Joy Read online

  ‘Somebody in a good mood!’ Alfredo says, arriving through the door frame with Barbara close behind. ‘Must mean promotion today and holiday tomorrow!’

  ‘I suppose it must, Alfredo.’

  ‘Remind me where you go? Maldive again?’

  ‘I forget the coordinates. Somewhere exotic but intimate.’

  ‘Ha ha! Keep them guessing, eh? Go wild! No BlackBerry reception! Throw caution out the window!’

  Joy smiles. Alfredo is the firm’s only male secretary, here on a year’s secondment from the Milan office. In furtherance of a favour owed to his Italian boss she’s been helping to facilitate his integration into the Disputes team. As if to answer initial question marks over his sexuality, Alfredo’s integration to date has involved him sleeping with no fewer than three female paralegals. Work-wise, he is supposed to be shadowing Barbara. But Barbara – who has the distinction of being the firm’s oldest secretary, cheating retirement year after year – isn’t keen on being shadowed, and neither are the other senior PAs. They can’t work out why Joy doesn’t have him sent back. They say Alfredo sits at his work station doodling all day. They say he has minimal proficiency in Word, Excel, Outlook and English. They also say, more interestingly, that he once appeared on the cover of Dentists’ Dreams, a niche US publication aimed at the 18–30 second-tier medical role-play market, wearing only dental floss. And although they are very probably right on all counts, Joy doesn’t care. Alfredo is lively.

  ‘So who you have for the eleven o’clock handover meeting? Mental Brian?’

  ‘And one other,’ Joy says, seeing Barbara’s angry, folded face over Alfredo’s shoulder. ‘To be confirmed. How is your day shaping up?’

  ‘More training on the Visualise software trial. They tell me when I have quiet time I must think up data relevant to the office and represent, as practice.’

  ‘Good, you can make it your thing. The firm is pushing for PAs to pick up skills like that. Text-saving diagrams, graphs and charts.’

  Barbara finally loses patience and barges past Alfredo, her throat a bundle of cords unravelling. ‘Lemme do my job,’ she says, waving the walking stick she never seems to need. ‘Go make some pasta swirls with your Etch A Sketch.’

  ‘Thanks Barbara!’ he says, backing out of the room. ‘Fingers cross for this afternoon presentation, Joy!’

  ‘You’ve got to get rid of the Italian,’ Barbara confides for the sixth or seventh time this week. ‘With the Italian around it’s impossible to concentrate.’

  But, left alone with Barbara, Joy finds the opposite to be true: her concentration drifts as soon as he is not around. She hears the odd word her secretary says but in the main is remembering her morning back at home, the sex they had, the sex which – for the first time since summer – was free of third-party involvement. She initiated it and, perhaps feeling some residual arousal from the call girl (why does she shy from the word ‘prostitute’?), Dennis too seemed hungry and hurried.

  ‘Won’t you be late for work?’

  ‘One day won’t hurt.’

  There is sex where his eyes are fixed on your eyes and you’re told you are a wonderful person who makes excellent flapjacks – the kind of cosy lovemaking Joy’s sister, when they still spoke, used to call Making Flapjack Sex – and then there is the Eating Flapjack Sex, where it’s messy but you’re hungry and greedy to finish each other and the talk is about cocks and cum and the buzz in your veins seems to be sourced from somewhere other than you. This morning’s sex started as the bloodbuzz kind. She took delight in suspense, in feeling the orgasm slowly building into itself, a string inside her going tight, took delight in this even as the day ahead started slanting into her thoughts like a too-bright light. But, as with most anticipated ecstasies, the orgasm did not arrive as imagined. A brief shiver of pleasure, no more than that.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Dennis said in the dark.

  As he dozed she piled papers on the dresser. He would think nothing of them until he heard the news and then he’d be grateful, she hoped, that their financial arrangements were all laid out and the address book was to hand.

