Chapter Nine

On the tube journey home I didn’t stare at anyone. I didn’t exchange glances with the best-looking women in the carriage only for them to turn away in disdain, or attempt to size up the men without their noticing to see which ones would be most able to kick the shit out of me, should the occasion arise.

Instead, I saw Lucinda walking through an open-plan office as though down a catwalk, hungry eyes searching for a glimpse up her skirt. I couldn’t help it. Despite everything I’d thought earlier – she’s insane, she’s a chronic, pathological liar, she’s an exhibitionist – despite the fact that, if what she had said was true, she had been the only one to blame, I couldn’t stop myself wanting to growl at anyone who had had the chance to paw at her. Whether they had taken it or not didn’t matter.

At home, I found Janette in the kitchen, rapping along to ‘Still Dr. Dre’ and shaking her ass while chopping tomatoes and some green stuff with the window open, stereo on full blast. As I walked in she turned around, still dancing, and winked at me, tomato in one hand, knife in the other.

I imagined Lucinda slicing tomatoes in her flat and felt my heartburn flare up again. I searched in my pockets for some renus.

“I’m representing for them gangsters all across the world, still hitting them corners with them low lows girls –” she cut off mid-rap, seeing me intent on feeling my pockets.

“They’re on the counter, Stan. You forgot them together with your ipod and the phone bill I’d asked you to take to the paypoint.” She switched off the stereo and turned back to the chopping board.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. I forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll do it tomorrow on my way to work.”

“Yeah, except meanwhile, the phone’s been cut off. And it’s the third time I’ve asked you to take care of it. I tried calling your mobile but it was off.” She kept her back to me and started chopping again.

“I know. I’m sorry.” I moved up behind her and tried to nuzzle her neck. “Can’t you use skype until I get it sorted?”

I felt her stiffen in my arms. “The internet’s been cut off together with the phone.”

“Oh.”

She sighed. “Get me some coriander from the fridge, would you?”

“What does it look like?” She slammed the knife down on the counter, shoved past me, glaring over her shoulder, and stalked to the fridge.

“Never mind.”

I stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms at my side, feeling a bit foolish as I watched her lean into the fridge and rummage around while swearing under her breath.

“Seriously. I’ve never heard of coriander. I’ve never tasted the stuff.”

She turned around to face me, a plastic bag of green herbs wadded in her hand. She thrust it at me.

“This,” she hissed, “is coriander. And you have tasted it. In the tabouleh I made yesterday, which you ate at midnight when I was already in bed since you neglected to mention you’d be having pizza with Lucinda.”

She paused dangerously.

“In the pesto pasta salad I packed for your lunch on Thursday – no, wait, I forgot. I found it unopened Thursday evening. You’d gone to Pret for lunch.”

Another eerie moment of silence.

“In the Thai lemon and coriander chicken I made on Monday, which you did eat – straight from the fridge on Tuesday morning since you were out – you neglected to mention where – all night.” She smiled, suddenly. A huge, brilliant, disarming smile. It made her look incredibly young – 16, 17 tops. It was sudden. And it was staggering.

“Come to think of it, Stan, you’ve neglected to mention a lot of things lately. And you’ve neglected me. Can you tell that’s my word of the day – actually, Friday’s word of the day, courtesy of the desktop calendar you gave me for the office. ‘Neglect: to pay little or no attention to; to fail to heed; to disregard; to fail to care for or attend to properly.’ You know what I thought when I read that on Friday? You know what I thought, baby? I thought ‘Huh. That sounds familiar. I’m being neglected.’ And I thought, ‘Why didn’t I notice that earlier?’ And then I thought, ‘I don’t like being neglected.’ And now that Dan says they need more people in the New York office – ” she stopped, smiling sweetly – primly, even. She opened her eyes wide, then let her lids droop provocatively, leaning back against the refrigerator door. “Can you guess the end of the sentence?”

I stood, stunned. I thought, This is what it means to be rooted to the spot. I thought, Please God don’t let her open her mouth. I croaked, “New – York?”

The sultriness was gone. Her eyes turned normal again, her posture straightened. “What did you expect, Stan? That I’d marry you, and then we would live the three of us together, me, you and that crazy bitch? This isn’t one of your erotic novels. Which, incidentally, would appear to have all been written by men. But, hell, what do I know? I’m a financial consultant. A junior financial consultant. I don’t use big words. I make grammatical mistakes. I don’t express my feelings in rapturous turns of phrase. You like that? ‘Rapturous turns of phrase?’ I got that from one of your books. Lady Chatterley’s Lover, maybe? I can’t remember. I’ve read a lot of books while you’ve been out on the town with – ” Her lower lip trembled. “Anyway, point is, I’m leaving for New York in two weeks. I was going to tell you last week – Monday, in fact, over a candle-lit Thai dinner. Pathetic, right? I was going to let you talk me out of it. Tell me how much you love me. But today I called Dan at home. I said I’d had enough time to think about it, and that I’d ‘welcome the opportunity to test my abilities further.’” She crossed her arms in front of her chest and thrust out her chin. “Sound familiar?”

I nodded, numbly. It was the conclusion to every job application I’d written. We’d joked about how I’d gotten a job only after she’d re-written both my cv and my cover letter.

She looked down and mumbled into her chest, “I’m leaving at the end of the month.”