Chapter Eight

Visiting Lucinda became a habit in a matter of days.

One week, I was a slave to coffee, to Anthony, Gary and Alex's endless supply of online pussy, to the digital clock on my computer screen charting the passing minutes of the day - in other words, to acting the part of the quintessential working man and no one called my bluff.

The next week, I was a slave to the coffee shop girl across the street.

From quintessence to cliche'. I'm not sure which is worse.

In the first three months of knowing her, I succeeded in spending something close to £144.00 in coffee. I know, because I did the arithemetic in my head twice a day - every time I handed over my debit card - and died a small death each time.

£1.25 x 2 for two inches' worth of coffee a day.

£1.25 x 2 for two glimpses of the Pret girl.

And I never even got a free cup. Because she did everything by the book, never stepped out of line.

Months later, I found out why.

By then, we had moved beyond mid-morning and lunchtime banter. First, I had convinced her to go for drinks after work. Then, we had started spending an occasional Saturday or Sunday afternoon together, usually in or around Hampstead Heath - minutes from her flat. (How she could afford to rent a one-bedroom flat in Hampstead on her minimal salary was yet another mystery.)

Eventually, the occasional Saturday or Sunday had become a tacit tradition.

“So when did you start working at Pret?” I asked. It was a Sunday in early June, and we had just finished eating a rather large lunch in a pub around the corner from the flat, and I needed something – anything – to shake me out my post-prandial stupor.

“A month or so ago. When I got fired from my last job.”

“Oh, wow. Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok. It’s not like my dog died or anything. It was just a job. It’s too bad, though. I was pretty good at it.”

“What did you do? I mean, what was the job?”

“I worked for a marketing consultancy. Studying brands. Why people buy what they buy, what makes you choose a product over another, cheaper variety. How to attain customer loyalty. That kind of thing. The irony is, Pret used to come up regularly in the reports I wrote. Once, I had to test the recipes in the book they published last year – you know, the one that shows you how to make your own Pret sandwiches at home? And now I know the recipes by heart, since I make that shit every day. It’s so ingrained, I can’t make a salad at home without counting the tomato slices.”

“Is that bad? Counting the tomato slices?”

“Are you kidding me?” She looked at me with disbelief. “It’s deflating, is what it is. It’s dispiriting. It signals the death of creativity.”

“Ok, so don’t count them,” I tried. “Omit the tomato. Or eat it whole.” I got a flash of inspiration. “Or… don’t eat salad. Boycott raw vegetables. How’s that?”

She sighed in frustration. “You don’t understand, Stan. It’s not the vegetables that are the problem.”

It was as if her dog had died. And I had sniggered when she told me. Her dog had been murdered – slaughtered in front of her eyes, butchered into bite-size chunks, and I had broken into a fit of hysterical, uncontrollable laughter.

I tried another tack. “So why did you get fired? If you don’t mind my asking?” It couldn’t get much worse than my insulting her tomatoes.

She had gotten over my stupidity, though, and looked perfectly nonplussed. “Oh, I flirted too much.”

“You what?”

“Yeah, I tried it on with my supervisor – my married, just-promoted, stick-by-the-rules, part-of-the-establishment supervisor – in front of, well, everyone. In the most ‘inappropriate’ way possible. That’s what they said, at least. That it was in an inappropriate context. Meaning that if we had been drunk in the pub after work or at an office party or something it would have been fine. Because they could have looked the other way. Even he could have looked the other way. He could have carried on an entire conversation with his line manager while downing pints with one hand and groping me with the other. But in an open-plan office there’s no where else to look.”

As if acting out her own description, she had averted her eyes and was now looking past me, her expression verging on spaced out as she repeatedly pressed her spoon against the soggy tea bag in the saucer next to her empty cup.

“But what did you do? I mean, did the two of you actually - ?” I couldn’t help picturing her, bent over a photocopy machine in some poorly-lit backroom, a faceless figure thrusting into her from behind. I felt sick.

“My God, no. I told you. I got fired for flirting, not fucking. Like I said. He was married. And with a five-month-old baby daughter. You can’t compete with a baby.” She had sliced through the tea bag, scattering tea leaves onto the table.

