6.38 p.m.
Mascara. Should it be all stiff and gritty like this? Does makeup have a sell-by date? I suppose I haven’t used it in a while. Probably not since university, now I come to think about it. Oh well.
And this lipstick … it’s bubble-gum pink, given to me by a blonde friend years ago. I don’t think it suits me, but I’m not about to go and buy a lipstick. I only ever wear it a few times a year – today being one such special occasion.
Happy Birthday, Kate. Twenty-six today.
Monday isn’t the ideal day for a birthday but Col and I are making the best of it with a rare night out.
I assess my reflection in the work toilet mirror.
Harsh strip-lighting, coupled with a lack of windows, gives my face a ‘cyber ghost’ effect, turning my skin ash-white and eyebrows see-through. It’s impossible to see where ‘plain’ ends and ‘too much makeup’ begins.
Col, of course, is unlikely to notice my makeup. He notices very little about my appearance, except when I’m wearing a particular green jumper he likes – one that’s tight around the bosom.
Right. Makeup (badly) done. Now to change in the toilet cubicle.
I can’t use the extra-large disabled cubicle, since I’m not disabled. So I opt for the normal-sized one and end up noisily bumping my elbows and knees against walls, trying to climb into my dress.
Yes, I’m wearing a dress.
But it’s just a plain shift with no patterns or embellishments.
I don’t have any sheer or tan tights, so I’m wearing the same thick, black tights I wear to work, coupled with flat black sandals. Technically, the sandals are summer sandals and should be worn with sheer or no tights. But they are the nearest I have to going-out shoes.
I think I can get away with it. It’s nice having a husband with low standards. He’ll be delighted just to see me showing my legs.
Right.
Beside me, I hear a cubicle door open and close, and then the sound of a woman huffing and puffing, sitting heavily on the loo.
Tessa.
There is an audible groan, then what sounds like a bucket of pig slops being emptied into the toilet.
I hurriedly strap on my shoes and leave the cubicle, unnerved by this unexpected intimacy with my red-faced manager.
Do I need to wash my hands? I’ve entered a toilet cubicle, although not used the toilet. I hate it when there’s no clear protocol.
I decide on a quick hand-wash. But before I’ve managed to use the snazzy new vertical hand drier, Tessa comes crashing out of the cubicle, even redder in the face than usual.
She gives a little start when she sees me. ‘I thought you’d gone for the day,’ she says, busying herself with hand-washing. ‘What on earth are you doing still hanging around? You’re going out this evening, aren’t you?’ She looks me up and down and snorts. ‘To a funeral, by the looks of things. I thought you church-goers were supposed to like bright colours. What have you got – a church social or something?’
‘It’s my birthday, actually,’ I say. ‘We church-goers have them too.’
‘Oh, stop being so touchy,’ Tessa replies. ‘Can’t you take a joke? For goodness sake. I’m starting to feel sorry for that boyfriend of yours.’
‘Husband.’
‘I hope he can take a joke. Now listen – before you shoot off, remember the meeting tomorrow, nine a.m. sharp.’
‘What meeting?’
‘The strategy meeting. Don’t tell me you’d forgotten.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten. That meeting is on Friday.’
‘No. It got moved. Didn’t Gary tell you?’
‘No. He didn’t tell me. Tomorrow morning I’m booked in to visit Tom Kinnock—’
‘You can’t miss the strategy meeting. The paediatrician can’t do any other time and he’s vital.’
I stare at myself in the mirror, feeling the stupidity of makeup. No evening out for you, Kate. Not even on your birthday.
‘I’ll have to do the Tom Kinnock visit now then,’ I say.
‘What?’ Tessa demands.
‘Tom Kinnock. I’ll need to visit him this evening. It’s six o’clock. There’s still time.’
‘What’s your boyfriend going to say about that?’
‘Husband. I imagine he’ll be upset, Tessa. But not half as upset as if I end up on a disciplinary for failing in my duty of care.’