Less Than Perfect (31 page)

‘Yes – I'm sorry, Caitlin.'

‘
I'm
leaving? But I –' My voice breaks. Disbelief and shock combine to form a hard, impassable lump in my throat and it hurts to swallow. ‘Are you really saying that I have to leave?'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘But I have deals happening: Net Banc; Insurassist will come through too, I'm certain of it. And I was the one who did all the hard work for Telelink …'

‘I'm sorry.'

It's irrelevant how many times he says he's sorry, or how evidently sincere his apologies are. ‘This isn't fair, Jarrod,' I howl at him.

‘Things like this are never fair,' he agrees morosely, ‘and there's never a good way to deliver bad news like this.'

‘Please, Jarrod, don't do this to me.' I'm horrified to hear myself begging. ‘I can bring in more business, and more than pay my way –'

‘I'm sorry. I know how hard you work, how much you put in,
and this has honestly been one of the most difficult decisions of my career.'

Staggering to my feet I feel stunned, like I've been hit by something heavy.

‘I have your payout cheque here.' Jarrod has this sad, sympathetic expression that doesn't suit his face. I much prefer when he's being a pompous know-it-all.

‘I've never been unemployed, Jarrod. Not since I left Ireland.' Is that pleading voice really mine? ‘Are you sure you can't delay this a few months?'

‘Sorry, Caitlin. It's company policy. You have to clear out your desk and go.'

It comes to me then: the gauge that Nicola was looking for in the meeting. We can use balls, small red and green balls. If people like the training they throw a green ball into a basket, if they don't like it they throw red. Simple. I don't know how or why the solution has materialised right at this moment; there's nothing in Jarrod's office that's red or green, and the topic of conversation is as far from feedback mechanisms as one can get. It's a strange, strange time for the idea to come into my head.

I take the cheque and paperwork from Jarrod's outstretched hand and walk unsteadily towards the door.

‘Are you all right, Caitlin?'

‘Sure,' I reply, utterly defeated.

If there was a basket at the door, I'd hurl a red ball into it. This day has not been a good day. The busy feel, the momentum with Net Banc, the promise of Insurassist, all put a deceiving veneer on what was bad underneath. It started out bad and now it has ended that way too.

The laneway at the back of the Mitre buzzes with a healthy midweek crowd, the patrons attired mostly in dark suits and white shirts. Black and white never fails to look good together. The contrast makes the white look whiter, and the black even more severe, something to be taken seriously. The combination lends the illusion of things being clear-cut, straightforward once you keep to the rules. In this setting, with office blocks hovering in the skyscape, the monochrome clothing conveys purpose, power and status. These are the people who bark orders down the phone, stride into meetings, sign, with an arrogant flourish, their names to letters and other documents that need their authority. In my knee-length pinstriped skirt and white top, I blend in perfectly. But for one difference: as of two hours ago, I'm unemployed. Any purpose, power or status I possessed is now gone, left behind in Jarrod's office like an unwanted file.

‘Here,' Nic, back from her third visit to the bar in the relatively short time we've been here, thrusts a glass into my hand. ‘Get this down you.'

I take the glass and swallow half its contents, desperate for the alcohol to take effect and to soften the hard lump that's rotating inside my chest.
I'm unemployed, I'm unemployed, I'm unemployed.
No amount of alcohol will take the menace from these words. I feel insecure and half-terrified, all of the knowledge, confidence and experience of the last ten years wiped out in one stroke.

I look around, searching for familiar faces, or for other people with shell-shocked expressions like mine, and supportive friends like Nicola making frequent, bolstering trips to the bar. There's nobody else I can see, nobody I know from work, nobody who looks like they've just lost their job.

‘I think I was the only one.' I take another tasteless but fortifying gulp of my drink.

Uncannily, as though it heard me, Nic's phone beeps with a message. ‘Nathan's gone too,' she reads slowly, ‘and three girls from accounts. So, it's not just you.'

