String Bridge (23 page)

I focus on the top of Alex’s head while I unscrew the lid off the Vegemite jar, guided by touch.

Tessa gets back into her seat, pouting her bottom lip. The side of her mouth curls up on the verge of laughter. Her mouth twitches, trying to appear sad.

“I’m going to tell my supervisors today,” I say, wide-eyed, scraping a burnt layer from my toast.

“Oh, really?” Alex mumbles with a mouthful of cereal, still maintaining the steady hand-to-mouth movements and downward gaze. If his eyes were lasers he’d have drilled a hole through the table via the bottom of his bowl.

“Yes.” I pause. Alex’s temples move up and down as he chews. The constant ebbing crunch and swallowing reverberate off every kitchen surface before making a full circle round the room. I turn to give Tessa a behave-yourself glare. But she gives Alex an I-hate-you look instead, ignoring me.

“Yes,” I repeat a little louder.

“Yes, I heard you.” Alex nods. “Glad you came to your senses.”

“Hmm?” I squint at him sideways. He’s still staring at his bowl. Can he not at least look at me during a conversation? A little respect after what he’s done would suffice. “What do you mean? I thought you didn’t like the idea.”

“I don’t.” Alex shrugs. His jaw clenches. “That’s why I said I was glad.”

“What makes you think I’m going to say no?” I ask, confidence slipping like a weak grip on monkey bars.

“Oh? Er … Oh.”

“Oh? That’s all you have to say? Oh?”

“Er … no. Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if that’s what will make you happy. I’ll, um … visit you as often as possible.” Alex lifts his head, looking at me for the first time all morning. He stops chewing, his eyes as still as glass.

“Oh? Will you?” I ask.

“Of course I will. I’m your husband.”

Tessa rocks her chair backward and forward again—licks escaping jam from the flat of her palm.

“Uh-huh.” I’ve almost scraped a hole through the middle of my toast.

“What do you mean, “uh-huh”?”

“Nothing. Just comprehending what you’re saying.” I spread Vegemite on my now very thin toast, wrap my mouth around it, consuming half in one go, and bite down so hard my teeth scrape against each other—fingernails on a blackboard. I try to hide the discomfort, continue to chew as if it doesn’t hurt. I wipe the sides of my mouth with my right index finger, and raise my eyebrows.

“You don’t believe me do you?” Alex asks, flashing a quick glance toward Tessa, who is feeding Doggy her breakfast.

“Not really.” I smile, trying to maintain my calm in front of Tessa. “Blossom, can you please not feed the dog? She eats enough as it is.”

“Not really or not at all?” Alex takes the toast out of Tessa’s sticky hands and puts it back on her plate. “Tessa, don’t pick that up again until you decide to eat it yourself. Doggy doesn’t want toast.”

“But, Papa, she does want toast.” Tessa holds out her hand for Doggy to lick.

“No, she doesn’t.” Alex and I snap in unison.

“Well, whether I believe you or not really isn’t the point, is it?” I half-whisper, gripping my butter knife so hard that my nails dig into my palm.

“I told you that—”

“No, I don’t want to hear it.” I get out of my seat and stack the plates in the center of the table. “Tessa, eat your other piece of toast. We have to get you to preschool.” She doesn’t move. She is her porcelain doll twin. I take her hand—the one holding the toast—and insert it into her mouth as if operating a puppet.

“Bite. That’s it. Now chew.” I take intermittent bites myself to speed the process up until the toast is gone. Alex watches—mouth open, cereal spoon in hand. I yank Tessa out of her seat with a tight grip on her wrist, praying I don’t dislocate her shoulder.

“Mummeee!”

“Get your school bag.”

Tessa puts her hands on her hips and frowns.

“Go. Now!”

“Mel—”

“Oh, shut up, Alex.”

The girls in the office are all standing in a circle surrounding Lucy—one of the assistants—when I arrive. Lucy is sick again. Lucy has taken fifty days of sick leave already and it’s only midyear. Lucy is crying and everyone is being sympathetic. Lucy has a urinary tract infection. Lucy has to go in for knee surgery next week. Lucy will now get another three weeks off work and still get paid. Somebody please help Lucy!

As I walk to my desk, Sonia, another assistant, says as if broadcasting a rare occurrence, “Did you ’ear? Lucy’s go’ a go to ’ospi’al.”

What I want to say is “again?” but instead force a polite “Really? What’s wrong, Lucy?” and place my hand on her shoulder, hoping for the gesture to not resemble an
Absolutely Fabulous
Edina attempt at concern.

