“When are you coming back?” Godfrey forced himself to ask, a
reticence in his voice a vestige of our recent run-ins.
“Erm… I don’t really know. Soon I hope. Another week or two.
Why, is everything okay?” Godfrey exhaled deeply into the phone and I had
visions of him on the other end of the line screwing up his face and snapping
pens in half.
“Fucking Norman…!” he finally grumbled.
“Got you working has he?” I sympathised.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him, he can’t leave anything
alone. Anything,” he complained bitterly.
“Why, what’s he doing?” I asked, happier than ever to be out
of the firing line.
“It’s not what he’s doing, it’s what he’s got me doing,” he
corrected me.
“Okay, what’s he got you doing?” I chuckled.
“You know
Caravan Fact
File
? He wants to make it twice as big. Twice as fucking big! Does he know
how much work that’s going to entail? For fuck’s sake.”
Caravan Fact File
was four pages of listings in the back of the magazine which listed all the
major manufacturers of caravans, caravan parts and caravan accessories and what
they produced. To be perfectly honest,
Caravan
Fact File
hadn’t changed in almost two years and was in dire need of
updating. But they were Godfrey’s pages and Godfrey always just used to send
the previous issue’s off on the first day of the month so that he could cross
four pages off the flatplan before the working month had even started. And
usually before I’d even finished drawing it up.
“And you know what else he wants? He wants RRP prices next
to all the listings. And he wants them updated every month. Every single month!
I can’t do that. How the hell am I going to do all that?” he hyperventilated.
“Well, I guess once you’ve got the first lot of prices in
place it’s just a case of faxing or emailing them to the manufacturers each
month for any updates and staying on top of it,” I reasoned.
“He’s even talking about making the whole thing a little A5
pull-out booklet in the centre of the mag, printed on cheap paper, so that
people can pull it out and carry it around when they’re out and about buying
stuff. He doesn’t seem to understand that if we do that, we’ll then not only
have all that extra work to do every month, but we’ll then also have to find
something to replace
Caravan Fact File
in the back with. He keeps saying that it’s an opportunity to try out new
features, but it’s not, it’s a nightmare, it’s a fucking nightmare!” Godfrey
bawled.
That was probably putting it a bit strong, but try to see it
from Godfrey’s point of view. Up until Norman had taken an interest in the
magazine, Godfrey had been in the enviable position where through routine,
forward thinking and the copy and paste keys he’d been able to whittle his
regular workload down to about four and a half full days a month – that’s
spread out across the entire month remember – leaving him free to spend
great swathes of his working week surfing the internet, playing on-line
computer games, downloading music and movies and disappearing from the office
in convenient half hour chunks to have secret pints he thought I didn’t know
about.
So when you’ve been used to this sort of cushy existence,
extra work and increased responsibilities are always that much harder to come
to terms with.
“Please, you’ve got to come back before he has any more
fantastic ideas,” Godfrey pleaded.
As much as it amused me to hear about Godfrey’s ballooning
duties, I wasn’t sure I shared Norman’s enthusiasm for doubling our workloads.
See, new and exciting opportunities are great – in principle, and many’s
the time I’ve thought about trying out a new feature, but this can set a
dangerous precedent because once you’ve done it in one issue, you’ve got to do
it in the next. And in the next one after that and the next one after that
until suddenly you realise the only way out of this enormous monthly head-ache
is to turn your rotten ever-changing pages into a regular monthly feature and
before you know it you’re copying and pasting
Tow Bar Inventory
every month and crossing off flatplan pages in
the pub with Godfrey.
“Look Godfrey, Norman likes to shake things up occasionally,
as every publisher does. You never know, it might actually be interesting doing
something new for a change, something that’s actually a bit taxing rather than
just sitting there rotting in your rut and going through the motions,” I
speculated, though I could’ve easily added, “all the same, rather you than me
mate”.
“Oh spare me will you, you sound just like Norman,” he
objected.
“Well look, it’s only for a few weeks, not the rest of your
life, so you’ll just have to make the best of it. He’s not messing with any of
my stuff is he?”
