‘Leanne, what’s going on with your eyebrows?’
Leanne furrows her forehead and looks up in a failed attempt to see her own brows. ‘I got them done on Saturday – “High Definition” brows. I love them.’
They look as if they’ve been drawn on with a Sharpie, but I don’t have the heart to tell her. The woman’s just tried to see her own forehead without a mirror after all; it would be like kicking a really stupid puppy.
Leanne and I are the only ones in the office today. Patrick has the week off, Gordon is in Edinburgh all day and Natasha is at some conference in Perth. I’m extremely happy about this; the fewer people ask me about date five, the better. Leanne predictably tries to prise it out of me, but her high-definition face is getting nowhere:
‘You’ll have to wait until Saturday!’
‘Exciting! Shame it’s your last one. You’ll have to come up with some brand-new ideas again.’
‘This one wasn’t my fucking idea in the first place,’ I snap. Oh good, now Leanne has a colossal pout to go with her drawn-on brows. ‘Sorry, I’m just a bit stressed. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’
Pout gone, Leanne offers to make me some tea and toddles off to the kitchen while I go through my emails and get organized for the day. The foul smell can’t be ignored and seems to be coming from Patrick’s desk. Eventually I’m forced to investigate. Thirty seconds later I’m carrying half a Tupperware of rotten kale down the stairs and disposing of it in the bin across the street. I then write a note for Patrick:
You didn’t look after your kale and it died. I’m very sorry for your loss.
Also, WHO THE FUCK BRINGS KALE INTO WORK?
You owe me two new nostrils.
‘I’ll buy some baking soda at lunchtime,’ I say to Leanne, taping the note to Patrick’s monitor. ‘It should soak up some of the smell.’
‘I remember Patrick eating a kale salad last week. Baking soda? How do you know these things?’
‘I have a kid and a cat,’ I reply, riffling through the weekend papers. ‘At some point they have both shat somewhere unexpected and left it for me to find. Also, Grace spills milk. Secretly and often.’
She smiles. ‘I admire you. I can barely look after myself, never mind a kid. How the heck do you stay sane?’
‘Grace is both the cause and the cure,’ I reply. ‘You’ll understand when you grow one of your own.’ I thank her for the tea and take my first call of the day – from a young PR woman called Penny who keeps pronouncing my name ‘Cat-ree-oh-nah’.
‘Sorry – Penny? It’s actually pronounced “Ka-treen-a”.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Am I sure that’s how my name is pronounced? Yes. Quiet sure.’
‘Hmm. Weird, but OK.’
Needless to say the call ends there and I move on with my life, while Leanne greets the postman.
‘One here for you, CAT-REE-OH-NA,’ she mocks, tossing me a small white envelope.
‘Yes, very funny.’ I tear open the side and pull out an A5 piece of red card. The scrawled black handwriting reads:
Where: Filmhouse.
When: Friday 21 November 2014.
Time: Midnight.
D x
I turn it over but the other side is blank. That’s it. I don’t ask Leanne if she also got one – this is clearly for me alone, not a press invitation like last time. It’s also Peter’s wedding reception that night and I’ve promised Grace and told Peter I’ll go. Can I manage both? Do I even want to see him?
‘Everything all right?’ asks Leanne, clearly concerned by my expression.
‘Oh yes. I just remembered I have Peter’s wedding on Friday night and I, um . . . haven’t bought them a gift.’ This is a lie.