“But – did you want to? Were you trying to get him into bed?”

Her eyes snapped back into focus, and she was suddenly looking at me, intent and angry.

“What the hell is this? Twenty questions? Of course I wanted to. That isn’t the point though, is it? You don’t get fired for wanting to fuck someone. Or for wanting to ‘fuck everyone in the department’ – that’s what one of the guys on my team accused me of once, can you believe it? I didn’t bat an eye, though. ‘Everyone but you, Alex.’ I said. The fucker. Ugly as sin, probably hadn’t gotten laid since secondary school.” Mid-diatribe, I was certain, she’d forgotten I was there.

“But what did you do?”

“Oh, I said once, off-hand, that I’d totally bang him if I got half the chance. It was a joke, right? Big deal. I was bored. But the fact was, it was true. I was crazy about him. And in a small team of six or seven people, if one of you is always staring at one of the others and making them squirm with your ‘inappropriate’ comments and making the others feel, as I was told, ‘ill at ease,’ and management gets a whiff of it – you end up in the shitter. So I, you know, ended up in the shitter.”

“You told your boss you wanted to bang him? Yeah, that is kind of asking for trouble, Lucinda.”

“Oh, not just that. I neglected to wear any underwear on a couple of occasions. Just to see if I could get away with it. Turns out I couldn’t.” Her eyes had turned mischievous, now – playful, even. She looked half-sheepish, half-smug.

“I mean, body-wise, I totally could. I’ve got great thighs. You must have noticed.” She paused and looked at me, expectantly.

“Absolutely,” I agreed. What was I supposed to answer?

“If they’d been less firm, they would have just wobbled over the tops of my hold-ups. But in terms of not getting caught with my pants down, or in this case, off, great thighs are more of a hindrance than a help. They attract attention. And if people stare at something day-in, day-out, they become familiar with it. Learn to recognise its contours – and notice the slightest change. Like, for example, when a lack of visible panty line is because you’re wearing a thong, or when it’s because there’s no panty to speak of. I mean, at Pret, I can tell at a glance when a salad doesn’t have enough olives. I should have taken that into consideration.”

She was beginning to sound slightly crazed, to the point where I was no longer aroused – or jealous. Against my better judgement, I voiced my thoughts.

“Olives? What are you saying? You’re talking crazy, Lucinda. You’re talking as if everyone in your office spent their time scrutinising your ass. Which, face it, amounts to wishful thinking. And you’re telling me you were talking about fucking your boss in front of everyone, but then you’re upset when they notice you’ve got your – your – ” I stumbled, then blustered on, breathlessly,“you know, on display?”

“Yeah, ok.” She shrugged, embarrassed. “So it’s wishful thinking. Truth is, I never went to work without pants on.” She winked.

“You didn’t?” I could have killed her.

“Nope. That was just a fantasy I had. But the rest is true. Cross my heart, hope to die.” She paused, grinning. “But if it’s of any consolation, I’m not wearing pants now. Look.”

Instinctively, I glanced at her lap – before remembering she was wearing jeans.


Later, on our way to Belsize Park tube station, she grabbed my hand, squeezed it, then let it drop.

“You think I’m disgusting, don’t you?”

“For making advances on your boss?”

“Yeah. And acting like the office whore.”

“But you’ve barely told me anything. And you’ve left me to guess how much of it is true. It could all be a pack of lies.” I waited for her to interrupt, but she didn’t. “What I don’t understand is, why would you have done any of that, anyway? Most people, if they fancy their married boss, don’t pursue him like that. It’s like you were trying get fired.”

“I know. It’s funny, isn’t it? And I loved my job.” She looked stooped, suddenly, her shoulders bowed inward, hiding her chest. “How many people do you know who love their job?” She turned her head to look up at me, squinting in the late afternoon sunlight as we stopped in front of the station.

“Not many. So why did you do it?” I hunted in my pockets for my oyster card, hoping she would notice and offer to give me hers, like the other times she’d dragged me to South End Green.

But her eyes remained fixed on my face. “Attention,” she smiled wearily. “What did you expect?”