“Not for the moment, but you should be warned that he’s
talking to the repro house about making Tom’s mag 148 pages, 120 of them
editorial. You might want to tell Tom to hurry up and learn to walk again
before he finds himself editing a fucking catalogue.”
Jesus, Godfrey was right, this was getting out of hand. I
had to get back there.
“Okay, I’ll try and get into the office some time before the
end of this week and maybe speak to Norman and see if he’ll let me take the mag
back over on a part-time basis. In the meantime try and look as busy as you can
for eight hours a day so that he doesn’t saddle us with any more improvements.”
“Will do,” Godfrey agreed, before catching me by surprise
and wishing Sally all the best.
“Thanks,” I told him, happy that the worst seemed to be over
between us, albeit only in the face of a common enemy.
I now heard muffled murmurs his end and asked the palm of
Godfrey’s hand if everything was okay before Godfrey came back on the line with
a fresh case of grumbles and told me that somebody else wanted to speak to me.
I braced myself to hear Norman launch into one about how he’d decided that we
should deliver the magazines on BMXs ourselves but it wasn’t Norman who tickled
a “hello” into my ear.
It was Elenor.
“Oh, hello,” I replied, a little unsure about which way this
one was going to go.
The last time I’d seen Elenor was in the office some six
weeks ago. And an ice-cold blank page of herself she’d been too. She’d talked
to me, of course, when she’d needed to, but I suspected that this was only
because ignoring me would’ve been too telling. So, all her counters had been
reset to 0000 and we’d spent a few minimalistic weeks of economic interaction,
which, when all was said and done, had been something of a blessing as it drew
a very thick line under… all that silliness.
All that silliness?
Okay, I’ll admit it: all
my
silliness.
For a few weeks I’d walked around with my head up my arse
and I still shake my head and wonder how I could’ve let myself get so carried
away. I can’t explain it. I really can’t. I guess I’d just enjoyed the fantasy
while it had lasted, but wasn’t quite so keen on it when it almost became a
reality.
But I can’t do anything about that now. All I can do is
learn from my mistakes – or near-mistakes, as my old friend from Frimley
Park Hospital would say – move on and spend the rest of my life trying to
make it up to Sally. Perhaps without letting on too specifically what I was
trying to make up for.
I just hoped Elenor felt the same way.
“We’re all missing you Andrew. I’m missing you in
particular,” she told me just a trifle less huskily than that dog who used to
say “sausages” on
That’s Life
.
I see.
“Well, yes, thank you. I hope to be back as soon as I can. I
just need to be with Sally, my wife, for the moment and do all I can for her,
but I’ll pass on your best wishes and I’m sure I’ll see you all soon,” I told
her, without Elenor having given me any wishes to pass on.
Naturally, this gave her the wrong idea entirely.
“Oh, I understand. Is she there with you then?”
“No, not at all. I’m in the car waiting for her to come out
of her first support group meeting,” I told her, then instantly regretted this
and wished I’d lied.
“Oh well, don’t worry, no one’s listening this end.
Godfrey’s gone off in a sulk and Norman’s back in his office for the moment,”
she reassured me, then asked if I’d be coming up for Emmeline’s leaving do on
Friday. “Everyone’s going to be there,” she promised, prompting visions of me
standing around in some God-awful Croydon boozer, laughing and joking with
Elenor, Rosemary, Norman, Godfrey, my miserable designer Adam, the
Xtremers
and the sandwich man while my
wife made a super-human effort to crawl to the bathroom back home to vomit
blood into the toilet.
“Tempting,” I told her. “But I don’t think so. My wife needs
me and…” I took a deep breath, “I think I’m probably going to give work parties
a miss from now on, if you know what I mean.”
Elenor didn’t and told me not to be so boring.
“Actually, I think I’m going to be very boring from now on.
Very, very boring,” I promised her, to which Elenor pointed out that this was
boring. “Yes, I know, but I like boring. And my wife likes boring, so I think
I’m going to be the most boring man in the office from now on.”