  She took a long shower slumped against the tiles. The damp curtain kept clinging to her skin like a pensioner in a Pac-a-Mac (her sister once accused her of being addicted to odd similes and metaphors; the whimsy of resemblance, escapades into untruth) and she thought about the way the inquests she’d looked up on the Internet ended with the coroner saying She took her own life while the balance of her mind was disturbed. When you studied the detail you found the woman had cancer, and her dad was a paedophile, and someone had set fire to her cat, and her husband had fucked half the women north of Watford. Was it really her, this woman, who was disturbed? The question had stayed with Joy as she got dressed and kissed Dennis goodbye and rode the escalator underground until, leaning into the windrush of the tunnel, waiting for the southbound train to come crashing through the dark, she saw a mother and child standing safely nearby, well behind the yellow line, and noticed the boy’s proudly pinned I’m Six badge, and with the machine roar rising to an insane level, pitched to oblivion bliss, defined by its own derangement, a new thought came: so then, that’s what six looks like.

  ‘Are you listening?’ says Barbara, banging the floor with her stick.

  Barbara

  WELL I’LL come to your point – I’ve got things to say on your point – but first lemme make my point: Alfredo does nothing all day and gets paid close to what I get paid. Now I’m sorry what I’m doing will cause him trouble, but does that seem fair to you? Does it? Have a shortbread and mull it over. They’re free. I’ll pass you a shortbread. Reach over and grab a shortbread for heaven’s sake, you’re closer than I am.

  Pardon me?

  Yes, yes, that’s all very sensible and whatnot, but how easily can you compare qualifications in – let’s say – your industry? Because yours is a strange role, isn’t it? That’s just how it seems to me. It seems to me the two things you do most of are listening to people and writing down the things they say. Now, some deaf souls excepted, we can all listen. And, some ethnic souls excepted, we can all write. If you want the truth, I’ve been pretty good at listening and writing for the best part of seventy years – if it’s the still water you’re after it’s the blue cap not the pink – but I wouldn’t think of setting myself up in business based on those two skills alone, would I? If I were you then personally, despite the exams, I would have become a proper doctor.

  I said the blue top. Blue means blue. Although Alfredo would probably tell you blue was yellow and pink was whatschacall, magenta. Lemme tell you, he gets everything wrong. The other day he says to me, he says, Barbara, maybe you’re right, but let me play devil’s advocado. Advocado! It’s none of my concern. I just sigh. I tell him I didn’t know the devil was a vegetarian but that it makes perfect sense. But really, I mean really, I’m trying to help him by explaining London-office house style isn’t the same as Milan-office house style – the margins and spacing are different, but also the letter templates – and he’s mumbling on about the devil’s five a day? Our boss is in a coma, her husband’s gone crazy, the Halfwit Peter Carlisle’s sliming around like nothing’s happened, and Alfredo decides it’s time to mumble out his pagan vegan values? It’s not right. His team supervisor back in Milan – Mario, Luigi, Mussolini, whathaveyou – he also happens to be Alfredo’s cousin, did you know that? Do you think that might help explain how he came to get a secondment to this office? He’s pulling all these strings like a whatschacall, puppeteer, and claiming the same salary as someone – me – who next week will have been at the firm forty years. I sometimes think, I honestly do, I think to myself that if something happened, if he was sent back to Milan, if something unpredicted happened to make him leave, if someone took a step for the benefit of the majority, John Stuart Mill and whatnot – even PAs read – then the girls in my section, without Alfredo’s assistance, would have le
ss work to do, not more.

  Hmm?

  Do I see? Of course I see. Nothing wrong with my eyes. I have a proper doctor for my eyes.

  Because he’s a slippery little sponger, that’s what I’m saying. He actually generates work for us. We have to check his things and correct and cover for him. And he repays us how? By taking overtime which is rightfully ours, is rightfully for those of us who have airfares or whathaveyou to save for – want to get to New York – spend a day or two with Jackie – can I? – damn right I can’t. It’s none of my concern but, even with Joy gone, I’m flat out. By rights if someone like the Halfwit Peter Carlisle needs secretarial cover then Alfredo should do it. But not even the Halfwit Peter Carlisle would put up with that. It’s like the only English Alfredo knows is clichés and sayings. Useless. It’s as if he’s learnt English from a dodgy thesaurus.

  Well that’s just another word for thesaurus, isn’t it?