From the expression on her face, she's hoping this news will make me feel better, less singled out, but I feel the same: shocked, frightened, sick. ‘You'll find something else, Caitlin.' She pats my arm reassuringly. ‘You're smart and presentable and qualified. There are always jobs out there for people like you. Companies make vacancies for people like you!'

Smart and presentable, maybe. Qualified, no. Who will hire me without a degree? What did Dad say? You need that piece of paper.

‘I'm not qualified, Nic,' I say slowly, wearily. ‘I don't have a degree. I left Ireland without finishing it.'

I have nothing to back me up, to prove what I'm worth.

‘Oh. I thought … I assumed …' Nic's voice trails off. She's beginning to look uncomfortable, as though she'd rather the conversation would move on.

‘You know, Nic, I thought of something we could use to get instant feedback from the Net Banc attendees, a quick gauge of how they feel about the training …'

‘That's hardly your concern now!'

‘I know, but humour me. I thought that we could have a basket set up at the door and a tub of balls, red and green balls. If the trainees like the training, they throw a green ball in the basket. If they don't like the training, they throw a red. It'll be easy to count the balls, get an initial sense of how we're going. It's fun and quick. Obviously, we would follow up with detailed questionnaires later.'

‘You're still hung up on that juggling, aren't you?'

‘No, I'm not.'

‘You are!'

‘I'm not. I'm just using the concept. You have to admit it's a good idea. You should use it. Harry would like it. I know he would.'

‘Caitlin, Harry isn't your concern now.'

‘He was until a few hours ago. I can't switch off so easily.'

Nicola rolls her eyes and looks around again, brightening suddenly. ‘Derek's here.'

I swing around. ‘Where?'

‘At the bar.' She raises her hand in a casual wave.

I spot Derek in time to see him return Nic's wave. With a weird sense of déjà vu, I register the details of him: the confident
half-smile directed at the bar girl as he tosses his change into the tip jar on the counter; his shirt, open at the collar, and his tie, loose and soon to be discarded; his swagger as he moves away from the bar, raising the rim of his beer glass to sip as he walks. Does he have the bike parked outside? No, he wouldn't be so stupid. I stare at him, watch every step of his progress until he's virtually out of sight in a far-off corner, and all the while he steadfastly refuses to acknowledge my presence.

‘Nice that you two are so friendly!' I turn back to Nic. ‘He won't as much as look in my direction.'

She shrugs. ‘You're a reminder that he lost his licence for six months and broke up with his girlfriend, that's all.'

I'm taken aback that she knows these details. ‘Did he tell you this?'

‘Yes.'

Obviously Nic is friendlier with Derek than I've given her credit for. They must have got to know each other during the implementation, finding common ground over late nights, early starts and shared objectives. Now that I think about it, Nic is as much of a flirt as Derek is. They would have been close within a couple of days of working with each other.

I feel quite piqued by this, and then piqued at myself for even caring. ‘Oh well, I suppose Derek's not my concern anymore either.'

‘No, as a matter of fact, he's not.'

My mood plummets even further. What am I going to do? How will I find the strength to start from scratch, to carve a niche and a future in another company, to find and foster new clients like Telelink and Net Banc?

‘Here's something to help your mood.' Nic's voice plays over my thoughts. ‘Look over your shoulder. Discreetly!'

‘Why?'

‘The scenery has improved rather dramatically.'

I know without looking that it's a group of men – designer suits, dark good looks, arrogant smiles: Nic's usual type. ‘Not interested.'

Nicola rolls her eyes again. ‘You're missing out …'

‘Really,' I muster a smile, ‘I don't care if I am.'

While Nic assesses the new arrivals from under her lashes, I consider checking my phone, which is tucked away in my bag. I know with painful certainty that there are no missed calls or text messages: I would have heard it ring or beep if there were. It has remained eerily silent all day. Nevertheless, I've continued to check it intermittently, a reflex I can't seem to help. No point in doing so again. No point at all.
He's not going to call. He's done with you. He thinks you're reckless and immature.

