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So I got two handbags.
“It worked out alright in the end,” says Bushra, during our work catch up/gossip call. “He’ll be making it up to you for the rest of the year.”
“And rightly so,” I say.
M has totally redeemed himself by over-gifting in Marrakesh. He’s even promised a surprise for tonight. This must be his way of trying to be more spontaneous.
“Has he not given you any clues about what you’ll be doing?”
“No but I’m guessing it’s dinner, as food is always in the equation. I saw him looking at a Michelin-starred restaurant the other night on his phone. Not that I was spying.”
“Twit-twoo!” says Bushra. “Fancy Nancy! How things have changed.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Come on. I’ve been on enough bargain-hunting trips around the veg stalls and reduced aisle in Morrisons to know you’re a penny pincher. Not to mention the watch...”
“The less said about the watch the better. Anyway, that was your idea!” I shudder recalling the watch-based dilemma that gave me sleepless nights pre-marriage.
“I’m just saying. Anyway, it’s a compliment. You moved to London, got a rich man and expanded your horizons. I wish I could do the same.”
I love how she thinks M is rich and I live this lavish life. I don’t correct her.
“Anyway, I’m still tight and he’s paying for dinner. So I haven’t changed that much!” I say.
“No prizes for guessing what will be for dessert. Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. I’m winking through the phone, by the way,” says Bushra.
“Yeah, I figured. Anyway, what about you? Are you seeing that guy again? What was his name? Marcus?” Bushra informed me of her latest date while I was on holiday. Bless her. She knows I miss her stories on a Monday morning so she resorted to messaging me.
“I don’t know. He’s gone all weird on me since that night. Why do guys do that? They get what they want and then it’s like they flip. They don’t want to know.” Bushra sighs. “I’m out tonight. If I see him, I’ll ask what’s up. But you won’t believe it... my parents are trying to sort me out now. Inevitable, really. And I never, ever thought I’d say this but... I’m not stopping them.”
“What? You mean an arranged -”
“Yeah. The ‘A’ word. I can see your smug I told you so face right now. You can save it, you married cow.”
I want to have a sisterly chat with Bushra, the one I’d often have in person when we sat opposite each other in our small office. The one where I say meeting someone that’s Asian isn’t that bad and she can supplement her parents efforts with her own. The one where I tell her to expand her horizons, look beyond the clubs and bars. Go to museums, join courses, or do some other pretentious bullshit in order to increase your chances of finding a man that isn’t a knob. I stop short, because:
A) I don’t want to sound like a smug married cow.
And
B) I have a one-to-one with Martin very soon.
“Bloody hell! He’s a keen bean with you, isn’t he? You see him more than most of us here who share a building,” says Bushra when I explain my reason for cutting short our call. “Since you’re seeing him, could you chase him up about an invoice from marketing? Just say it’s one of mine, as he hasn’t returned my emails. That’s if he can bear to take his attention away from you and your PR work. I bet he fancies you. He struck me as the sort who likes a bit of brown.”
“You’re brown too, Bushra.”
“Yeah well, he barely talks to me. Maybe he likes married brown.”
***
Does Martin fancy me? I would never have known. He’s nothing but professional with a hint of judgement when we meet. Not that I’d recognise the signs. I’m so out of the game, if I were ever in it, that I wouldn’t know whether he is playing it cool or simply uninterested.
One thing I do know, however, is that Martin has terrible dress sense. So far I’ve seen turtlenecks, shiny suits, embossed waistcoats and today, a shirt with a contrast collar unbuttoned beyond what is decent, revealing a thicker than average gold chain. I feel like I’m going to be sold a used car. I won’t tell Bushra about his visible chest hairs and hint of tattoo that’s creeping out from his shirt. That’ll only add fuel to her claim.
“I wanted to speak to you today because I’ve been working on a longer term plan for the north region. We’re looking at doubling our marketing and PR efforts,” he says.
That’s great news for me. “Well, I’ve been getting a lot more media coverage too, by creating PR templates for standard stories, like hospital openings and fundraisers.” I tap on my trusty folder, which is, of course, bursting with press clippings. Yes, the swotty schoolgirl never left me.
“Okay, good. There’s just one thing. To really do the north region justice on the PR front, we need to have our PR person based up north.”
I hesitate. What does that mean?
Martin looks at me, waiting for a response.
“So... would I be expected to move back up north?”
He nods. “I’m afraid so.”
“Well, I can’t. I live here now. I’m married. My home is here.”
“Yeah I understand that,” says Martin. “It’s just the way it is.”
My inner monologue goes: The way what is? I get shitloads of PR coverage. I travel back up north almost fortnightly to cover events and make sure the marketing team feels the love. I also do more than my fair share of work, picking up the slack of others. Does it really matter that I’m not permanently holed up there?