  You want to know what I think? Lemme tell you what I think. I think the world’s got too clever. I’m not saying you want to be surrounded by the unschooled. Back in New York I got married to one of the unschooled. English girl in America – I should have attracted the refined! Nothing refined about my husband. He thought oregano was a Japanese art. Food was supposed to be his first love! When he died I had the girls round for biscuits and singing. I’m saying it seems to me that it’s better not to be one of these highly striving reflective types. I’ve worked thirty-nine years here, forty next Monday, and I’ve seen a few. They’re too intelligent to enjoy a meal or a walk. It’s none of my concern.

  Eat one, won’t you? The Bulgarian says if you don’t eat the biscuits they’ll cut the quota next year. That’s in no one’s interest. I moved back to home turf because my sister Sarah married an Irish lawyer. I wanted to be close to her. She’s gone, he’s gone, but I’ve still got the job he fixed me here. The shortbread is one of the only things that hasn’t gone and I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose it without a fight.

  Why are you looking so afraid? What’s wrong with you?

  And that’s exactly it. How do you think Joy got herself so exhausted she fainted over those railings? We’re all tired. Health and Safety manager got the axe – always support staff who get it, I don’t have a view – but what about the partners giving her eighty hours of work each week? Now they’d say she could have asked for help. But don’t they have a responsibility, knowing about her high-strivingness, not to leave her working all night on client notes and pitches and presentations and possible settlement agreements and press releases and disclosure thingies? If I on occasion have a difficulty, like maybe my eyesight’s not what it was, a difficulty like I can’t read the partner’s mark-up so well, I ask Liz or one of the other girls for help. Used to, at least, before they got too busy covering up Alfredo’s messings. But I’m not Joy, am I? I don’t equate happiness with being a genius at every little thing.

  If you want to be heard, you’d better speak up.

  I don’t know where you’ve been for the last five minutes, but we are talking about my feelings on the accident. As an alleged listener I thought you might be familiar with it, the concept of there being more than one way to tackle a topic.

  Fine.

  Fine.

  Well she’s gorgeous, as you’ll have heard. Lovely face and figure. Her skin smooth and her hair silky blonde. It’s not natural, the hair colour, but that’s none of my concern. She has a very Manhattan sort of look to her. She’s half-American, did you know that? Half-Manhattan, anyway, which my cousin Jackie would tell you isn’t quite the same thing. Joy grew up there till she was seven or eight. The one thing we’ve got in common, me and her: both of us spending time on that side of the pond, with our parents, in different decades. I was dragged there by parents with itchy feet. My parents had itchy feet before the phrase was invented! Must have been a lovely child. I have a daughter of my own, you know – high-flyer – and she was a lovely child. Being good-looking causes issues. I should know. You think I always had a face for radio and a stick to walk? I forgot to mention the tea. Also free, as you probably guessed. The tea’s good. The coffee not so much. These solicitors have it so strong. But the real trouble comes from being good-looking and intelligent. I came back in ’71 as a young widow. Michael had died in Vietnam. Straight away I moved up a class thanks to Fancy Irish and his connections. I met all these women who were too clever and pretty to be happy. I knew when I was lucky. I kept my limits in mind. Not them. Someone like Joy looks in the mirror, or at her grades, or curriculum whatschacall, or the queue of men around the block, and she gets used to this feeling that the whole world is just garnish on herself. And when she started to realise that wasn’t true, that events weren’t just parsley sprinkled round her plate, she felt she’d failed. Had this very detailed picture of success in her head, see. Once you’ve got that, you might as well give up on life. I’m not saying ignorance is bliss – I was married to Ignorance and it was about as close to bliss as a poke in the throat – but a certain unthinkingness when it comes to the overall architecture? That has its benefits. Ask Alfredo. Have the last shortbread. Someone like Joy’s got her own logic going on. I’ll have that shortbread and if you call 5999 the pantry’ll bring you more.

  Helpful to drill…?

