Why did I ever want to be a boss? Why? All that happens is you lose your friends and have to give people bollockings and everyone hisses at you. And for what? A sofa in your office? A posh business card?
At last, wearily, I lift my head, and find myself focusing on the back of the cubicle door, which is covered in graffiti as usual. We've always used this door like a kind of message board, to vent, or make jokes or just silly conversation. It gets fuller and fuller, then someone scrubs it clean and we start again. The cleaners have never said anything, and none of the executives ever comes in hereso it's pretty safe. I'm running my eye down the messages, smiling at some libelous story about Simon Johnson, when a new message in blue marker catches my eye. It's in Debs's handwriting and it reads: “The Cobra's back.” And underneath, in faint black Biro: “Don't worry, I spat in her coffee.” There's only one way to go. And that's to get really, really, really drunk. An hour later and I'm slumped at the bar at the Bathgate Hotel, around the corner from work, finishing my third mojito. Already the world has turned a little blurrybut that's fine by me. As far as I'm concerned, the blurrier the better. Just as long as I can keep my balance on this bar stool. “Hi.” I lift my hand to get the attention of the barman. “I'd like another one, please.” The barman raises his eyebrows very slightly, then says, “Of course.” I watch him a touch resentfully as he gets out the mint. Isn't he going to ask me why I want another one? Isn't he going to offer me some homespun barman wisdom? He puts the cocktail on a coaster and adds a bowl of peanuts, which I push aside scornfully. I don't want anything soaking up the alcohol. I want it right in my bloodstream. 220 “Can I get you anything else? A snack, perhaps?” He gestures at a small menu, but I ignore it and take a deep gulp of the mojito. It's cold and tangy and limey and perfect. “Do I look like a bitch to you?” I say as I look up. “Honestly?” “No.” The barman smiles. “Well, I am, apparently.” I take another slug of mojito. “That's what all my friends say.” “Some friends.” “They used to be.” I put my cocktail down and stare at it morosely. “I don't know where my life went wrong.” I sound slurred, even to my own ears. “That's what they all say.” A guy sitting at the end of the bar looks up from his Evening Standard. He has an American accent and dark, receding hair. “No one knows where it went wrong.” “No, but I really don't know.” I lift a finger impressively. “I have a car crash... and boom! I wake up and I'm trapped in the body of a bitch.” “Looks like you're trapped in the body of a babe to me.” The American guy edges along to the next bar stool, a smile on his face. “I wouldn't trade that body for anything.” I gaze at him in puzzlement for a momentuntil realization dawns. “Oh! You're flirting with me! Sorry. But I'm already married. To a guy. My husband.” I lift up my left hand, locate my wedding ring after a few moments, and point at it. “You see. Married.” I think intently for a moment. “Also, I may have a lover.” There's a muffled snort from the barman. I look up suspiciously, but his face is straight. I take another gulp of my drink and feel the alcohol kicking in, dancing around my head. My ears are buzzing and the room is starting to sway. Which is a good thing. Rooms should sway. “You know, I'm not drinking to forget,” I say conversationally to the barman. “I already forgot everything.” This suddenly strikes me as being so funny, I start giggling uncontrollably. “I had one bang on the head and I forgot everything.” I'm clutching my stomach; tears are edging out of my eyes. “I even forgot I had a husband. But I do!” “Uh-?huh.” The barman is exchanging glances with the American guy. “And they said there isn't a cure. But you know, doctors can be wrong, can't they?” I appeal to the bar. Quite a few people seem to be listening now, and a couple of them nod. “Doctors are always wrong,” the American guy says emphatically. “They're all assholes.” “Exactly!” I swivel to him. “You are so right! Okay.” I take a deep gulp of my mojito, then turn back to the barman. “Can I ask you a small favor? Can you take that cocktail shaker and hit me over the head with it? They said it wouldn't work, but how do they know?” The barman smiles, as if he thinks I'm joking. “Great.” I sigh impatiently. “I'll have to do it myself.” Before he can stop me, I grab the cocktail shaker and whack myself on the forehead. “Ow!” I drop the shaker and clutch my head. “Ouch! That hurt!” “Did you see that?” I can hear someone exclaiming behind me. “She's a nutter!” “Miss, are you all right?” The barman looks alarmed. “Can I call you a” “Wait!” I lift a hand. For a few moments I'm poised, completely still, waiting for memories to flood into my 222 brain. Then I subside in disappointment. “It didn't work. Not even one. Bugger.” “I'd get her a strong black coffee,” I can hear the American guy saying in an undertone to the barman. Bloody nerve. I don't want a coffee. I'm about to tell him this, when my phone beeps. After a small struggle with the zipper of my bag I get my phone outand it's a text from Eric. Hi, on my way home. E “That's from my husband,” I inform the barman as I put away my phone. “You know, he can drive a speedboat.” “Great,” says the barman politely. “Yeah. It is.” I nod emphatically, about seven times. “It is great. It's the perfect, perfect marriage...” I consider for a moment. “Except we haven't had sex.” “You haven't had sex?” the American guy echoes in astonishment. “We have had sex.” I take a slug of mojito and lean toward him confidentially. “I just don't remember it.” “That good, huh?” He starts to laugh. “Blew your mind, huh?” Blew my mind. His words land in my mind like a big neon flashing light. Blew my mind.