Of course I reply: “That’s fair enough. Except... um... I won’t be able to do that. So, what does that mean?”
“I’m sorry to sound brutal but we’ll have to look for someone up north.”
My inner thoughts: Whoa! Take a girl out to dinner, meet her family formally and then marry her, before you screw her.
My spoken words: “Right. Okay. Is there a timeline on this?”
“We don’t want to rush you, so nothing will happen this month or the next.”
“So the month after?”
He nods.
I sink back in my chair. “Does this mean... redundancy?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
All of a sudden my PR politeness goes into overdrive and I become very British. “Yes... well... that’s fine. Right. It makes sense. I mean, I’ve had a great run and I’m just really grateful to have been able to transfer my role in the first place. At least I had a job during all the changes. I understand your reasoning.”
Martin tries to appear sincere by furrowing his mono brow. “Thank you for being so understanding. I know it’s not the easiest news to swallow but rest assured, it’s nothing to do with your performance.”
***
I get back to my desk to be greeted with an email from Bushra: Did you manage to speak to Martin about the invoice? Sorry to pester, it’s just getting overdue.
I reply: No, I didn’t. Sorry.
Bushra: Too busy exchanging sweet nothings? I told you he fancied you.
Me: No. I can definitely say he doesn’t fancy me. He’s actually getting rid of me.
***
Nothing takes the sting away from an imminent redundancy than a slap up Michelin-starred meal. Especially if it’s an Indian one. I never knew there was such a thing.
The food is good. M has gone all out and ordered a tasting menu for us - which comes in at an eye-watering £82 each. I have misgivings after being served the first morsel - a spinach and apricot tikka with yoghurt and pomegranate sauce. It is barely a mouthful, albeit a flavourful one. I wonder if the rest of the courses will be of the same proportions.
The next dish, a soft shell crab with crispy calamari and salad, is more generous. My only experience of crab was at an English restaurant of Julia’s choice in Manchester. It was a bit of an ordeal. I didn’t expect the crab to come with a mucus-filled head and was horrified having to crack it’s legs and pick out bits of shell from the crab meat.
However, there are no such issues at this fancy-pants restaurant. The soft shell crab is wholly edible, even down to the claws. Once I get over the fact it looks like a flattened spider on my plate, it is actually delicious, with a light and zingy flesh. The deep frying has left the claws crispy and it tastes a little like an onion bhaji, if I close my eyes and don’t think about it.
In between mouthfuls, M and I talk about everything - future destinations we want to visit, when we think we’d buy a house or flat. Whether it would be in London or up north. He even shares his bucket list of posh Indian restaurants in London that he’s heard about. The restaurants he’s been waiting to visit when he had someone special to share the meal with.
We talk about everything except THAT. That news that threatens to derail our evening. That news that threatens to unravel our carefully curated, cushioned life in London.
Next up is a course of chicken cooked three ways. One is marinated in chutney, another with some pesto flavour and the final cut is deep fried and stabbed with a pipette of mint. I find this dish a bit too meaty in contrast to the lighter dishes. M, on the other hand, loves it.
Another surprise of the evening, as if I hadn’t had enough already, is the monkfish in a coconut and curry leaf sauce, served with a crab croquette and vermicelli. I polish it off to over stimulate my senses, and replace the sickness in the pit of my stomach with food rather than feelings.
Then comes a much needed cleanser, a zesty sorbet with delicate spices. It serves more than its original purpose of cleansing the palette before the next course - it washes away the bitter taste of bile that has been making brief appearances in my mouth ever since the meeting that afternoon.
M then leaves the table, much to my dismay. Why does he have to go? Well, I guess a guy’s got to pee. I would carry on eating but the over-helpful waiter has covered our dishes with gleaming silver cloches.
He smiles at me, all decked out in pristine white, and says: “Save your food from getting cold.”
Tall and lanky, the waiter looks about my age, or younger. I bet he hates his job. Having to cover the pretentious food of pretentious people with pretentious lids.
Without the distraction of food, I’m left with my thoughts. It’s not comfortable. It’s not nice. I look around for something discernible to grab my attention.
The restaurant is dimly lit with a shiny black floor smattered with glitter-like speckles. A giant fishtank stretches across one side of the room. The water bubbles emit green and red light. A series of black round tables are brightened by a brilliant white tablecloth, so clean you’d think it’s the first time it’s been laid. It’s all an illusion. Many people have sat here before us and many more will take our seats when we’re gone. The cloth will be hot-washed for each new customer so they feel like the first.