  Truth is, and no hurt intended, I find your approach to this occupational health business a little strange. Not a great deal but a little. I’m struggling to take what you say at face value. Your questions are open to several interpretations. They devalue the facts. Your aftershave, while we’re on the subject, is borderline ridiculous. You spin the line about how you want to find out how I truly feel, but have you considered whether that particular approach will bring a smile to anyone’s face – anyone’s – given all that’s happened? You remind me in a sense of Fancy Irish. He was always quoting bits of books to me. Your kind of height. Athletic. Adept at trampoline. Did it in the garden while reciting poetry. You know, as a party piece. Had a taste for dips. Just a preference but a strongish sort of one. Hummus, tzatziki, sour cream and chive. Couldn’t get enough of them. Had a whatschacall, spring in his step. Lemme tell you, it was all very curious. You could be his twin, if you lost a few pounds.

  Hmm?

  Ha! Well, I can see you’re obsessed with examples, so…give me a second…

  How about this. Joy would get me to get Jackie to send this Manhattan face cream over. Cream Joy’s mother always used on her when she was a girl, she said. A wealthy woman, Joy’s mother. One of these types that never worked, from what I can gather. Actress. Exaggerator. It’s by La Prairie and contains real platinum. Costs one thousand US for maybe a 1.5-ounce jar. A thousand dollars! For a face! It’s none of my concern, but is it fair that after years of scrimping I’m still unable to buy a flight to visit my cousin Jackie, Jackie who I’ve only seen once since Michael died, her little family I’ve never met, and every quarter Joy can buy a face cream for the price of two air tickets? My church takes that in donations in maybe a year. Religion is out of fashion. Fashionable to disparage religious happiness. But why kick away our crutches? It’s like Joy expected to find a tub of cream big enough to smooth out the whole world. Basically I organise her life, so – yes – I know how much she earns. Do you know? You probably know. Into six figures, plus a 10 to 20 per cent bonus, health care, income protection insurance, life assurance, the whole package. Yes. With that sort of money we could get a new crucifix and go electric with the lanterns. Joy could go back to New York whenever she wants. Doesn’t, of course. The young these days have no respect for roots. I don’t begrudge anyone anything, but is it the real world? Give a poor old man a fish and bread? He’ll thank you and sleep content. Give one of this generation a fish and bread? They’ll want a range of full-colour cookbooks and a non-stick pan.

  We all know the things we want and the things we need, don’t we? What I want is my section back how it was, and what I need is a flight to Newark or K
ennedy. It’s all connected. And so really Alfredo is none of my concern, but I’m not having it, which is why – between you and me – I’ve had no choice but to check his online workspace. The workspaces are public unless you make them private. Italians don’t know what private is. Look at Berlusconi! I’m too busy to care. I’ve emailed myself the last few documents he’s created. I’ll bring the printouts next time, the ones I’m going to take to Debs. It’s obvious he’s doing no work. Joy took some liking to him, I don’t know why. Maybe they had some kind of flirtation. It’s none of my business. With her out of the picture for a while or forever, the Italian’s protection racket is full of holes. It’s not fair on me and the rest of the PAs. They might not mind but I do. I mind on their behalf. We’re working all day and he’s just making nonsense pictures – they’re not even funny – on the Visualise software. He does that all day and then takes overtime! But enough. Enough of that. I need to ask you a…a personal question. Can I do that? Can I ask you a personal question?

  One thing I really need an outside view on. Move that plate out the way and come close. Lean in a little more and listen. Come on, closer. I know these talks are about me doing the talking, but I ask this one thing of you, and one thing only. It’s a theoretical, but an important one. So tell me. Tell me the truth. Tell me no lies. British Airways: would you trust them?

  10.35 a.m.

  HER FIRST bedroom in Britain had a window overlooking a pond. The pond was the best bit of the garden. In summer, with the lawn sprinkler sending out lazy spray in overlapping arcs, she and her sister would find frogs in the spangled grass, catch them with breathy giggles, hold them in quivering cupped palms and throw those frogs up into the sun, down into the splash, each daring the other to stand further back, throw further still, until the squelch of flesh on stone made Joy run to Mum. The pond was the last thing she saw as the curtains closed. It would stay with her in sleep, expanding outwards unstoppably, Joy dreaming the whole house was surrounded by water, full of dolphins and whales, always dipping and bobbing in the same places. You sensed their movements before they came, like inflections in a well-known voice.