Elenor turned this over in her mind and told me that it
didn’t bother her one way or the other what I did with my life, it was mine to
lead and I could do what I wanted with it.
“I could never be boring though,” she told me, rather
boringly. “I’ve just got to go for it.”
“Well then you go for it and have fun on Friday. Oh and
please pass on my apologies to Emmeline,” whoever the fuck she was. At that
moment, women in hats started emerging from the building and I looked at my
watch. It was just gone four.
“Anyway, I’ve got to go as Sally’s meeting has just
finished. Tell Godfrey to give me a call if he has any more problems and I’ll
see you some time next week probably. Okay then,” I quickly told her, then hung
up just as she was in mid-tantalise.
“I’m looking forw…”
Sally emerged from the hall looking a lot happier than she’d
done when we’d first arrived. She was in deep conversation with another
eyebrowless woman, but took a moment out to wave enthusiastically in my
direction.
I waved back and almost choked on the love I felt for her,
such was the contrast in feelings I had for her and the girl I’d just spoken
to. My God, she was great. Just looking at her chatting and smiling with that
other cancer lady. My wife was absolutely fantastic. Absolutely.
And wasn’t I a big dummy? Christ!
The smile slipped a little from my face but I tried not to
dwell on my own shortcomings and put a positive spin on my conversation with
Elenor.
If nothing else, I’d at least proved to myself that her
spell was well and truly lifted and that I knew I’d be able to work opposite
her from now on and feel nothing but deep disappointment with myself for the
way I’d behaved.
No matter how boring that was of me.
Elenor probably wouldn’t believe me at first and I could
envisage a set of circumstances where she might even try to reinitiate my
interests. Not because I was so utterly desirable you understand, but because I
wouldn’t rise to her flirting from now on. But I was confident I could cope
with anything Elenor threw at me. I felt vaccinated. Inoculated against her
feminine charms. And it was then that I finally realised that my old friend
from the hospital had been one hundred per cent right about everything.
It really was better to be tempted and to pass temptation
than to never be tempted at all. At least, I reckon it had been in my case.
Because it finally made me realise what I had. And just how lucky I was.
“Hello you,” Sally said, climbing into the car and giving me
a welcoming kiss.
“Hello you,” I replied, returning her kiss. “Let’s go home.”
I must say, I’m somewhat relieved to
have attended my first meeting and lived to tell the tale. I don’t know what I
was expecting, something like a cross between Alcoholics Anonymous and a
sinking lifeboat I suppose, where one-by-one we all stood up and admitted we
were dying, but we were not afraid, in exchange for a round of applause and a
cup of tea. But it wasn’t like that at all. Once I got over my initial jitters,
I found I really… well, not exactly enjoyed it, but I took a lot from it. We
played the inevitable game of top trumps with our CA125 counts, which I’m glad
to say I didn’t win, but for the most part we just chatted about our
experiences and shared what we’d learnt along the way. Forewarned is forearmed
as they say. A lot of the other women were further into their treatments than I
so I was happy to sit and listen for most of the meeting, although by the end
I’d found my voice.
You know the sad thing that never occurred to me up until
this point is that it’s not only women with partners who get cancer. Single
women get it too. A number of those I talked to this afternoon, Joan in her
fifties and Sarah in her mid-forties, are having to go through this whole
process alone. Well, not quite alone, as Joan has two children of university
age, and Sarah has friends and family close by, but neither has a regular
partner to speak of. Sarah was divorced four years ago and hasn’t even told her
ex-husband about her illness, which I find bonkers, though perhaps it wasn’t
the most amicable of separations. And Joan is widowed, though I don’t know for
how long. I didn’t like to pry. Either way though, it just goes to show that
the expression is right; there really is always someone worse off than
yourself.
Which is why I guess these support groups are so important.
And not just for single women like Sarah and Joan, but for all of us. Because
we’re drawing strength from each other. Andrew’s been like a rock and I don’t
think I could’ve coped without him, but it feels good to be part of something
which is helping others too.