Joy Page 4

  She walks through the revolving door and steps into one of six glass lifts. A flustered trainee carrying boxes marked CONFIDENTIAL is already inside. Without taking his hands off the cardboard he gives her a three-fingered wave and they float silently skywards. She wonders how long it will take to get Project Poultry in order, an irritatingly drawn-out libel case in which she acts for a huge frozen-food manufacturer suing a gang of pamphleteers. She will need to leave soon after lunch. She is not hanging around for the crap that comes after.

  ‘See you later,’ Joy says, exiting on the fourth floor.

  ‘Oh,’ Flustered says, doors closing on his words. ‘I’ll hopefully make it to your speech at five but I’ve a doctor’s thing at –’

  People, Joy has noticed, are a lot sicker than you imagine.

  Here it is, her end of the corridor. She takes a breath and lingers in the doorway to her office and says to Alfredo and Barbara in loud ringing happy church-bell tones, ‘Good morning!’

  In moments like this she feels like a poorly paid actress in an advert for antidepressants. They look up with flummoxed expressions, but are nonetheless well versed in office theatre. Their smiles arrive. They return the greeting. They place emphasis on the Good. One of the Employment partners in Christine’s team wanders by and he smiles too, a Gordon Brown lip-caught-on-gum kind of smile. The trouble with Gordon was he seemed too clever to be human. A whiff of robot fuel about him. At least you can imagine Cameron winking at waitresses, or sticking cashews up his nose to make Samantha laugh.

  Suddenly hungry, Joy walks onward to her desk. She sinks into her swivel chair. It squeaks. The chair has been getting creakier for the past six months, its slow demise into second-rateness dovetailing with that of the giant yucca in the corner, and now the creak is – yes – a squeak. If it’s yours you shouldn’t let it wither or whimper away, better to chuck it out completely, yet each day the Admin column of her doggedly updated To-do List becomes a catalogue of deferred decisions. The chair remains unoiled and the yucca stays tucked too far from the light. As she settles her handbag on the floor these minor tasks and all the unresolved jobs back home drip through her thoughts, soft droplets from an unfixed tap. Less and less of them are her concern.

  Maybe she’ll make time to go down to the river today. She used to make a point of getting some air down there each night, before catching her taxi home. A stroll through midnight drizzle along the Thames, it always seemed to relax her. Found it slackened her pulse to see how each passer-by on the Embankment looked tired, half vanished in their City clothes, a bland suaveness to their bodies, whereas distant tourists on the South Bank side stood out against the spent bulk of London’s buildings – the Tate Modern, the National Theatre – seemed, in their choice of bright jackets and umbrellas, to want to master the place. There was something soothing about wandering beneath the twisted branches of plane trees, inclining and recovering in the breeze, about staring into those hesitant brackets of light the London Eye left on the water, starry around the edges from lit Lambeth windows…Yes, maybe later, a quick look at the Thames.

  Samir

  IT IS a fear bigger than heart attack. That is what they say in Testomuscles Monthly. Heart attack is only number four. Number three is bleeding nipples. A common effect of the friction between T-shirt and skin. Number two is to soil yourself in motion. Very bad. Very very bad. But it is not number one. No. The number-one fear London Marathon runners have is being defeated by someone in silly fancy dress. Homer Simpson. Michael Jackson. Giant panda. Something of this nature. Right there on the line in front of your family and friends.

  Me? I do not worry about the panda pipping me at the post. Fancy dress is brilliant. Most people like a fancy-dressed person do you not think?

  Yes. In the restaurant my father works in I once saw a bald man in a nappy. I believe from the message written on his forehead he was soon to be married. His expression was extremely serious as he ate his Jalfrezi. Sweaty red…Thoughtful…But he was dressed as a big baby and that meant every other customer gave him a smile. Something like a nappy can sort of pull the world towards you.

  Runny…?

  Running! Yes. I am running the marathon in April. I am excited to finally do it. Afraid as well. But excited.

  Afraid of the possibility of…the chance shall we say of number two.

  I was thinking of the Testomuscles Monthly numbering! But you have understood. The distance and jolting upsets the body cycle. It is not uncommon to see a runner who has the backs of his legs…streaked. I do not expect to have supporters there on the day but I would rather strangers and the BBC did not see me in a streaked condition. Everything is on the cameras these days. Even Miss Stephens up on the thing. Viewing platform. Last Friday. Down in the staff gym we have a camera too and sometimes I need to stand on the weights bench to clean the lens. Father says privacy is a thing of the past. I think this accounts for his surveillance of Mrs Hasan in Flat 15.

  Even without any physical jolting I have since Friday suffered from…They are small difficulties but it is necessary to develop tactics. The Astaire for example. Or the Full Bollywood. But in a marathon context these strategies will be less brilliant.

  Oh the Astaire is a foot tap. During the movements. To help disguise unwanted noises. The wall between the basement bathroom and the staff gym – it is exclusively staff we deal with in the gym – is very fragile you see. An extremely nice bathroom. Very very clean. But the wall is fragile.

