I smirk. ‘Ah, you don’t even watch it, do you? It offends you, Patrick, doesn’t it?’
‘Of course it bloody well does!’ he bellows. ‘But Natasha’s insisting we include “relevant” television reviews alongside the “critic’s choice” from BBC4, and it’s not a show I’ll be able to review without prejudice. It’s unworthy of my time and talents.’
‘But worthy of mine?’
‘I assumed that as you sit at home every Saturday night, you’d be familiar with the show, that’s all. Don’t be childish.’
I hear Natasha’s door close as Leanne makes her way back to her desk. ‘Morning, Cat. Good weekend?’
Oh you know . . . drew faces on boiled eggs, went to the park, tried to appear alluring and got hit in the fucking face by a football. The usual.
I smile and nod. ‘Yes, it was fine, thanks.’ I turn to glare at Patrick. ‘Apparently I watched The Voice.’
‘Me too. Love that show! You going to review it for P? I would but I’m snowed under.’
‘P’ blushes slightly and looks down at his desk. Dear lord, I bet he has a crush on Leanne. That’s why he never gives her any shit.
Finally I agree to do it because I’m the bigger person and because he’ll grass on me to Natasha if I don’t. Cat Buchanan: reluctant team player extraordinaire.
‘OK, Leanne. I’m just about to write 450 words for “P” while he goes to Starbucks and buys me a LARGE Americano. One sugar. Thanks, Patrick!’
He doesn’t want to, I can tell, but he shuffles off towards the door anyway, clutching his scuffed leather wallet and I begin typing.
The Voice (aka Ugly people can sing too)
There are many things that hurtle through my brain while watching The Voice and sadly none of them is a .45-calibre shell from the imaginary handgun I haven’t bought yet.
Despite the fact that I’ve only ever watched one episode, I manage to get 300 words down about the judges, song choices and contestants before finishing with a triumphant conclusion:
Who cares who actually wins the show? I watch it to see the look on someone’s face when they’ve spent ages telling a film crew how they lost both nipples in a sledging accident, only to get no chair turns and a disappointed look from the ghost of the father to whom they’ve just dedicated their shaky rendition of ‘Hero’.
I give it a once-over, then email my copy to Patrick, who mutters a disingenuous ‘Thanks’ before passing it off as his own work. Ungrateful knob. I see that the bagel filling has somehow crept from his pink shirt on to his red tie and I’m glad he’ll have to spend the rest of the day looking like a badly dressed toddler.
Natasha fails to appear, but emails me at four to say that there were 179 comments on my column online, so this is definitely a goer for at least three more weeks. I steel myself and go to the website to check what people have been saying (something I try never to do as a general rule – I tend to get a little stabby if someone’s mean about me). Sure enough, the comments section is filled with readers arguing over the merits of the book and wishing me luck. Well, except JohnT567, who says only, ‘This woman disgusts me.’ I mentally squash his tiny avatar between my finger and thumb, thus destroying him.
I could hang around the office for longer, but really there’s nothing that can’t be finished off at home, and I can’t concentrate on The Rules of Engagement with Leanne chattering insistently in my ear. I need to get my arse in gear with this assignment – one failed attempt involving a football isn’t going to cut it. I wish everyone a good week before directing my legs down the stairs and towards the train station. Rose has picked up Grace from school, so I don’t need to hurry, but my desire to see someone who always looks genuinely happy to see me makes me put a rush on.
Rose is sitting at her green patio table with a black coffee and a closed Marian Keyes paperback, watching Jason and Grace play swing ball at the bottom of the garden. Neither has much luck actually hitting the ball, but they still embrace each fluke with a Wimbledon-like enthusiasm.
‘Who’s winning?’ I ask, sitting beside Rose and waving to Grace, who stops to yell ‘Watch this, Mum!’ before going in for a killer swing that never happens.
‘I have no idea.’ Rose laughs. ‘I think they’re both equally shit at it. Good day?’
I make a groaning noise and shrug. ‘So-so. You had the garden done? Looks great.’ Sometimes I envy Rose. She lives a ten-minute walk away from us, but with her five-bedroom redbrick house with its huge back garden, it seems more like a million miles.
‘Rob’s friend Martin offered to do a bit of landscaping on the cheap for us, and I invested in some new pots and shrubs from that garden centre in Giffnock. I have now officially turned into Rob’s mother; you never see the old trout without a hand trowel and a bag of foul-smelling compost.’
Grace runs over and hugs me before disappearing to the toilet, and Jason continues to practise his swing, only to hit himself in the forehead with his wooden racket. It’s the final straw, and the last thing the poor racket ever sees is the side of a plum tree as it’s smashed into pieces by an irate seven-year-old boy shouting, ‘THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE.’ Rose breathes the word ‘fuck’ and walks over to comfort her son, who’s now throwing a tantrum of massive proportions. Grace returns during this spectacular outburst and whispers, ‘He always does this when we play swing ball. Every. Single. Time.’
Puzzled by why Rose doesn’t just take the swing ball down, I announce that we’re going home and Grace and I leave quietly. I’m grateful Grace is so easy-going – I’d never be able to cope with a kid like Jason. I turn back to look at Rose, who’s now sitting on the grass, cuddling her sulking child. She whispers something to him and his little arms wrap around her waist. I smile.
Grace and I walk back towards our flat in silence before Grace says, ‘What did Rose whisper to calm Jason down? That she’d buy him a new racket?’
We stop at the kerb to cross the quiet road. ‘Hmm, could be, but I think it was something else.’ I take her little hand in mine and say, ‘I reckon she told him that she loves him very, very much.’
Grace looks at me and smirks. ‘Nah. I think it was a new racket.’
*
