What am I doing here? This isn't me. I'm not a -- God, at least have the courage to say the word - a lesbian. Neither am I the sort of person who indulges in extra-marital affairs. At least I haven't been until today. Christ, what a squalid little cliché -- the boss about to screw his cute young secretary. Except that, in this case, it's her secretary. About to screw her, me that is. Or whatever she's planning to do with me. It's not even as if Steve's done anything to deserve this; not really. Has he? I mean, he's not an evil, violent bastard or anything. It's just...what, my husband doesn't understand me? Lord help me, I've descended into the world of sexual cliché!
I wasn't at all sure about Hannah when Human Resources sent her up to me. She looked a bit hippified with her flowery cheesecloth dress, like a set of curtains Laura Ashley had rejected, her explosion of frizzy ginger hair, huge bangle earrings -- like she'd lost her way en route to Marrakech in 1967 or something. But what the heck, she had the diplomas and the typing speeds, and I needed a temp to cover for my PA for six months until (please God) Janice returned from maternity leave. If she didn't work out it was no great loss. She'd come over from Ottawa in a mime act with a couple of friends for a Spring arts festival, she told me. When the friends returned she decided to stay on, to see somewhere different for a while.
I didn't take to her at first. She could talk for Britain -- okay, Canada. She seemed to think she was an expert on everything, and was always happy to give me the benefit of all her towering 22 years' experience of the world. The first time she called me Karen I told her I'd prefer it if she used Mrs Waterlow. For the next two days, every time she buzzed me or put a call through it was, "Hi Mrs Waterlow, Ms McRobb here..." I got the point. The first time I called myself Karen when speaking to her it was through gritted teeth. But we began to gel, as people do who are thrust together on a daily basis.
She was quick and efficient, and her perpetually sunny nature made it difficult not to like her. She was good at covering for me -- "I'm sorry, Mrs Waterlow's just stepped out, can I have her call you back, say this afternoon?" -- and she seemed to have this psychic ability to appear in my office with a cup of coffee every time I was about to press the intercom and ask her for one. She made an effort for me too. Within a day or so, without me having to actually say anything, the cheesecloth had been replaced by pastel T-shirts and a flowing white cotton skirt; the earrings by tiny jade studs, visible only because that hair was swept back into a stubby ponytail, held in place by a leather thong.
The first time she decided to plonk herself down at my desk when she brought my morning coffee I was mildly put out; if she noticed, she ignored it. After that a daily ten minute chat while I sipped my coffee became a regular routine. To be honest, she did most of the talking. I learnt all about her idyllic childhood in Wrightville; her terrifyingly intellectual college lecturer parents, and the little brother she adored; how she thought her heart would never mend when Brandy, her golden retriever, died in her arms; the woman who had broken her heart for real...There was the hint of a challenge in her eyes when she mentioned that. Hey, why should it bother me -- I'm a modern 21st Century liberal feminist, whatever your lifestyle, that's cool with me. Of course, I was also quite possibly the last person left in London who didn't actually know anyone who admits to being gay.
It was a couple of weeks after that little revelation that I slammed back into my office one afternoon from a meeting. One of my colleagues had royally fucked up, and I was the one who'd just spent the last half hour being shouted at over it. Basically, Hannah said the wrong thing -- at that moment anything would have been the wrong thing -- and I ripped her head off and spat it out. Instantly I saw tears of shock and wounded injustice spring to her eyes. I spent the rest of the day crippled with guilt at my desk, but too pissed off with the universe to go and apologise. Just before home time I heard a timid tap on my door and there stood Hannah, looking pale and hesitant. "Look Karen, I guess we've both had a pretty shitty day. I'm going to the wine bar on the corner to ease myself into the weekend. I wondered if you might want to come too?"
She must have seen a shadow flicker across my face; she gave me a small, weary smile. "Look, I'm not asking you out on a date, okay? I just don't want to be the sad sack in the corner drowning my sorrows all alone. If you're not in the mood, I understand that." As she turned to leave I called her name. Feeling my face begin to flush, I apologised and explained that of course I hadn't thought that, it was just -- oh to hell with it, a drink would be nice. You stupid cow, I told myself. Don't flatter yourself -- why would a pretty young dyke have the slightest interest in a 35-year old, married, foul-tempered bitch?
One drink would have been nice. Unfortunately, after the week I'd had, I was still demolishing the place's stock of Shiraz well after Hannah had switched to Perrier. And of course, when you get pissed you get stupid. That can be the only reason I was crass enough to ask her, rather too loudly, what being gay was about. "I don't mean what do you do, I mean obviously I can work that out, kind of. But when all the other girls are wetting their knickers over George Michael, sorry, I s'pose Justin Timberlake or someone these days, what is it that makes you realise that you'd rather be getting it on with Kylie Minogue or whoever?"