  The Bollywood? That is for very desperate situations. You are a man of refinement. Of taste. I admire your jacket very much. I would not think you have much need for the Bollywood. Even I do not usually have much need for it. But some things I did on Friday have put stress on my thoughts. My stomach…

  Would you mind. Would it be rude. If I moved your cup slightly in this direction?

  You are very kind. Thank you very much. And look how the sunlight shines on it now! Brilliant.

  The biggest effect is on my work schedule. It cannot easily accommodate the additional toilet commitments. Miss Stephens would tolerate me having to step out for a few minutes during her session but some other fee-earners I train do not. I just joined the Facebook to try and…I joined and was looking at it when Miss Stephens came in that Friday for her session. Unprofessional I realise to be looking at such things not working. Less than brilliant. But the point I make is Miss Stephens was the type who did not mind. Came in and chatted to me. Did a very fast run. She is a very very determined lady. And kind. Kind and pretty everyone says. Often Jack would smile at her when she came in all nice and neat in her Lycra. Turn to me and whisper between his white Australian teeth What do you think of those legs Sam Man? He calls me Sam Man. And I would agree that they had a good shape. And he would say with something new going on in his eyes Gotta love those spacewoman tights mate. He calls them spacewoman tights. And whatever I said to him next was usually sort of lost.

  I like Jack because he makes good choices. Good choices of words and good decisions like to have the alcohol-gel dispenser installed. Jack is not manager of the HS&S staff gym for nothing. Did you know he drives a motorbike?

  Yes. I would too. Look at Miss Stephens’s legs. Broken now. In plaster when I visited. No one had written on the casts as they did if you were popular at school. Friends. Girlfriends. People of that nature.

  You mean…?

  No. I have not got one. I did have a meal with a Fitness First lady. Once. But it all went very wrong.

  She asked what I thought of her outfit. I paused. Questions of this type are delicate. I tried to decline to answer. But she said Go on have a view. Therefore I told her the red shoes were brilliant…And she said Go on. And I said But perhaps clash a little with the pink skirt.

  Very very bad idea. But I cannot lie at all. It is not in my nature.

  She proceeded to make a number of observations about me. For example that I seem to blow
my nose loudly and for prolonged periods. Which I do. To keep the airways clear. I hate the idea of eating without the airways clear. She gave me her verdict on these nasal habits but also my shirt my childhood and my face. In response to each of these observations I tried to put forward suggestions of skirt colours that might better suit her red shoes. An attempt to be helpful. Make the feedback what Jack calls constructive. The exchange ended with her saying very loudly If you like red so much have some of this. Which is when the house wine struck me. It was followed by a barrage of wholemeal rolls. As I exited she was attempting to launch breadsticks in the manner of javelins.

  The worst thing. The worst thing was the disappointment from Jack. The next morning he said You’ve gotta show the woman who’s boss mate. I explained she was definitely boss and I had shown this fairly clearly. He said I was way beyond help. Suggested I was better off avoiding sensitive ladies of this nature. Never date a raw prawn he said. Which provoked a very good discussion about sushi…I do not know if you know but Jack has brilliant knowledge of international cuisine. In Sylhet sushi was not on offer but I have had it once in London. I ate it with my hands but the waiters were kind. They did not laugh.

  I watched a brilliant science-fiction film once. Everyone ate out of neat little boxes like Japanese people sometimes do. Compartments for all the different types of food. So the rice and meat did not touch. A brilliant idea. And people did not speak. They had microphones sewn near to their hearts and the beat of the heart told other people all they needed to know. Whether the person was excited or bored. Happy or sad. It made the communication simple but true. Every wall and floor was made of clear sparkling glass. That is probably the feature I like best about Hanger, Slyde & Stein. About working in the gym for the busy HS&S staff. The glass. And if you had those microphones at the marathon it would be a brilliant orchestra of drums do you not think? Thirty-six thousand hearts beating at the same time.

  Although I suppose the fitter pulses would be slower.

  Although even if they were not in time each heart would yes would sound at the finish line tired but very very happy do you think?

  I find exercise makes you tired but happy. You feel sort of I want to say joined up afterwards. Less like a toy someone not concentrating has created. A bit there with too much glue. Another bit loose or lopsided…

  I have been working on my triceps and quads and I am happy with the progress. Jack indicated recently that I have a chicken neck. This was a blow but I am working out a routine to correct the issue. It is not just about health it is also how do I say this about becoming someone who has an appearance pleasant enough to…to put people into a kind of tunnel.

  Yes. So they smile. So they are interested in your words.

