This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Nine

The day of the conference. I’m freshly showered and dressed in a cream blouse and a grey skirt that doesn’t fit but sucks me in like a dream. Theo strides down the corridor as I’m stealing four reporter’s notebooks and nine pens from the stationery cupboard.

‘All ready for the big day?’ He looks me up and down with surprise. ‘You’re looking very smart...’

‘Cheers.’

‘. . . for a change,’ he finishes.

Excellent.

‘It was touch and go whether I was going to make it today. I’ve had to leave Romulus with Bernadette again.’

I deftly swerve any slander of poor Bernadette. ‘He’s no better then?’

‘No. He hasn’t slept through for two weeks now.’ He steadies his voice and sniffs hard. ‘But I said, no. This is the most important day of my career so far—’ God, that’s depressing . ‘—and I must be at that conference.’

‘Well... good for you.’ I give him a tight smile and make to walk back to my office. I really don’t have the energy for Romulus today.

‘You grabbing your stuff then? Come on.’ He pulls his car keys out of his pocket.

I freeze. ‘It’s only eight-thirty. I thought it started at ten?’ Theo asked me to come in early and I assumed it was to prepare for the conference and print his notes (which he doesn’t need, as he isn’t speaking). I should have known better.

‘It does! But we need to get there super early to make the most of the networking opportunities. Come on! All the croissants will be disappearing as we speak!’ He strides up the corridor, leaving me to run after him with my arms full of books, dropping pens all over the floor.

As I sit next to Theo in his yellow Fiat 500, I get the distinct impression that this conference is important to him for reasons totally unrelated to career advancement.

‘They do a real breakfast for us all, you know.’ I do know, because he hasn’t shut up about it for the past twenty-four hours. ‘Waffles and blueberries and the like. And apparently the cookies are to die for. ’ He swerves around a woman walking over the zebra crossing to McDonalds and leans on his horn. ‘Just wait, you bloody idiot! They’ll still be serving McMuffins in two minutes!’

‘I think that was a zebra crossing...’ I look over my shoulder as the woman shakily makes it to the other side.

‘Some people just cannot wait for their daily serving of saturated fat, can they? The state of society today; it’s frightening.’ He grips his hands tighter on the steering wheel.

I hold onto my seat. ‘So what were you saying about the breakfast?’

‘Oh, yes. Apparently there’s sausages, too! And roast chicken sandwiches on thick white bread for lunch. Loads of butter. Things of legend, apparently. Delicious.’

‘What about the eating plan?’ I ask tentatively. The only consistent, predictable thing about Theo is his dedication to ‘the eating plan’. It varies week by week, fad by fad — carnivore, vegan, keto, paleo — but it is ever-present, taken very, very seriously.

He turns his head to me and glares. ‘Have you ever heard of a cheat day, Margaret?’

‘Look at the road, please . . .’

‘A cheat day,’ he continues, staring at me, ‘is a day when you can eat whatever you like. I live most of my days on butter and thick-cut rindless bacon—’ (We’re on the carnivore eating plan, currently) ‘—On this, the most important day of my life, I think I’m allowed a bloody biscuit , don’t you?’

I decide to keep quiet.

‘You know,’ he takes a deep breath, ‘when you get to my age, you go through great hormonal changes. My mood has dropped, my metabolism has slowed. To be quite frank, if that kind of turmoil doesn’t justify the occasional treat, I don’t know what does.’

Oh, please don’t let this be going where I think it is.

‘And if I’m honest with you,’ he continues, ‘sex just isn’t what it was. They tell you things change over time, but if I think back to the stallion I was in my twenties, the difference in libido is just startling —’

‘WILL ANNETTE BE THERE TODAY?’ I shout. Help me, please.

‘Annette?’ Theo looks puzzled. ‘Well, I’d hope so. She’d have a lot to learn from today, wouldn’t she? That woman doesn’t know her arse from her elbow.’

‘She’s so lovely, isn’t she?’ Annette is one of the other managers and I have no idea if she’s lovely or not, having only heard about her through Theo. I just need to keep the conversation on track.

‘Well, Margaret, “lovely” doesn’t necessarily mean “competent employee”. You’d do well to remember that.’

I do wonder if there’s the tiniest hint of a compliment in there — is he saying I’m incompetent but pleasant?

The rest of the journey is spent with me helplessly trying to dodge discussions about Theo’s changing body and my career failings, and by the time we arrive at the hotel I am exhausted.

