Grin and Bare It
The employees of Cosgrove Ltd, architects and surveyors of modest ability and reputation serving the small, bustling town of Carterston, gathered beneath the unforgiving strip lighting of the meeting room to undergo the weekly ritual of Friday night post-work drinks. They grabbed beers from the fridge, or popped the metal caps off bottles of spirit and mixer, sat in the easy chairs or stood about making idle conversation. To Julie, the ‘new girl’, this custom was entirely alien. Why on earth would anyone want to stay at work longer than was absolutely necessary, particularly on a Friday, even if there was the lure of free booze courtesy the management? Up till tonight, she’d managed to slip out before the imagined hand of obligation settled icily on her shoulder and wheeled her back into the building; thereby she had avoided the hidden dangers of office banter, could steer a wide path of colleagues soliciting personal information. Now, sat under the neon glare clutching a cold beer, the occasion was as desperately uncomfortable as she’d feared.
All day, since he’d found out she was going to be home alone this weekend, Doug, the kindly, well-meaning but nonetheless overbearing office manager, had been badgering her to join him and a few friends for brunch on Sunday. In the crowded space of the meeting room he renewed his attack.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. You don’t have a car do you? Not a problem. I can pick you up, you don’t live far off. The motor camp, isn’t it? Come on.” He leant forward in his chair, his plump elbows resting on doughy knees, his face thrust into the room. As kind as the offer undoubtedly was, Julie could barely repress the urge to tell him to go to hell. He smiled at her.
“Well, look, I’ll see. I’m not sure what I’m up to yet.” She stalled. “Err, what about I give you my cell number? You can text me over the weekend.”
She’d said the magic words. In a dramatic movement, surprisingly fluid for such a big man, he threw himself back into his chair, hoisted his hips up and thrust his hand into the tight space of his jeans pocket for his mobile phone. Unfortunately, the phone was snared in a taut, stubborn crease of denim, and Doug’s digging became a little feverish. All conversation in the small, fuggy room faltered to a polite hush in reverence of Doug’s earnest battle with his trousers. Julie could feel her face morphing into the rictus of the idiot’s grin. She beamed its full force onto the carpet, where just by the door there was an interesting dirty spot the shape and size, she suddenly realised, of an avocado.
Behind the fixed smile, Julie was exasperated, desperate. Why couldn’t this man just back off! Why wouldn’t they all back off, asking her questions, overwhelming her with their kindness, their invitations, their interest. She was running out of excuses. Worse, she was beginning to lose track of the stories she’d woven over the past four weeks in her new employ to get out of situations just like this.
She gave Doug her number, and quickly finished off her beer. She had to leave.
“D’ya want a lift”. It was Mary this time, from the Design team.
“No, thanks. I’m fine. I’ve got my bus ticket. Thanks.” She was edging towards the door. She could feel the eyes of her colleagues on her, windows to brains struggling to fathom what was with this woman. She knew what they thought, that she was stuck-up, toffee-nosed. Based on tonight’s display she wouldn’t be surprised if they significantly added to that list of adjectives.
“But it’s raining!” boomed Doug, incredulous.
“Honestly, Doug, it’s fine. Thanks again. See you on Sunday.” She made it to the doorway.
“Yep, I’ll be there. The motor camp, right? The one on the state highway? By the garden centre?”
Jesus, what did he want? A map? “Yes, that’s right, the one by the garden centre. Well, anyway, gotta go.” She was gone.
Damn. Sunday was more or less in the diary. How the hell was she going to get out of this? Grabbing her handbag from her desk she hot-footed it out of the building, and raced to catch her bus. She was cutting it fine. She was amazed she hadn’t been caught, yet, what with the bus stop being right opposite the office. Don’t analyse, she thought, just be thankful that nobody has quizzed me yet on why I get the bus that careers off into the middle of nowhere, in a direction exactly opposite to the state highway.
Julie pushed hard against the front door of her cabin. It had swollen with all the recent rain, and was wedged stubbornly against its frame. Another firm shove and the door gave way, squeaking painfully, and she almost fell into the room. Pushing it firmly behind her, she rested her forehead on its cool, smooth wood and sighed deeply. How much longer could she keep this from them? Some people would be fine about, she knew that. But there would always be someone, someone with something unkind to say….
The rain had stopped, and the sun now beat down on the little campground with a surprising force, as if making amends for an otherwise lacklustre performance that day. Julie’s cabin, tucked as it was in the shade of a small stand of leggy pines, felt chilly and a little damp. She flicked the switch on the electric heater, and went to pull the blinds. Just then, Mary and Phil, hand in hand as ever, ambled passed the window en route to their house bus. Mary’s enormous bottom, dimpled and deliciously broad, swung a slow calypso as she walked beside Phil, who was as lean as his wife was curvaceous. Slung over his shoulder, a dazzling white towel emphasised the buttery richness of his all-over tan. They must have just come back from the spa. The late-summer sunlight caught the beads of moisture that clung like sparkling memories to their skin, and to Julie her neighbours appeared to shimmer like bronze.
June and Roger from the caravan across the way were making the most of the dry spell to weed around their deck. Julie giggled at the sight of Roger in nothing but his black gumboots with the dandy blue trim, wielding a rather dangerous looking pair of garden shears. He caught sight of Julie and waved and smiled, and Julie, waving back, felt the stress of deception begin to ebb from her shoulders. She pulled the blinds, and could feel the warmth of the heater gradually filling the little cabin. Unbuttoning her work shirt, Julie began to divest herself of the trappings of the working week. She was home. She could relax. She’d worry about Sunday later.
