Six

      The following morning I awoke with the realization that: (1) for once, I didn’t have a hangover, which felt weird, and (2) bugger it, today I had to go to work in marketing. And (3) Fran was pissed off with me, and (4) I would have to pretend to Alex that everything was FINE, and I’d never pressure him again, and (5) Alex wasn’t lying there beside me, begging me not to get up, holding me to him, smelling good. Where the hell was he?

      Was it raining? Oh, good.

      I trudged into the office, almost but not quite late, in an insolent fashion. There were already strange men around my desk fiddling with my dead pot plant. Barney, wisely, was nowhere to be seen.

      ‘So I’m moving already, am I?’ I remarked to the builders (wryly, I thought).

      ‘Don’t worry, love.’ The bigger of the two chaps looked at me with pity, as if they cleared out people’s desks every day, which they probably did. God, they must be human misery experts. I thought he was about to say, ‘Worse things happen at sea,’ but he didn’t.

      ‘We’ll have you out of here in no time.’

      If only. Suddenly I realized that his mate with the funny ears and what looked like Copydex stuck to his chin was reaching towards my emergency didn’t-get-home-but-had-to-go-to-work-drawer, the contents of which included knickers, tampons and the numbers of several reputable clinics.

      ‘Errm, I’ll get that,’ I screeched, in what was patently not a casually helpful tone of voice.

      The first guy gave the ear guy a ‘seen it all before’ look.

      ‘Actually, love, we don’t need to open the drawers to move the cabinet.’

      ‘Right, OK, right.’ Bugger it. I looked around for something else I could pretend to be helping with, but decided to settle for the ‘I’ve just remembered something incredibly important’ look and dashed off.

      On the way downstairs to the marketing department, I paused to say goodbye to all my friends in the publishing unit, then I remembered I didn’t have any.

      ‘Off so soon?’ I heard from Shirley.

      ‘I thought she was part-time anyway,’ said someone else and I made a face at her (to myself, obviously; I had no intention of getting my eyes clawed out with long fake fingernails with jewellery in them), and disappeared down to the bowels of the building.

      The marketing department had been painted again – mmm, lime green and turquoise, how wacky. Somebody here wanted you to think of your job as fun – or else. Already I was scared.

      ‘Hi there – you must be Melanie!’ gushed someone who sounded so pleased to see me I assumed she must be a long-lost relative who thought I was rich. ‘I’m Flavi!’

      This was Flavi, prize bitch, with whom I’d been having a voice mail argument for nearly a year? Well, there you go. She looked like an over-made-up perfume counter assistant.

      ‘Brilliant to see you! Are Tony and Elvis bringing your things?’

      How does she know their names? I wondered nastily.

      ‘Yes, I think so. I saw them upstairs …’

      ‘Great, great, we have a space for you over here.’

      Stop being so nice to me! What was this, first day at Malory Towers?

      I moved to the space and looked at it, not quite sure what to do. The bloke to my right in the cheap suit and chains gave me a cheery Cockney nod. I recognized his face from various indistinct but possibly naughty photographs that got pinned up on the noticeboard after the annual Christmas party. No doubt I would recognize other parts of him as well. He was about twenty-one, skinny as a whippet, with plastered forward hair, shiny and heavy with gel.

      On the other side, a sweet-faced chubby girl gave me a half-smile half-grimace, and I realized she was probably reflecting my own expression. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a run in her tights and warmed to her.

      ‘Hello there!’ I said heartily, putting a brave face on it, like I did in the majorettes when they picked Amanda to lead the marching band. Cheery Cockney lad gave me a smirk.

      ‘Alwight, dorlin? Wot you in for then?’

      ‘Five to ten, unless I behave myself.’

      ‘Roit,’ he said, with an odd little sidelong glance. He was obviously wondering if I was trying to be a smart arse and, if so, what I was doing trying to usurp his position.

      I turned to the left, but the girl with the ladder in her tights was obviously having a deeply personal conversation on the phone. Huh. I busied around tidying things up – like that was something I usually did – so Flavi wouldn’t come over to see how I was doing. When lunch time came, at last, I went out to find a payphone. Well, I didn’t want to look too bad on my first day.

      As I walked out into the freezing afternoon, I didn’t even want to think about where Alex had spent the night. Last time I’d phoned Charlie’s house, he’d been six thousand miles away.

      And he hadn’t even called me, the bastard. I was ready to get deeply upset when I remembered that Elvis and Tony had had the phone disconnected all morning, so he couldn’t have got in touch even if he had wanted to. If he’d tried, I thought grimly. But I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and tried my house first. Surprisingly, Linda answered the phone. I really didn’t want to talk to her. After a quick mental battle with myself as to whether to just say ‘Sorry … long number’ in a dreadful Chinese accent and hang up, I asked for Alex, without identifying myself.

      ‘No, he’s moved his stuff out. Melanie, is that you?’ she asked wonderingly.

      ‘No! Sorry! Bye,’ I said, and put the phone down, slumping against the wall. He’d moved his stuff out. Another fucking moonlight flit. Where had he gone this time? I wondered to myself. China? Tibet? He could stick that North Pole up his arse, see if he could find himself with that. Fuck! How could he?! Again?

      I noticed a particularly virulent prostitute’s card stuck up in the phonebox. A woman was bent over with her wrists tied to her ankles. Above a childishly written phone number it said: ‘Melanie, new to the area, submissive – loves punishment. Will service your every need.’ It was a sign. Definitely a sign. But what could it mean?

      I had a disconsolate sandwich and wandered back to my new home, where the rat-faced man to my right was vigorously enjoying a ridiculously stinky hamburger. Small pieces of lettuce and indescribable goo were dripping on to my … what looked like my … well, anyway, an enormous bunch of flowers dumped straight on to my desk. My mind went through the options: David Duchovny; the cast of ER; Alex, from the North Pole …

      Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the girl with the ladder in her tights trying to weep inconspicuously.

      Very carefully, I picked up the bouquet. ‘Hey, pumpkin,’ it said on the card. Terse as ever. I relaxed.

      ‘Sending flowers to yourself again?’ coughed Ratto, mildly spewing me with burger phlegm.

      ‘No, actually, they’re for you. Oh, have you got a boyfriend called Alex as well? What a coincidence!’

      ‘Think you’re funny?’ muttered Ratto, and returned to his mastication.

      I turned to the girl.

      ‘Are you OK?’

      ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she whimpered, clearly not fine. ‘It’s my contact lenses.’

      The