We enter the lobby and a tired-looking man in a pinstripe suit directs us to our ‘suite’. I panic momentarily that he is referring to a private room, and that Theo has lured me here for some kind of spiritual, hormone-focused, one-on-one team- building exercise. I am relieved to be led to a large, carpeted area with an empty buffet table and a registration desk full of name badges.

‘Wow, some early risers!’ A large, middle-aged woman beams at us from behind the desk. ‘Come and tell me your names and I’ll get you badged up.’

We head over and Theo signs the register and takes his badge, his eyes permanently fixed on the woman’s gigantic cleavage.

I shuffle forward and take the piece of paper she hands me. My eyes flick across the title.

OTC Post-Menopausal Drugs Workshop Register

Oh, of course. This isn’t a conference; it’s a workshop. It’s an educational workshop for people who are paid to care about the bureaucratic awfulness associated with their industries (technically, me). The last glimmer of hope inside me dies. I am embarrassed to remember that I fell asleep last night imagining a representative from the BMJ turning up at the conference and offering me a real science writer post. The conference that doesn’t even exist.

Theo is fastening his badge onto his lapel and gazing around the room. We are the only ones here (of course) — an hour early. According to the agenda I have just been given, the ten o’clock start indicated the beginning of ‘coffee, meet-and-greet and registration’ — the actual talks don’t begin until 10.45. Nearly two hours from now.

I gaze at the shiny, empty buffet trays laid out on the table. Breakfast isn’t served yet, either. Theo has been going on about the waffles here since last Thursday so I skipped my usual Special K in preparation for some serious scranning and I am starving. Cleavage Woman is speaking to one of the waiting staff, and he disappears momentarily before wheeling through a trolley full of coffee, milk and fifty different varieties of tea bag. I leave Theo to fiddle with his badge and grab a cup.

‘You’ve not got any biscuits back there, have you?’ I attempt a convincing smile but I must look ravenous and desperate as the waiter frowns and steps back.

‘Breakfast is served at ten o’clock, madam.’

‘Right, great.’ I pour a coffee and stride away, trying to push down the hunger-induced irritation swirling around in my stomach.

‘Excuse me, love?’ Cleavage Woman holds out my badge. ‘You forgot this.’

‘Oh, sorry! Thanks.’

I glance down at the professional-looking badge I’m holding and feel a small swell of pride. My first badge! I feel quite important.

And then I see my title.

MARGARET GARDINER

Minute-taker and assistant to Theodore Parbold

Ok, no. No, no, no. Absolutely not.

My instinct is to run over to Theo, stab him in the eye with my badge pin and start crying. I push that instinct down.

Instead, I walk slowly over to where Theo is standing and smile.

‘Theo.’

‘Mmm?’

‘Can I ask why my badge says minute-taker ?’

He looks puzzled. ‘Because you’re taking the minutes?’

‘But I’m a science writer.’ I struggle to keep my voice steady. My blood is boiling.

‘Are you shaking? How much coffee have you drunk?’ He eyes my cup.

‘I haven’t had any coffee. Yet.’ I take a big gulp and try to compose myself. ‘Can I change my title, please? And my name? You know I prefer Maggie.’

‘Oh, Margaret. Let’s not get into the particulars now; just try and do some networking and forget about it.’ He pulls out his phone, already bored of our conversation.

‘There’s nobody here to network with, Theo.’ I grit my teeth.

‘Theo dore, please, Margaret.’ He tuts, and then peers at me. ‘Are you alright?’

I look back into his eyes in disbelief. What goes on behind there? What on earth happened to him in childhood that made him this way? The surface of my coffee is trembling in my hand, Jurassic Park style.

‘I’m going to get some fresh air.’ I say, aware that this will further concrete Theo’s theory that I am chronically imbalanced. If I stay a second longer, though, I’ll flip the buffet table and call him a twat.

I slump against the wall outside the foyer and roll a cigarette. I can’t believe I just let that go. I’m half filled with self-hatred, half proud of myself for staying level-headed. I don’t care about this job, and I certainly don’t care what a few people at a workshop think of my title. But I feel a heavy ball of disappointment sitting on my chest.

If I want to be able to keep paying my rent, I’m going to have to keep toeing the line. I’ll have to keep my mouth shut, simper and fake my way through the day and never scream about how utterly, totally horrific I find it all. I’ve probably already landed myself in his bad books, just by causing a fuss over a title change. Maybe I should buy him a stuffed iguana and talk to him about the benefits of ketosis to get him on my side again. I take a deep drag of my cigarette, disgusted at the thought. I’m such a bloody sell-out.

