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Grace hustles me along the busy pavements towards our usual pub, the Lord Nelson. Like a lot of pubs in the area, it’s ancient and very dark inside. However, there is a tiny beer garden at the back, and we hurry through the bar to see if we can secure a table. Luckily for us, there is one left, and we quickly grab it.
‘Chardonnay?’ I ask her, as I rummage in my bag for my purse. Our Friday routine is well-polished; I buy the first round, she buys the second, and then we head off towards our respective stations for the commute home.
‘Make sure he fills it up properly. I’m sure he gave me a short measure last week.’
Grace says this every week. I think she really believes that she ends up with a smaller glass, whereas the truth is that she just drinks much faster than me.
‘So, tell me about your holiday. Mallorca, isn’t it? Sun, sea, sex, and sangria?’ she asks, after I’ve returned with the glasses and she’s had her first big swig.
‘I don’t think there will be any sex, I’m going with my sister!’
‘Really? What about your boyfriend?’
‘He can’t afford it, plus he’s not really that interested in going abroad. His parents have a static caravan near Whitstable, and that’s his perfect holiday destination. Fish and chips, beer he knows he likes, and everyone speaks English. So, ever since Nan and Grandad decided I was finally responsible enough to look after Katie, I do a week somewhere sunny with her, and then a few days in the caravan with Paul.’
‘He sounds quite the catch,’ she observes drily.
‘Don’t be mean, he’s okay. He just isn’t very adventurous, you know?’
‘Do you love him?’
‘You’re very quizzy tonight. What’s got into you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m just having one of my “Is this all there is?” days. Don’t you ever have those?’
‘I can’t say that I do, no.’
‘Really? Don’t you ever look at the chartered accountants and wonder what it is that they do that makes them so much better paid than us? I reckon I could do Rob’s job standing on my head!’
‘Nope.’
‘So where do you see yourself in ten years’ time? Surely you don’t intend to be still working here, living with your grandparents and going on holiday with your sister? Don’t you want to get married, start a family?’
Grace thinks that every woman’s destiny is to get married and have babies. Her workspace is festooned with pictures of her husband and children, and she frequently tells me (in great detail) about their latest antics and achievements when we’re getting coffee in the office kitchen, or over lunch. It gets a bit wearing at times, listening to her describing the kind of happy family life that was taken away from Katie and me, but I try not to resent her for it. I remind myself that she’s not doing it to be unkind; it’s just normal for her in a way that it can never be normal for me. She’s been with the company for even longer than I have, and I suspect they’ll have to drag her out when she reaches retirement age. However, now that her boys are at secondary school and more independent, she likes to pretend she’s ambitious and on the lookout for her next opportunity.
Marriage and children don’t sound like the sort of things that would happen to me, and I’ve told her this in the past. Thankfully, I think I’ve dodged the conversation about whether I love Paul, which is a new one. I’m fond of him, but I’m not in love with him. It’s more of a ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement, if I’m honest. After Mum and Dad died, the court awarded custody of Katie and me to Nan and Grandad, and we moved from our parents’ home in Essex to their home in Kent. I was enrolled in the local comprehensive school, but most of the people in my year had already formed their friendship groups, so there wasn’t really a place for the traumatised teenager who spent most of her break times sobbing loudly in the toilets. They weren’t horrible to me or anything, they were just wary, I suppose. Anyway, I was sitting by myself having lunch one day when this slightly geeky-looking boy asked if he could join me. We struck up a friendship, one thing led to another over time, and here we still are. To be honest, our arrangement suits me quite well. I don’t think I could deal with the emotions and risks associated with falling in love.
The truthful answer to Grace’s question is that I have no idea where I see myself in ten years. I don’t think about it. When you’ve had all your hopes and dreams ripped away from you by a totally senseless and random event, any kind of planning for the future seems pretty futile. I live firmly in the here and now. My life is okay at the moment, and that is enough for me.
Grace’s glass is nearly empty already. I’ve barely touched mine.
‘Don’t wait for me,’ I tell her, indicating her glass. ‘I’m only having one tonight because I’ve got to drive.’ A trip to the bar will hopefully deflect her from her current line of questioning. She looks at her glass in amazement, as if it’s somehow managed to empty itself.
‘Are you sure he filled it properly?’ she asks. ‘I’ve only had a couple of sips.’
I smile at her. Her idea of a sip is a generous mouthful. I sometimes wonder if she’d be better off drinking beer – at least you can get that by the pint. I did suggest it once, but she said it made her feel terribly bloated, and she has a morbid fear (which I share) of having to use the toilet on the train. So, we play out the same rigmarole every week; Grace expresses outrage at what she considers to be the tiny measures, and I feign sympathy. I sometimes wonder if she has a bit of a drink problem, because I know she has a couple of large glasses when she gets home every night, but she always turns up looking bright as a button each morning, so I reckon it’s probably none of my business. Also, I’m very conscious that I’m not really in a position to judge her, given my history.
I was right. She’s completely forgotten what she was quizzing me about when she comes back from the bar, and the rest of our conversation sticks to much safer topics, mainly work gossip. Grace is convinced that Mr Speke is having an affair with Rosemary, his PA. I think it’s pretty unlikely – the only thing that I’ve ever seen him get excited about is numbers, and he barely seems to notice people, even her. I’m also fairly sure Rosemary is a lot younger than him, although Mr Speke is one of those people who is almost impossible to age. She’s a model of cool efficiency, always immaculately turned out with her hair in a perfect braid, and not a crease on her clothes. The idea of them getting hot and sweaty together is laughable.
‘I was watching them yesterday,’ she tells me, conspiratorially. ‘She was in his office, taking him through some paperwork he was supposed to be signing. She was leaning over him, and her breasts can’t have been more than a couple of centimetres from his face. She’s brazen, I’ll give her that! If he’d turned, I reckon he’d have been buried in her cleavage.’
‘Did he turn?’
‘No. He probably saw me looking at him, didn’t he? But if I hadn’t been watching…’
‘Do you ever think you might be reading more into this than there is?’
‘No. They’re up to no good. I’m sure of it.’
