Post Funeral Trauma

I felt a little foolish after the funeral fiasco and kept indoors for a whole week.

The weather was turning for the worst now anyway. It was a great time to pull a

sickie. A week, I surmised, should be just adequate to get over a cold.

I spent a glorious week curled up on the sofa, in between meals munching

crisps and dry honeynut cornflakes and sipping red wine. I’ll probably be really sick

after a week of this I thought as I tipped the 750g box of cornflakes to my head and

emptied the crumbs directly into my mouth. I stuffed the empty box out of sight in the

gap between the armrest of the sofa and the wall.

“Move you at weekend,” I told the flattened box as I savoured the last sugary

mouthful and reached for my wine glass.

Smacking my tongue in satisfaction against the roof of my mouth, I pulled the

duvet up under my arms and settled back to watch the double bill of Friends.

By Thursday lunchtime, there were three empty wine bottles on the floor

beside the sofa. I was one or two glasses away from adding the fourth when the

telephone rang. I stared at it in puzzlement for a moment. Who could be calling me at

this time of the day? As far as anyone knew, I was at work. Grant, I guessed. My face

clouded over into a frown and I sucked my teeth. Every time I thought of him I felt

the cold beer soaking into my lap again and messing up my black dress. There was no

chance of forgiveness for him. I’d put on my low, heavy breathing I’ve got a man with

me voice. He’d soon get the message. Or it might be Bulldog Communications again.

My face clouded into an even deeper frown. For them, I’d put on my high-pitched I

hate you, why don’t you leave me alone voice.

I decided to go for a middle of the road pitch. That way, I could smoothly veer

to the right or left depending on who in fact was calling.

“Hello…” I tried to make it as neutral sounding as possible.

“Hello,” a voice said back. It gave me a start. “It’s Mr. Ebanks—”

I know who it bloody is! What you calling me at home for?

“I’m sorry to bother you at home,” said Mr. Ebanks, “but we don’t seem to

have received a sick note from you. I’m just calling to check if you sent us one in.”

My mind chased all over the place and then as if from thin air I snatched my

I’m really poorly—almost at death’s door voice, adding a cough and pulling air

loudly through my nostrils for effect.

“I haven’t been able to go out to the doctor,” I said. “I thought I’d be alright in

a day or two but I can’t seem to shake this cold. I wanted to go to the doctor yesterday

but I just couldn’t get out of bed. I tried calling my GP to see if he would come out to

see me but they said no one could come till next week. I’ve been having lemsips and

panadols and hopefully I should be at least a bit better to be able to come to work on

Monday. I’ll have to just wait and see how I feel.” I moved the phone away from my

mouth and coughed again, then said sorry into the receiver.

“Okay,” Mr. Ebanks said. “Just keep in touch and let us know what is

happening.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Ebanks,” I said, coughing again. “I’m sorry about the sick note.

I felt so sick I totally forgot about it.”

“Okay. Just take care of yourself. We’ll see you soon.”

I put the phone down. Oh my goodness! I held my head in my hands, grasping

two fistfuls of my hair. How could I forget about the sick note? Well, if I were as

dishonest as some people who made a regular habit of pulling sickies I’d probably

have remembered about the sick note first thing. And I bet Mr. Ebanks didn’t call Lisa

at her house to check up on her whenever she had one of her myalgia attacks. I bet it

was just because I was black!

I swallowed the rest of the wine in the glass and sprang off the sofa. I could

just make it to the GP and get seen as a walk-in patient before they closed for the

afternoon break. I’d tell him I felt stressed and had a headache that wouldn’t go away

even with Ibuprofen. I pulled on my coat and grabbed my handbag. The fresh air

would do me some good anyway. And I’d collect my black dress from the dry

cleaners and soothe the bitter pill of returning to work on Monday with a Friday night

in town to top all Friday nights.

I was back home by late afternoon with the sick note and the dress. On Friday

afternoon, I gave myself a mani-pedi, painting toenails and fingernails a bright red. I

held my hand out at arm’s length; fingers spread wide apart and admired the smooth

gloss. I stretched my leg out too and smiled at the bright red against golden tan brown.

The black, skinny straps of the suede stilettos plaited across the top of my foot would

complete the look. And I’d be careful to keep touching my palms to myself so that the

golden brown and the red would stand out against the black dress and create a striking

image for Grant or perhaps with any luck, someone more interesting.

At 10 pm, I stepped into the freshly laundered black dress, wiggling down into

it as I pulled it up.

“Wonderful!” I said, looking into the mirror and slapping my rump. I sprayed

on Obsession lavishly and went to call Jody to find out if she was ready.

“Yes, I’m ready to paint the town red,” she said.

“I’ll be painting it redder so I’ll be fit and better for work on Monday.”

We were soon in a taxi, giggling as if we were already drunk, trying to decide

where to go once in town.

“Oh my goodness!” I said in a fit of giggles, feigning some silly surprise and

practising my hand display on Jody.

She took hold of my hand. “Did you do these yourself?” she asked, holding it

up to examine it by the streetlight as the taxi trundled through its glow.

“But of course,” I announced proudly.

“Your new admirer will be all over you wanting you to rake his back with

these when he sees them,” she predicted.

“Who? Grant? If he so much as looks at them too closely I’ll scratch his eyes

out with them! The boring git!”

We were both giggling again and kept it up until we got off in town several

minutes later.

In the Lion’s Den, we sat in our usual corner, passing the evening quite

pleasantly, though nothing much was happening. After six pints, I was ready for the

dance floor. So up I got, dragging Jody with me. We shook our boobs to some crazy

rock music and giggled at the fuzzy lights dancing above us.

“Hey,” Jody said, nudging my arm, “You better get those nails out. Your

dancing must really have impressed this guy. He’s been watching you for a while and

now he’s coming over.”

“Is he good looking?” I asked, not wanting to turn in his direction before he

arrived.

“I don’t know—the light’s too dim. Oh no! He looks a bit geeky—a Grant

type.”

He got closer.

“Oh my goodness! He’s worse than Grant. He’s got hair sticking out of his

nose. You don’t half attract these weirdoes. Hey, I’m leaving you to him.”

“Jody! Don’t you dare leave. Stay and help me get rid of him.”

“Shhh,” Jody said as the man got right next to us.

“Hello, ladies,” he said. I could tell from the airiness of his voice that he was

smiling but it gave me such a violent start that I felt certain someone would be

mopping the beers that were in my stomach off the floor very shortly. I spun around

to face him.

“I see you’ve made a remarkable recovery,” he told me, smiling sweetly.

“Err…” I coughed feebly, but it was lost against the music.

Every daft thought went through my head: if I’d fallen under a bus outside this

wouldn’t be happening to me right now; if the bath overflowed and made the ceiling

cave in I’m sure I could handle it; if I peed my pants right now I’d not be the least

embarrassed.

“I just needed some fresh air,” I said, knowing that he knew and I knew how

silly that sounded.

“So, will you be at work on Monday?”

“I think so,” I all but whispered.

“Good—see me in my office at 9 o’clock, then.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Ebanks.”

He turned and disappeared into a dark corner of the Lion’s Den, while the

lights swam above my head and I wondered if Jody would be strong enough to stop

me from smashing into the floor.