Melody, the bitch witch. I’m out with my claws. Present me with a minuscule of inconvenience and I’ll attack. Crack a whip. Watch out. I’ll scratch your face. I’ve had enough. I want out. Because I know what’s coming.

Not only is Lucy always sick, and as a result all her work is passed on to me, but I feel so
shit
about the decisions I have to make right now that it wouldn’t take a genius to realize that everything is pissing me off. I feel sorry for the poor girl, but honestly, can’t she just work from home? She wouldn’t be the first to do so.

Of course, Heather is not in the crowd of partisans. She is sitting in her messy corner pretending to be busy with a slight smirk on her face—she’s worse than me. She glances toward me and my false display of compassion and can’t seem to tame her laugh any longer. Disguising it with a vicious cough, she races toward the exit holding her hand over her mouth.

“Whaz up wiv ’er?” Sonia asks. “Looks like she’s ’bout to frow up.”

“She’s all right. She’s just getting over a bad cough and doesn’t want to spread the germs,” I lie, organizing my desk a little, putting papers in piles, blowing dust off the computer screen, searching for missing pencils amidst the array of loose Post-its that have lost their stick.

“She waz fine yesterday,” Sonia frowns, with a cartoonish air.

“Was she? Oh, well maybe it’s coming back,” I reply, hoping that Sonia is as gullible as she appears to be.

“Poor fing. We all gonna get sick bein’ couped up in ’ere like a flock’ve ’ens. Bloody airconditionin’.”

“Yeah.” I nod, clicking my tongue.

I feel wicked—possessed by Medusa. Look me in the eye and I’ll turn you to stone, then pitch a cannonball your way—crumble you like stale bread. What have these girls done to me? Nothing. But I hate them. I hate everything.

I bite the inside of my cheek.
Control yourself. You’re turning into your mother!

The PMs walk in and the girls cock-a-doodle-doo about, moving chairs, gathering notepads and pens for our Thursday morning meeting—a weekly tradition that doesn’t achieve very much—bar the chance to give the big boss the impression we are all professional and dedicated to our jobs when he passes by—Thursday mornings at nine thirty like clockwork.

I neglect the ritual and sneak into Jodie’s office to tell her my news.

What news? Do I actually want this? How did I reach this decision? When did I make it?
A deviate force gagged it out of my mouth this morning without my prior consent. I haven’t even decided against the tour yet.
Why do I want a cat? Why do I want to buy a pair of stilettos? What’s that smell? Hmm … mocha.

I find myself standing in front of Jodie—mute—with my mouth open wide. All I need now is an insect to fly in and make my day.
Shit! Speak, damn it. Say something!

“Jodie, I … I have decided to accept the position in London.”
Don’t panic. Stay calm.

“Oh that’s … congratulations, Melody. Oh, wonderful. Wait till I break the news to the girls. You’d better wear your evil eye for the rest of the week,” Jodie winks. “Melody just accepted … did you hear that, Dianne? Melody just accepted the position in London.”

I turn to my right and there is Dianne, as if she materialized out of thin air.

“Well done, Melody. Well done.” Dianne nods, expressionless.

“Thanks, I hope,” I laugh, bringing my hands to my hot cheeks.
Am I blushing? I hope I’m not getting the flu. This would be the most inappropriate time to get the flu. Vitamin C tablets. I’ll purchase them as soon as I leave the office. No, actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lucy had some in her handbag. I could ask her for one. Yes, that’s what I’ll do; I’ll ask Lucy for a Vit C.

“Oh, of course
hope
. Good things to come. Good things to come. Shall we join the patiently waiting and curious editors out there and get this meeting on the go?” Jodie asks, tapping her pen on a pile of files on her lap, looking more excited about my decision than me.

I compose myself and nod my business-woman nod. “After you, Jodie.” I nod again. “Dianne.”
Don’t forget to ask Lucy for a Vit C.

I roll my chair into the meeting circle and sit. Everyone turns to me, their lips glossy with jealous drool. The atmosphere in here is a mix between a gynecologist’s waiting room and a classroom full of teenagers praying that their upcoming test is open-book.

Heather mouths the words, “You accepted?” raising her eyebrows. I nod with my eyelids. She winks and gives me two thumbs up.

Sonia, who is sitting to Heather’s left, whispers, “Waz goin’ on?”

Heather returns the whisper with a triumphant smile and says, “Listen and weep.”

