Time to just be me

Dammit. There was the usual queue for the ladies. All three cubicles were occupied and there were at least four women waiting, holding some sort of a line amidst the gaggle of other females vying for mirror space to apply lipstick, touch up their hair, or just gossip or giggle over their mobile screens.

 As usual, I had left it to the last minute to abandon my drink. “Just popping to the loo, keep an eye on my bag,” I called cheerfully, motioning in the vague direction of my handbag on the bench seat, before elbowing my way towards the ladies. Now I was bursting. That’s what three lagers on an empty stomach do to you.

 Fortunately, I’m a very regular regular here in the Old Rose, and I know something all these other girlies don’t – where there’s another ladies’ loo. As it was a Thursday night the function room would be in darkness, so the toilets there were likely to be blissfully empty. I darted down the carpeted corridor, through the double doors and up the stairs to the landing beside the deserted function room. The lights in the toilet were off, but I flicked them on and headed into the cubicle.

 ‘That’s better.’ I sighed.  ‘Don’t want to be away from James for too long.’  James was my boss, and I’d had my eye on him since I started with the company in London six months ago.  Of course there wasn’t only the two of us. There was Jake, Peter, Caroline, Anne, Ella and Robin. On occasions, even more of us piled out of the office and into the pub the minute the clock struck five. This happened every day but Tuesday. Monday nights we always had a drink to celebrate the end of that dreaded first day of the week, and by Wednesday we were looking forward to the weekend, but Tuesdays most people seemed to drift off home.

 I hated Tuesdays, heading back to my lonely flat to cook and watch soaps on TV. I usually rang mum and dad back home to fill them in on my life in the big city. Sometimes I would ring my sister Jane too. It always gave me great pleasure to hear the envy in her voice when I told her about nights in the pub, sipping wine in a beer garden at lunchtime, clubbing it on a Friday night. I would tell her about the different characters in the office, and how much fun I was having. It had taken years, but now – at last – she was jealous of me.

 For so long Jane had been the golden girl in everyone’s eyes. She did well at school, went to university, got herself a teaching degree, married her long term boyfriend Tim, and now they had two kids with another on the way. They lived close to my parents and granny, and I kept hearing just how ‘attentive and caring’ they were.

 Unlike me. I’d flunked my A Levels but managed to get onto a secretarial course. I drifted through that, coming out with a qualification of sorts, and had been living at home and doing temping jobs since I was 19. But last year, at the age of 24, I had applied for an admin job with a big company in Westminster, and now had an independent life, and lots of great friends. I was the one who was envied.

 I flushed the loo, tucked my red silk blouse into the waistband of my short beige A line skirt, which I automatically hoisted down to cover a little more of my fake-tanned legs. As usual my feet were aching in the kitten heeled shoes which so flattered my legs. One good thing about getting home was kicking those off and wriggling my feet into my manky but comfie old slippers.

 I went to open the cubicle door, but the lock wouldn’t budge. I tugged harder, then a bit harder. I pushed the door out and tried again. I tucked my foot underneath it and pulled it towards me, pushing the lock at the same time. Still no luck. 

 There was a gap between the floor and the door, but it was nowhere near wide enough for me to squeeze under, despite my fairly svelte size 12 figure. And who knows when the floor had last been mopped. I was not going to subject my new Next outfit to stale urine and dried bleach, no thank you.

 I made several more efforts to unlatch the lock, but it stuck firm. Now what was I going to do? My mobile was in my handbag.

 I put the lid down, inspected it for undesirable material, and finding it apparently clean, sat down to think. Damn. Peter was due to get a round in, and I was ready for another drink. I hope he didn’t miss me out. Would he? I wondered. Probably. For despite my efforts to be part of this group, I often felt invisible. I had to really make an effort to get them to pay attention to me. I had to dress in the most striking clothes I could find, make sure my hair and make-up were as close to perfect as I could, and always be the life and soul of the party. This invariably involved consuming considerable amounts of alcohol. In the office I smiled a lot, and tried to be obliging to my bosses and to show empathy with the other girls. It was difficult mind you, especially when I often had a hangover.

 Normally I couldn’t wait until five o’clock so we could head over the road to the Old Rose. Not everyone went every night, but I did. Come to think of it, I as probably the only one who went each night. It beat heading home to the flat. Not that it was a bad flat. It had a separate kitchen and bathroom, one bedroom, and a view over Streatham Common. The neighbours seemed okay too. The couple downstairs always said hello, and Richard across the corridor had even asked me if I wanted to go for a walk on the Common at the weekend, or play tennis or squash. I always said no, in the politest way possible. It wasn’t that I couldn’t play tennis or squash – I had actually been a member of the squash club back home – but I was often tired after a week at work and lots of late nights and just couldn’t be bothered. And if any of the guys were going clubbing on a Saturday night, I would tag along and hence be good for absolutely nothing on Sunday.

 Richard was a bit straight too. He worked for a bank, went jogging, and actually had his parents into his flat for dinner some Sundays. He had a group of mates and they headed to the King’s Head for a ‘few jars,’ as he liked to call it, on weekends, but apart from that he seemed a bit of a loner. Not a bad looking one, admittedly, with his brown eyes and dark slightly curly hair. But not exciting enough for me.