  Apart from early morning and lunchtime barely any of the lawyers make it down to the gym so often it is only me. Behind the desk there is a lot of time to consider problems and the possible corrections. I have found an old issue of Testomuscles Monthly which contains isometric and head-harness routines under the heading Collar Girth Is What You Need. Quite simple exercises. For example it was suggesting you do this. If you perhaps copy what I am doing with my head here. Tilting it. A bit that way. Left. That is it. Very very good. All the way round. And then next –

  Of course! My apologies. Sometimes I get carried…Anyway your neck appears very strong. I appreciate your time. Do not let me waste it.

  Microphones on your heart! What was the name of that film? I think about it sometimes. There is no natural light in the basement we work in. Not like up here. You are down in your dreams and memories a lot. Very small scenes that dissolve or get interrupted. We were eating phuchka. Phuchka and fresh mango on huge cushions around the tiny television. All of us huddled watching this film. Me Mother Father and my older brothers. Mosquitoes humming in the distance. It was a brilliant night. Whole months before Father and I moved to England. Tower Hamlets to be precise.

  Father used to love films. When he was a teacher in Sylhet and my mother was around. But now after he gets back from the restaurant he prefers watching sport. And Mrs Hasan. Through the window.

  Do you know which film I mean?

  Perhaps I am lucky. If people could hear my heart they would know I was hiding something. They would hear how fast it has been beating since Friday.

  9.20 a.m.

  AMONG THE usual pile of post on her desk is a stampless envelope containing a greeting card. The front of the card is a print of that famous seventies photograph of a blonde in tennis whites walking away from the camera, teasing her skirt up over bare buttocks. The thing that draws Joy’s eye is the way the buttocks themselves have their own shy tan, as if the girl has, in her pre-photograph life, always (who wouldn’t?) spent summers without pants. It’s a detail that gives the image its own beautiful fakery, and gets her thinking again about last night’s call girl. Her mind provides an unpleasant image of the girl on all fours, and from there Joy’s thoughts tumble and roll into her relationship with Dennis, their unsatisfactory sex life, the sordid little routines you enter into as a means of pleasing others, of saying sorry…

  With vigilant eyes she absorbs the message inside the card – Congratulations again, darling Joyous. You’ll make a very clever partner. Cheeky drink after I beat you at tennis, if you like – and the three lower-case kisses that always trail Christine’s signature ‘C’. The word ‘cheeky’ is underlined, and like the surplus ‘darling’ Joy senses in this narrative touch a somewhat affected emphasis, as if Christine is, consciously or not, mimicking the flamboyant tone of one of their more eccentric colleagues at Hanger’s. The handwriting, by contrast, is anything but flamboyant; uniform, small, devoid of the runaway passion which shows itself on a page (and in a life) as a kind of negligence. On their first day at Hanger’s Joy and her future friend began chatting as they queued up to autograph a piece of paper headed ‘Trainee Security Pass Registration’. Christine went first, and with ‘Reid’ sitting two rows above ‘Stephens’ in the surname grid the differences in penmanship were immediately apparent. Christine’s scratchy straight lines made the gleams and curves of Joy’s own strokes look both elaborate and impetuous. It was a baffling mystery how Christine, like so many of the other signatories, managed to stay within her allotted space. Joy’s curlicues needed room to breathe and be beautiful; to scale them down would entail a sacrifice of style.

  Staying still to minimise seat-squeaks Joy studies the card for a few more moments, flicking from buttocks to message, message to buttocks. After ten years of friendship Christine’s thrifty characters still seem startlingly understated, but since that Hanger, Slyde & Stein induction day Joy has noticed in the author a skilfulness that does not translate into her text. As a tennis pair, Joy possesses the more shapely presence on court – the vulnerable beauty of her body; the glossy intelligent momentum; the embarrassing tendency, after exhausting stalemates in the depths of each set, to win every tie-breaker – and this winning charm seems to have been equally effective in the context of the office, where it is Joy who has garnered most professional praise. Yet in life, in real life, Christine’s plainness seems to contain and even sustain a clinching prudence. Joy envies the functional manner in which her friend can shrug off bad days, weeks, years. If a bout of flu sinks her holiday, or a pigeon’s liquid discharge ruins her best dress, she half smiles and says, Oh well. Her technique of unshowy indecision and rueful resignation – hair often only half straightened for morning meetings; non-committal notes of advice emailed with pre-emptive apologies – seems to leave her able to greet Fate’s dizzier modulations with a passive grace. Like a building designed to withstand an earthquake, Christine bounces and sways minutely on impact before settling back down to the simple business of being. It is an undemanding brand of happiness, but it might explain why, among all the girls in their intake, it was Christine who managed to marry Peter. Joy’s noticed that beautiful men, by dint of their inevitable arrogance, often pref
er submissive women.

  ‘Oh well,’ she mutters, closing the card with a final insincere flick, wishing – as she so often wishes – that she meant exactly what she said. Must tell her about the mislaid racket; going to have to cancel that match. She picks up the phone, dials her friend’s extension and hears Christine’s voicemail kick in – Hi, I’m not here to take your call right now, so…um…sorry about that – which makes Joy laugh every time. Maybe she’s in a meeting; will try her again in a bit.