The employees of Cosgrove Ltd, architects and surveyors of modest ability and reputation serving the small, bustling town of Carterston, gathered beneath the unforgiving strip lighting of the meeting room to undergo the weekly ritual of Friday night post-work drinks. They grabbed beers from the fridge, or popped the metal caps off bottles of spirit and mixer, sat in the easy chairs or stood about making idle conversation. To Julie, the ‘new girl’, this custom was entirely alien. Why on earth would anyone want to stay at work longer than was absolutely necessary, particularly on a Friday, even if there was the lure of free booze courtesy the management? Up till tonight, she’d managed to slip out before the imagined hand of obligation settled icily on her shoulder and wheeled her back into the building; thereby she had avoided the hidden dangers of office banter, could steer a wide path of colleagues soliciting personal information. Now, sat under the neon glare clutching a cold beer, the occasion was as desperately uncomfortable as she’d feared.
All day, since he’d found out she was going to be home alone this weekend, Doug, the kindly, well-meaning but nonetheless overbearing office manager, had been badgering her to join him and a few friends for brunch on Sunday. In the crowded space of the meeting room he renewed his attack.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. You don’t have a car do you? Not a problem. I can pick you up, you don’t live far off. The motor camp, isn’t it? Come on.” He leant forward in his chair, his plump elbows resting on doughy knees, his face thrust into the room. As kind as the offer undoubtedly was, Julie could barely repress the urge to tell him to go to hell. He smiled at her.
“Well, look, I’ll see. I’m not sure what I’m up to yet.” She stalled. “Err, what about I give you my cell number? You can text me over the weekend.”
She’d said the magic words. In a dramatic movement, surprisingly fluid for such a big man, he threw himself back into his chair, hoisted his hips up and thrust his hand into the tight space of his jeans pocket for his mobile phone. Unfortunately, the phone was snared in a taut, stubborn crease of denim, and Doug’s digging became a little feverish. All conversation in the small, fuggy room faltered to a polite hush in reverence of Doug’s earnest battle with his trousers. Julie could feel her face morphing into the rictus of the idiot’s grin. She beamed its full force onto the carpet, where just by the door there was an interesting dirty spot the shape and size, she suddenly realised, of an avocado.
Behind the fixed smile, Julie was exasperated, desperate. Why couldn’t this man just back off! Why wouldn’t they all back off, asking her questions, overwhelming her with their kindness, their invitations, their interest. She was running out of excuses. Worse, she was beginning to lose track of the stories she’d woven over the past four weeks in her new employ to get out of situations just like this.
She gave Doug her number, and quickly finished off her beer. She had to leave.
“D’ya want a lift”. It was Mary this time, from the Design team.
“No, thanks. I’m fine. I’ve got my bus ticket. Thanks.” She was edging towards the door. She could feel the eyes of her colleagues on her, windows to brains struggling to fathom what was with this woman. She knew what they thought, that she was stuck-up, toffee-nosed. Based on tonight’s display she wouldn’t be surprised if they significantly added to that list of adjectives.
“But it’s raining!” boomed Doug, incredulous.
“Honestly, Doug, it’s fine. Thanks again. See you on Sunday.” She made it to the doorway.
“Yep, I’ll be there. The motor camp, right? The one on the state highway? By the garden centre?”
Jesus, what did he want? A map? “Yes, that’s right, the one by the garden centre. Well, anyway, gotta go.” She was gone.
Damn. Sunday was more or less in the diary. How the hell was she going to get out of this? Grabbing her handbag from her desk she hot-footed it out of the building, and raced to catch her bus. She was cutting it fine. She was amazed she hadn’t been caught, yet, what with the bus stop being right opposite the office. Don’t analyse, she thought, just be thankful that nobody has quizzed me yet on why I get the bus that careers off into the middle of nowhere, in a direction exactly opposite to the state highway.
Julie pushed hard against the front door of her cabin. It had swollen with all the recent rain, and was wedged stubbornly against its frame. Another firm shove and the door gave way, squeaking painfully, and she almost fell into the room. Pushing it firmly behind her, she rested her forehead on its cool, smooth wood and sighed deeply. How much longer could she keep this from them? Some people would be fine about, she knew that. But there would always be someone, someone with something unkind to say….
The rain had stopped, and the sun now beat down on the little campground with a surprising force, as if making amends for an otherwise lacklustre performance that day. Julie’s cabin, tucked as it was in the shade of a small stand of leggy pines, felt chilly and a little damp. She flicked the switch on the electric heater, and went to pull the blinds. Just then, Mary and Phil, hand in hand as ever, ambled passed the window en route to their house bus. Mary’s enormous bottom, dimpled and deliciously broad, swung a slow calypso as she walked beside Phil, who was as lean as his wife was curvaceous. Slung over his shoulder, a dazzling white towel emphasised the buttery richness of his all-over tan. They must have just come back from the spa. The late-summer sunlight caught the beads of moisture that clung like sparkling memories to their skin, and to Julie her neighbours appeared to shimmer like bronze.
June and Roger from the caravan across the way were making the most of the dry spell to weed around their deck. Julie giggled at the sight of Roger in nothing but his black gumboots with the dandy blue trim, wielding a rather dangerous looking pair of garden shears. He caught sight of Julie and waved and smiled, and Julie, waving back, felt the stress of deception begin to ebb from her shoulders. She pulled the blinds, and could feel the warmth of the heater gradually filling the little cabin. Unbuttoning her work shirt, Julie began to divest herself of the trappings of the working week. She was home. She could relax. She’d worry about Sunday later.