 After a few minutes in the cubicle, I began to panic. I’m not claustrophobic, but I wasn’t sure how many people would use these toilets, which I knew were out of bounds to the public bar. It seemed I had no option but to wait. The manager Mick was bound to come up here to turn out the lights, even if I had to stay until closing time.

 But then I remembered it was me turned on the lights. As far as Mick was concerned, they were already off, the function room dark and its toilets empty. He may not come this way to check for any stray females.

 But James would. The thought made me feel brighter. James, in his grey suit and blue shirt, his navy tie always perfect, his soft voice and deep blue eyes. He always paid me plenty of attention and laughed at my sometimes outrageous behaviour. I was sure he would ask me out one day. It was just a matter of time.

 Surely James would send one of the girls in search of me. They knew about the function room toilets. We had sneaked up here before, giggling at something the lads had said, or fuming because the talk had been about nothing but football which was so boring.

 I glanced at my watch. It was five past ten already. I would give it another 15 minutes, surely someone would have come by then. If not, well, I’d have to start shouting.

 Ten twenty came and went, and still no sign of life. Feeling a right fool I began to call, tentatively at first “Hello, hello, can anyone hear me!”

 I shouted louder and louder. Still no response. The function room was quite a way from the bar. With the jukebox playing and the usual loud talking, no-one would hear me there. After another 10 minutes I was getting really scared. I felt sick, dizzy. The high from the alcohol was wearing off, and I began to seriously panic. Where were my friends? Did they not wonder why I had taken so long to come back?

 I could be locked in here all night. Perhaps all day tomorrow, if the function room wasn’t opening until the evening. What would happen if I didn’t turn up at work tomorrow? Would James come looking for me?

 No chance, I admitted despondently. It would be assumed that I was sick, or hungover – it wouldn’t be the first time – and another sick day would be added to my record. My parents wouldn’t think twice if they phoned and I was out, nor would Jane. They would all just assume I was at work or in the pub, or with the many friends I keep boasting about.

 Perhaps Richard would miss me. We normally ran into each other in the corridor in the morning. He would have noticed how quiet my flat was. But what could he do? He knew nothing about me.

 With renewed vigour I struggled with the door latch, but it still would not budge. I had to get out. There was only one option left.  I took off my shoes, pushed them under the door, hoisted my already short skirt up over my bum, and stood up onto the toilet seat.

 I surveyed the space above the cubicle. It was certainly wide enough for me to climb through, but would I be able to get my leg over the top? It would be a hell of a drop down.

 But I had no choice. I tested the loo roll holder, and carefully transferred my weight onto it. Reaching up, I grasped the top of the cubicle with both hands, and with considerable effort hoisted myself up. After a lot of spluttering, I managed to get one leg over. Balancing precariously high, I dragged my second leg up so I was astride the top of the door in a most unglamorous pose, making a right mess of my skirt and blouse into the bargain. I took a deep breath, counted to three, lifted my second left high, pivoted, and launched myself off the top.

 “Ouch!” I landed heavily on my bare feet, and bounced onto my backside. Pains shot up through my legs. I sat on the tiled floor for several minutes, waiting for the pain to subside, tears burning my eyes, a mixture of agony and relief. Eventually I stood up and made it over to the basin. I splashed water on my face, scrubbed my hands, rearranged my clothes, and put my shoes back on to my aching feet.

 It was busy as ever back in the bar. But the seats my friends had been sitting on were now occupied by strangers. A hot rush of panic spread through my body. Where was my handbag? I had left it beside James.

 Gregg, one of the barmen, appeared at my side.

 “There you are,” he said in his lovely Aussie accent, thrusting my handbag towards me. “The others left this on the seat when they went, so I thought I’d better put it behind the bar for you. Where did you get to?”

 “Just got a bit caught up,” I replied. No use going into detail. They would find the locked loo soon enough. “Have they gone long?”

 “They left soon after you disappeared.” In response to my unuttered question, he shook his head. “I don’t where they were headed.”

 Clutching my bag I went out into the balmy July night. I walked to the tube alone. They hadn’t waited for me. They hadn’t even come to look for me. Maybe they didn’t even have that next round. Maybe they were glad to get away from me.

 I knew I was being paranoid. Why did they make me feel like this? And why was I always trying to prove myself to them? I realised my friends weren’t the only ones I was trying to impress, there was my family too. I was continually trying to better my sister, trying to be something I’m not. I wrapped my arms around myself. It was comforting. No one had ever said Jane was better than me. Maybe I was the only one thought she was. Our parents loved us equally, I knew that. She wasn’t better than me, and I wasn’t better than her. We were just different. That was all. I sighed heavily. Maybe it was time to just be me.

 Suddenly the thought of my old slippers and a mug of hot milk seemed appealing. I knew I could make this new life I had chosen work – I just had to go about it differently. I had a job and a comfortable flat. My colleagues might not be my best buddies, but some of the girls in the typing pool – the ones who went home to partners or families rather than the pub – were really friendly.

Tomorrow I would give the Friday night drinking session a miss, maybe go for a walk on the common after work if it was dry.  And if Richard was still up for it, perhaps I would take my old squash racket from the top of my wardrobe and give it a bit of a dusting off.