I notice we’re the only non-white clientele. There is a grey haired, pink-faced man, bloated from too many samosas and ruddy from a too hot vindaloo, sat with a sinewy, bespectacled fella. Further away from us, near the fishtank end, is a family - mum, dad and a young son who looks perfectly at home in such decadent surroundings, with his grey suede shoes and cable cord sweater.
Ironically, for an Indian restaurant, we haven’t seen any Asian staff. Our waiter speaks with an accent but his blue eyes and auburn hair suggests he is from somewhere across the channel, rather than another continent. Maybe this upmarket place doesn’t want to be a typical curry house. Maybe we’re not the typical clients.
M’s taking a while. He must be making space for the main course. Sensible.
Then I notice a secret room. Well, it was less of a secret and more of a discretion, a sectioned off area, divided by ornate blinds. That must be for serious business, those with money sit there. Old money. Not us with our newfound, fleeting quasi-comfort. I never noticed it when I first came in, even though I walked straight past it. I guess I was preoccupied. It’s funny how you can see the same thing multiple times and still spot something new.
The same with the napkin on my lap. It has the initials of the restaurant stitched into it in fine, soft, gold thread. It’s soothing to touch.
“Sorry about that, babe,” says M as he returns to his seat and uncovers his cloche. “I made some space.”
I knew it.
“Are you okay?” he asks, while I stroke the napkin.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I reply, not wanting to discuss it further.
The final course is a rump steak, covered in fat and accompanied by the tastiest daal I’ve ever eaten.
With the portions getting progressively bigger, I find myself stuffed.
I’m a trooper, however, so I make room for dessert. The pistachio kulfi, an Indian ice cream I’m used to having in lolly form, is just what I need to numb my mind. I eat quickly, ravenously, to give myself brain freeze and, momentarily, forget the day.
When I wake from my cryogenic freezing, I look around to see that we are now the only diners left at the restaurant. The pink-faced man has left with his colleague. The well-heeled family are nowhere to be seen. Then the music changes. Gone is the serene violin solo playing through the speakers. In its place, a Bollywood classic echoes through the room. In keeping with the music, a horde of Asian staff come out and hurriedly wipe the few tables that have been used. Where were they hiding all these people before? And why did they change the music? They must be getting ready for the evening shift.
“Look at that!” M laughs. “Once the white customers leave, they roll out the brown staff.”
In this oh-so-fancy restaurant, they want to keep up appearances. The appearance being that they are above the usual curry house. Which means the only ethnic touch is a highly diluted Indian menu. Anything else, such as staff so synonymous with such places, are only brought out once the posh clients leave. I guess we don’t count.
“There’s one more surprise...” says M.
He pays the hefty sum and I am whisked off to our next surprise location. We swap Mayfair for the West End. M has booked tickets for Strangers on a Train. Neither of us are into musicals so this play, which is minus a million choruses, suits us perfectly.
Though the play is interesting, I can’t quite shake off the story playing out in my mind. The one that’s given me delayed shock. The one that is throwing up more questions than answers.
And then, there in the dark, I feel a warm hand clasp mine.
“You’ll be okay,” says M, squeezing tightly. “We’ll be okay.”
In the moment, I believe it. With M’s soothing, safe words of reassurance, I feel invincible. I truly think it will be okay. I will be okay. We will be okay.
Then we go to bed. At night, the thoughts always come back to haunt you. The thoughts you’d buried deep in the pit of your stomach. The dark, unpredictable thoughts that dart across your mind from left to right, right to left, leaving you searching for an answer. What will I do? Where will I work? It’s one thing to be made redundant before I got married. I was living at home. A few months without pay wasn’t a big deal. But now? We split the cost of living down the middle. Everything is shared between us in this very modern marriage. I buy nice coats. We go on nice holidays. M won’t be able to carry that alone for long.
Then again, it might not take long. I’m a good, competent PR consultant. I come with solutions not problems, I keep my head down, get on with things. As Bernadette once said, I’ve put PR on the map in the north region. Even Martin assured me it’s not about performance and I know damn well it isn’t. I’ve compensated for the failings of others. Compensated for the failings of myself. The failings of never quite fitting in. Never quite contributing to the social aspects that come hand in hand with work. That’s even worse. It’s even worse that my performance isn’t in question.
So I should walk into another job. But then, what other job? What if it takes longer than expected? What if my time out of work isn’t covered by my redundancy pay? What if the pay is shit? It’s just so much of an unknown. As if I haven’t had enough uncertainty thrown at me this past couple of years. Who will I marry? Where will I live? Now, where will I work? I’m exhausted with constantly looking for answers.
Though there is one answer. All my adult life, my self-worth was closely tied to my career. Work was all I had. All I could boast of. Now that one certainty has become uncertain.