Sonia huffs, turns to Lucy, who is on her right, and mouths, “Bitch.”

I suspected Sonia had a cruel side, but not to the extent where she would verbalize it. Lucy rubs her lips together, pushes her glasses up her nose, and folds her hands in her lap, seemingly embarrassed to witness a fellow colleague use such bad language.

Dear me. Were they always like this? I can’t ever remember seeing them like this.

“Right.” Jodie wiggles chubby comfort into her seat—paper and pen in position. “Before we begin the proper meeting. I’d like to announce some wonderful news.”

On hearing “wonderful news” everyone smiles, sighs, and shuffles in their seats. Heather’s smile being the widest, most knowledgeable, and most
real
. At least there’s someone in this world who is proud of me. The others don’t really care about good news unless it has something to do with getting extra paid holidays, so their smiles are just preoperational.

“Melody has accepted a position in London,” Jodie chirps, with a cheerful anticipation that seems to merge her nose with her forehead.

The room fills with a hum of multiple disappointed sighs, which makes Heather giggle.

“She’ll still be working for us,” Jodie lies. “She’ll just be working from a different office in a different country.” I wish she’d mention how much better my salary will be, but she doesn’t—she’s cautious, considerate. “Okay, enough of that. You can crack open a bottle of champagne when you get home, Melody. Let’s get back to business for now.”

I’m slightly disappointed she didn’t rub it in a bit more. I feel a need for revenge and satisfaction. Revenge on what, I have no idea because these people have done nothing to me, and I’m being horribly awful, awful,
awful
. Why? Perhaps I want revenge on the world. Perhaps this office symbolizes my world at present—a drab, artificially lit, poorly ventilated box of ladder-climbing, order obeying, numb nuts who blindly fulfill the roles society has preordained.

Don’t forget to get that Vit C.

I watch a wave of pursed sour lips wash over each coworker’s face as they ready their paper and pens for rapid jotting. They look at me through invidious squints seeking information, while Heather wriggles her pastel blue, silver-glittered toes without a writing tool in sight.

After the meeting, I ask Jodie if I can take the work home and courier it to the printer’s myself on Monday morning. She’s hesitant but agrees. Is this the mark of freedom? Or have I trapped myself into a situation impossible to escape unharmed?

I clear my desk—you know, put papers in piles, blow dust off my computer screen, etc, when silence falls. Muffled, tense, unheard thoughts thicken the air with a smelly curiosity. My mind is absent, underwater.

“You leaving today, Melody?”

I look up, unable to locate the voice. “Hmm?”

“You’re packing your things. Are you leaving today?” Heather says, a little louder for everybody to hear.

“Oh! Yeah. I’m going to finish the final touches of the book at home over the weekend.”

They crowd around my desk, all trying to speak at once. Their voices unite like a tuning orchestra. Without faltering, I assume a front of importance and raise my hands, gesturing for them to hush.

“One at a time,” I say.
Who are you? This is fake,
I think, but I continue anyway—anticipate being ridiculed, looked down upon, and laughed at, but to my surprise, their voices diminish and each wait patiently for me to indicate who may speak first. The back of my nose stings as if I’ve swallowed chlorinated pool water.
Definitely gotta get the Vit C.

“Yes, Sonia?” I ask, giving her permission to voice her question again. She moves to the front of the group like a gang leader.

“’ow did vis ’appen? Why di’n’t you say anyfing? ’Ow long ’ave you been ’iding all of vis behind our backs? Wha’ kind of work will you be doing? When are you leaving?” She reels questions off, laced with contempt, arms folded, nose snubbed, with a rolled-up top lip.
Ok, forget it. You’re not acting horribly at all. Look at these people. They’re ready to attack!

Lucy’s timid and discomfited voice butts in, “Um … how much are you going to get paid?”

Everyone nods—mumbles reinforce the question under heavy breaths as if that was the answer they’ve all really been waiting to hear.

I sigh, run my hands through my hair, “Um, Lucy … you wouldn’t happen to have any Vitamin C on you, would you? I’m feeling a little fever—”

The office door swings open creating a gust of wind. “Good morning, Ladies,” booms Richard Viadro as if playing Mr Game Show Host.

I feel myself blush, and all the girls shuffle back to their seats. My body goes rigid—my smile wonky like the night I met Alex. I turn, attempt to head toward Jodie’s office, afraid to look into button boy’s eyes. But he approaches me.
Too late.