Hate to Love You(41)

PART TWO





Chapter Nine

Hindsight’s a Bitch

London, the present

My underground train shot into Liverpool Street Station smack in the middle of the morning rush. I focused on the Metro newspaper in a commuter’s hand and the sound of the blaring iPod next to me. Anything that would keep my mind on the interview ahead and out of the past. I couldn’t afford to think about James or Caroline or—

Ryan.

I shut my eyes at the thought of my son.

Minding the gap, I got off the train and inched my way through the crowd and onto the escalator, wanting to feel just as confident as the other tubesters. Sure of myself, polished like the statuesque blonde coming towards me. If I managed to impress the interview panel there’d be no end-of-the-month panic to give Marcia her rent money and I could put my new plan into action.

New, because the old one had resulted in a two-hour visit at the police station.

I’d been back in the UK for three months trying to find a secretarial job, but it was proving harder than I’d imagined. My pile of rejection letters had turned into a fleet of airplanes to entertain Marcia’s daughter, Fleur Anise. Except for the ones that made reference to my YouTube notoriety. Those I tore to shreds.

Seven years had passed since my unfortunate wedding speech but “Trash at the Bash” was still a hit in cyberspace. I used to watch it over and over, torturing myself with what I had done. Masochistic I know, but self-punishment drew me to revisit the scene of my shame. There were different lengths of footage on YouTube, from the whole shebang at six minutes and thirty-two seconds to just the eleven seconds it took me to blurt that James was the father of my child.

Some films captured the guests’ reactions while others focused on Caroline’s crumbling destruction and my gloating, triumphant laughter. I watched them all, including the “Trash at the Bash” copycat videos and spin-offs. The twisted fans I had acquired had only one requisite for adding to the “Trash at the Bash” hall of fame: the videos needed to feature shocking revelations at family gatherings in public places.

The last video I’d forced myself to watch was “Smash at the Bash,” where the protagonist, a Jewish New Yorker, declares he’s gay and takes a baseball bat to his nephew’s Bar Mitzvah. He mentions me by name and thanks me for giving him the courage to come out to his orthodox community—and his wife.

I guess it’s like Marcia says: I can’t whine that I don’t belong or fit in. I am the inspiration for a very select, very screwed-up bunch of people.

Niche.

I walked out of the tube station and blinked in the June sunshine. The City of London was buzzing. Everywhere I looked I saw Starbucks and Costa coffees held in hands laden with expensive rings and watches. Whenever I was in this part of town, a mixture of period classics and sleek modern architecture, I felt out of place. Insignificant. Like I didn’t belong here sharing space with people who looked effortlessly sophisticated yet somehow drab in their different shades of black and grey.

Ten minutes to go.

I stifled the urge to ditch the interview. A few phone calls to the top legal firms in London was all it had taken to discover that James now worked at Flintfire & Associates. When I’d seen their advertisement for a legal secretary in Ms London magazine it had seemed like fate. Even so, I’d agonised over whether to apply. Then my latest letter to James came back Return to Sender. It was bad enough I suspected he tossed them after reading, but not bothering to open it? Enraged, I shoved my CV into an envelope and headed out to post it.#p#分页标题#e#

I know, I know, making decisions when you’re angry is just as idiotic as when you’re drunk, but regardless, I needed a job. Working as a silver service waitress was tiring and the pay was crap.

I bought my stamps from Kahlu, the large African lady at the corner shop, and when she asked why I looked so glum I said I was nervous about my application. Her advice can be as unusual as the fabrics she wraps around her head and this time was no different: write the name of the personnel manager at Flintfire on a blank sheet of paper and stick it in a bowl of caster sugar to sweeten her towards me.

Don’t knock it—Kahlu’s tip got me an interview and she was going to get a bouquet of flowers on my way home.

The modern office building I entered was sleek and intimidating, the security officer coolly polite. The lift pinged my arrival on the sixteenth floor and I stepped straight into Flintfire & Associates. Nervously, I scanned the front desk, the plush seating area and the corridors, right and left. I hadn’t seen James since the night of his wedding and I didn’t want to bump into him on the day of my interview. He’d make sure I didn’t get hired and then I’d be back to square one.