‘Time for another drink, methinks,' declares Nic, and puts down her empty wineglass on a nearby table before walking slowly, catwalk style, towards the bar. She passes a group of men, I assume the same ones she was eyeing up earlier, and flicks her hair ever so slightly. All three of them openly check her out. She doesn't let on that she's noticed, which of course she has; she's quite professional in how she flirts.

As I stand waiting for her to return, I think about going home. I could follow Nic to the bar, tap her on the shoulder, and inform her that I don't want another drink because I don't feel like I belong here. I'm not one of these people: I don't have a job.

I am not what I seem
, I could declare to Nic and anyone else who cared to listen.
I'm wearing a suit but I'm really unemployed.

But I feel sluggish, my arms and legs too leaden to make even the slightest movement, not to talk about the mammoth effort of following Nicola to the bar. In what seems like no time at all and yet an eternity, she's back, three sets of eyes again closely following her progress.

‘Did they notice me?' she asks, her lips hardly moving.

‘You can talk properly. I'm sure they can't lip-read.'

‘You never know. Well, did they?'

‘Notice you? You know they did!'

‘I wonder how long before one of them comes over.'

I throw back a good portion of the fresh drink she's just handed me. It tingles through my body, dissipating some of the heaviness in my limbs. ‘Ten minutes,' I respond, suddenly more in the mood for her games. ‘No, five – five minutes before one or all of them swarms over to you.'

‘And you too,' Nic adds generously.

‘Me too,' I agree without a shred of enthusiasm.

I can't help myself then: I take out my phone. Check its blank screen. No missed calls, no unread messages.

I knew this! Why do I keep checking and double-checking the obvious? He hasn't called, and it's pretty clear now that he's not going to.

I'm angry with myself for being so pathetic. What's wrong with me? Big deal that he hasn't called. Big deal that he's no different to all the other men over the last eleven years. Big fat deal.

‘You know, Nic, men are bastards. All of them. Especially the nice ones.'

Nicola laughs. Her eyes are focused over my shoulder. ‘Don't turn around, but there are three bastards coming in our direction.'

‘Really, Nic, I'm not in the mood.'

‘Well,
get
in the mood.'

‘It's not that easy.'

I'm as angry with Matthew as I am with myself.
He held himself out as different.
Someone I could trust. Someone steady and reliable and safe. He had no right. No right at all. He didn't even make it through our first real fight.
Pathetic.
So much for him being in love with me!

Flashes of other fights, with Josh, replay in my head. Sudden arguments that spiralled out of nowhere, shouting, furious gesturing, slamming doors. But we always made up, and after each argument our relationship seemed deeper, tighter, with a new level of understanding. Is that what love is, being able to fight and make up and be closer as a result? But love is other things too: having someone you want to be with
every single day
, someone who's stimulating without being annoying, who makes you feel content without feeling bored, whose imperfections complement your own so as to make a more complete whole.

‘Tell them to go away,' I blurt as I sense the men approaching from behind.

Nicola laughs.

‘I'm not joking. Tell them to go away.'

‘Caitlin, what's wrong with you?'

‘Nothing.'

What's wrong is that I'm waiting for Matthew to call.
All day
I've been waiting. I can't believe that he hasn't, that he would let things end like they did last night; it goes against everything
I know about him. He obviously doesn't love me – if he did he would have called by now. Josh is the only one who ever loved me,
really
loved me. He loved me without needing to hear my voice, my laughter. But he's dead. Eleven years now. Dead and buried. Like Liam. In different cemeteries, though they died side by side.

How can I tell Nicola all that?

Nicola's smiling, on a completely different wavelength to me. ‘Are you
drunk
? Four drinks and you're
drunk
?'

I consider the question. The music and pressed bodies and noise have receded into the background. Nic's face is all that I can see. It's close, really close. Her head is tilted to one side, her eyes crinkled, her mouth open in a grin.

‘I might be,' I slur.