I just need to calm myself down. I need an outlet for this anger that isn’t snapping at people and squirrelling pizzas away like a pre-hibernation polar bear. I fish the list out of my bag along with one of the hundreds of minute-taking pens littering the bottom. I write:

6. Start yoga.

I take out my phone and search for the Namaste class Anna was telling me about. There’s a six-week beginners’ course starting tomorrow. The website tells me that the full ￡50 is paid in cash on the day of the first session. Tomorrow is payday. I book myself a place before I can think. There! I’m one step closer to ticking something off.

Someone coughs behind me and I turn, blowing a huge billow of smoke in their face as I do so. The fog clears and Cleavage Woman emerges, spluttering.

‘God, I’m so sorry!’ I grind my cigarette out on the wall and throw it on the floor. She looks at it worriedly.

‘It’s okay, love. Here.’ She hands me my badge back. I go to protest and tell her that I must stand up for my rights and retain my pride, but I see that she has changed the text.

MAGGIE GARDINER

Science Writer

I feel tears spring into my eyes.

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘It’s shit being young and working under someone who treats you like a skivvy.’ She smiles.

She just said ‘shit’. She is so great.

‘Yeah.’ I look down at my badge and blink rapidly.

‘Keep standing up for yourself like that and one day you’ll be doing what you love and running the show. Don’t take any prisoners.’ She pats me on the arm.

I look at her and feel a huge swell of gratitude and neediness — that is the kindest, most affirming thing anyone has said to me in so long. I want to ask her to take me home and tell me more nice things while she feeds me soup and strokes my forehead.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve grabbed her and I’m hugging her and crying on her shoulder. She’s all warm and squishy and it reminds me of my nana. My lovely, lovely nana. I need to go and see her. I cry harder.

Cleavage Woman freezes for a second and then pats me on the back.

‘Don’t you worry. A bad day doesn’t mean a bad life.’

I pull back and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. ‘What about a bad month ? Or a bad year ?’

‘Not those either.’ She regards me warmly. ‘We’ve all been there. Make the changes you can and accept what you can’t control.’

I look at her in awe. She’s a fucking guru. This is like meeting a wise old man in the desert who tells you how to solve all your problems. Except it’s a sixty-year-old lady with gigantic boobs outside a Wigan hotel in the rain. Still meaningful.

‘Come on inside now, breakfast will be ready soon.’ She turns and I follow her back in (I might follow her home later, too) where Theo is tapping furiously at his phone.

Cleavage Woman smiles at me. ‘Go on. I’ll see where this food is up to.’

I glance at her name badge. ‘Thank you... Barbara.’ Barbara my sage. My saviour.

‘I’ve had my badge changed, Theo.’ I look him in the eye and try to channel my inner guru. ‘I just wanted to tell you that it makes me feel quite inferior when you treat me the way you do sometimes.’

Theo looks up from his phone. ‘Hm? Bloody hell, where is this breakfast? And where are all the people? I didn’t give up my precious time to be here alone and starved to death!’ he shouts.

Sigh. ‘I think Barbara’s sorting it.’

‘Who the hell is Barbara?’

‘That lady over there. Are you hangry, Theo?’ I am owning this calm approach. The type of approach one might use to appease a toddler mid-tantrum. I can be mature and I can rise above this.

‘Hangry? Margaret, what has happened to your accent?’ He cocks his head. ‘There really is something strange going on with you today.’

‘Hanger, Theo, is a disorder in which a person becomes uncharacteristically angry as a result of hunger.’

Theo’s eyes rise slowly up from his phone to meet mine. ‘No it isn’t.’

‘Yes, it is. Google it if you don’t believe me.’

He blinks. ‘Oh my god. Hanger. This explains everything. ’ He covers his mouth with his hand. ‘Is this a new condition?’

‘It’s been around for millennia, but it’s only just been named.’ I smile reassuringly. I’m not lying, really.

‘Is there a cure ?’ He gasps.

‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘Yes, there is a cure. Food is the cure.’

Theo squints at me suspiciously for a second. ‘Really? Hm.’ He glances over at the empty buffet trays. ‘I suppose that does sort of make sense.’

I nod harder.

‘Bear with me a moment, I need to call Christopher...’ Theo turns away with his phone to his ear and clips towards the lobby. ‘Christopher? It’s Theodore. I just thought I’d let you know that I’ve been diagnosed with an incredibly rare condition, so the next time you tell me I’m being an unbearable nightmare , bear this in mind...’

