulous blow-dry on me again.

At my shoulder, Matthew is brandishing the wine. “ Sure I can’t tempt you?”

“Oh, go on — why not?” I say with huge relief, waving away Polly’s frantic signals of discouragement.

When Polly emerges from the kitchen with a tray of bowls, her fiancé, Will, taps his glass with a fork.

“I’d like to raise a toast, if I may, to Polls’s salted-caramel ice cream, topped with crushed amaretto biscotti.” We raise our glasses and he adds, “The biscotti are shop-bought, I’m afraid, but authentic at least — I brought them back from Bologna.”

“Is that why you didn’t have time to make them yourself, Will? Because you were in Bologna?” I’m as surprised as anyone else to hear my voice cutting through the convivial buzz.

Will looks confused. “Sorry?”

“You apologized that they weren’t homemade. I just wondered why you didn’t have time to make them. Maybe you could have done that while Polly made everything else we’ve eaten tonight.”

“What?” says Polly with a nervous laugh. “Claire, shut up.”

“Uh, I was working ?” says Will.

“Oh right, so does Polly not have a job anymore, then? Or did she make this entire meal as well as holding down a job?” I shrug. “I’m just curious.”

Everyone has gone quiet, save for the scraping of silverware against bowls.

“Is there…a problem, Claire?” asks Will. He glances around the now silent table, seeking allies.

“No, none at all. I don’t have a problem.” I pick up my spoon and load it with ice cream.

Tentative micro-conversations resume: hesitant platitudes—“Anyway…,” “Er, so, yeah…,” “What were you saying?”—anything to fill the scorching silence. But it would seem I’m not done yet.

“It’s just I wondered why you’d apologize about things not being homemade when you didn’t actually make anything yourself. Not really your place, in my opinion.” I shrug again and wedge the spoon in my mouth.

“ Claire! For fuck’s sake!” says Polly.

“Hey, shh, Polly, it’s cool. I’ve got your back. I’m just having a discussion with Will.”

Will clears his throat. “I don’t really think it’s your place to criticize me in my house, in front of my friends.”

“Well, you’re entitled to your opinion.”

“Sorry, have I missed something here? Polls doesn’t seem to have an issue. Polls, did I offend you?” Will asks, though he’s looking dead at me.

My head drops onto my folded arms. “She hates being called that! Everyone knows she doesn’t like being called that. It’s Poll- y ! Her name! Is Polly!”

Toothy, freckly Matthew pipes up, “Ah — I think this might be partly my fault? I made her have some wine when she didn’t want to, and I think she’s had rather a lot. Quite quickly. Perhaps a bit more than she’s used to.”

Will snorts. “Oh, she’s used to plenty, don’t you worry, mate.”

I shoot upright. “ Mate! I am here! I! Am! Right! Here! ” Then back down to the forearms and blessed darkness I go.

“Sorry, she’s not normally like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” says Polly’s voice, far away.

What’s wrong is, I would tell them, if I could be bothered, were anyone even interested, but they wouldn’t understand, so what’s the point? But…what? Oh yeah, what is wrong with “her”—i.e. me —is, I’m the spare human in the world. If you counted everyone up, I’m the one who’d be left over, the one who does nothing, only takes, always takes things, a drain on everyone, completely pathetic like the poor old — poor old thing, the poor old wooden spoon, floating in the dirty sink…

Not awake exactly, more emerging from blackness, I open my eyes and try to piece it all together. The stiff T-shirt smelling of unfamiliar washing powder, the towels I’m lying on in the strange bed, the silent house, head utterly numb, throat dry and sticky, mouth a foul and fuzzy cave. A persistent buzzing detaches itself from the general assault of light and thirst and pain and queasiness, and I muster everything to locate the sound, which turns out to be coming from my phone, inside my shoe, under the bed. Three missed calls from Luke. I ring him back.

“Hi,” I croak.

“You’re awake.” His tone is brisk.

“Um.” I try to sit up again, decide against it for now. “Yeah, not feeling great. I’m still at…I guess I must still be at Polly’s? Sorry I didn’t come home. Things got a bit…much.”

“Evidently.”

“Did Polly call you?”

“She did. As did you, five times. So, not a good night for either of us, it would seem.”

I close my eyes. “I’m so sorry. Was she angry with me?”

“I’d say more worried. Are you coming home?”

The clock by the bed says 8:47 a.m.

“I will be. Might need a little bit of time to turn myself around here, though.”

“Well, I’m leaving for work now, so I won’t be in.”

“Oh,” I say pathetically. Then, “I cleaned the house,” as if this somehow explains or mitigates last night’s behavior, and the state I’m in now.

“You said already. Quite a few times.”

“So I’ll see you later?”

“I’m staying at the hospital tonight. I guess I’ll see you when I see you.” He hangs up. Hospital. The word triggers a new sick feeling, unrelated to the alcohol. I’d forgotten all about it: Johns Hopkins, six months.

The journey home is hell, testing all my basic faculties: movement, sight, balance, breathing, temperature control. Everything seems completely absurd and utterly pointless, not least the ad for a new chocolate bar repeated all the way down the escalator wall.

As I’m waiting on the platform, a recorded message advises passengers to heed the safety advice printed on signs around the station.

—

On the train, I watch a lonely corn puff roll on the floor, before it’s crushed to cheesy powder by an indifferent desert boot. My car fills up with a crocodile of children holding hands, all wearing red school caps. One of them, a small girl with stringy brown hair, stares at me, her mouth a tiny “o,” and shrinks away when I attempt a smile.