* * *

Theo is still bellowing down the receiver when waitresses start emerging with steaming piles of waffles, sausages, bacon, eggs and beans. Jugs of maple syrup are placed next to huge, glistening bowls of berries and baskets of warm croissants. Thank god. For once, Theo was right and I am glad.

There is still not a soul in sight and I dread to think of the waiting staff getting offended at my lack of enthusiasm, so I grab a plate and start piling up. As I carefully balance my last sausage on top of my mountainous pile of food, I catch Barbara studying me with concern.

Oh, don’t be one of those people, Barbara.

Surely she can understand that I’ve had a difficult morning?

Also, I’ve not made it down to lose weight on my list yet, so this is technically fine.

I carefully transfer my plate onto one of the tables lining the perimeter of the room and sit down. I pour maple syrup over the lot before tucking in. Lord, this is GOOD.

I’ve managed to put away half my plate and I’m already contemplating seconds when someone sits down next to me.

‘This is great, isn’t it?’

I slowly raise my head up from my hunched position. Through my sugar-induced brain-fog I vaguely register a girl, about my age, with glasses. I swallow.

‘Mmhm.’ I glance at her plate and see that she has chosen a single waffle with a small handful of berries. Who is this weirdo?

‘Oh,’ she catches me looking, ‘I’m trying to be good. Got to save myself for the chicken sandwiches and wine later on.’

‘Wine? ’ My ears visibly prick up.

‘Yeah!’ She laughs. ‘No other way you’d get me coming to this kind of bore-fest.’

‘My boss told me it was a conference .’

‘Ouch. Mine told me it’d be a great opportunity for development.’ She registers the look on my face and laughs. ‘You believed it too, eh?’

I like this girl, small appetite or not. Saffron, her badge says. Personal Assistant.

‘Have you seen that man going ballistic in the corner?’ She nods her head towards Theo, who is too busy telling poor Christopher about his delicate emotional state to notice that the cure has been served.

‘That,’ I spear a sausage and point it towards him, ‘is my boss.’

She grimaces. ‘Jeez. My condolences.’

We finish our food and talk about our jobs as the room fills up. Saffron tells me how her manager is constantly trying to find new ways to aid Saffron’s personal development , by sending her to countless events and workshops all across the country. She rarely gets any work done, and her expenses forms are a thing to behold, apparently. I tell her how I’m bored out of my tree and consider committing accident claim fraud alarmingly regularly to escape the daily grind.

We watch as Theo finally finishes his phone call and takes a plate almost as large as mine over to a table of women and starts chatting to them. I enlighten Saffron on the probably inappropriate topics of conversation Theo is choosing, and we laugh when the women slowly make excuses and move, leaving him sitting alone.

‘I’d better go and get him. He’ll be a nightmare on the way home if he doesn’t get enough attention.’ I stand up.

‘Go do your duty. Hopefully see you in there.’ She winks.

Maybe today isn’t so bad. I’ve met Barbara with her sage advice and Saffron who, by the sounds of things, isn’t exactly living the career dream either.

I get to Theo as he’s sliding his final piece of syrup-drenched waffle into his mouth.

‘Networking going well, is it?’ I can’t help myself.

‘Bloody rude, the lot of them.’ he says, sulkily.

‘What were you chatting about?’ I’m not sure I want to know the answer, but I really do at the same time.

‘Really interesting stuff until they all decided to bugger off and sit elsewhere. I was actually asking them whether they thought the bacon here was organic. I told them about that research paper, do you remember, the one that showed that non-organic bacon was horrifically carcinogenic? And the hormone imbalances it causes! I was very interested to hear their thoughts on how processed meat affected their personal and familial health outcomes.’

What better topic of conversation over a full English breakfast? ‘So you thought you’d do some field work?’

‘Yep. Not that they were interested in discussing it with me. Call themselves researchers.’ He scoffs in the direction of the women, who are all sitting around a table several metres away and eyeing me with concern.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ a stocky man bellows from behind the badge desk, ‘if you would like to make your way into the meeting room, this morning’s presentations will begin shortly.’

We traipse towards the huge, open doors at the far end of the room. Theo strides on ahead, undoubtedly in search of a spot near the front where he can ambush the speakers at close-range. I lag behind and hope that he won’t save me a seat so I can sit at the back alone.

‘Hey,’ one of Theo’s unwilling counsel of ladies matches my pace and walks beside me, ‘he’s a very strange man, just be careful. Wave at one of us if you need saving at any point.’ She gestures behind her to where her friends are walking close-by. ‘We’ve all got to look out for each other when it comes to guys like that.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile, deciding not to tell them that I’ll be sharing a tiny car with said strange man all the way back to the office.