PenWomanShip

I have had an argument with Laurence, stupid really. It was one of those that starts with something small (me tripping over his briefcase in the hall way) and ends in near disaster. We only avoid head-on collision by adopting a tactic of last minute avoidance. Having yelled something about his general levels of slovenliness and total disregard for the rest of the household (namely me) I thunder into the bathroom and slam the door. By the time I come out again, neither one of us is talking. That was this morning, precisely thirty seven and a half minutes ago. Now I am sitting at my desk, still simmering with anger and wondering if he is as cross as I am.

I keep my head down and apply myself to my work; a job I have been putting off all week, but know I will have to do eventually.

"Taking it at a run, good idea." My boss grins at me. "When you've finished, could you pop into my office?"

I nod and smile, "okay." I hope it is the news I have been waiting for. I gaze back at the screen and start typing again. I am up to the S's when my phone rings. "Morning," I say, "administration, can I help you?"

"It's me."

"Oh, he...hello." I falter at the sound of his voice.

"Just to let you know, I'll be working late tonight."

"All right." I say quietly.

"So," he starts again, "I won't have time to go to the dry cleaners. Will you pick up my suit?"

"All ri...." I try to interrupt.

"And get a take away for dinner; I fancy curry."

"What sor-"

"A hot one. Thanks." He goes silent.

"Erm, Laurence - how will I pick up your dry cleaning without the ticket?"

"It's in your bag, I didn't get chance to tell you." He says this without recrimination, though there is none of the usual easiness in his tone.

"Fine."

"Bye." He issues the word flatly and hangs up, so I go back to my S's.

"Are you free now?" my boss asks as I begin the T's.

"Sure," I nod.

"Would you close the door?" he asks as I walk in. There is already an air of defensive authority about him and as I take a seat, I fear the worst. "I'll get straight to the point," he says. Always a bad sign.

"I'm going to take a long lunch," I say, when I get back to my desk, "so if anyone wants me -"

No one really takes any notice. "Right!" I feel slightly aggrieved that obviously no one does, and slinging my bag over my shoulder, head for the door.

I must admit, that by the time I walk out of the building, my small, revolutionary act has gone to my head and I am feeling quite euphoric. This is okay because it helps to suppress the struggling feeling of guilt I have at asserting my right to take two hours over a sandwich. As I walk towards the centre of town I begin to wonder exactly how slowly you would have to eat a sandwich to make it last two hours or, if that wasn't practical, how many sandwiches you could cram into the same space of time. I laugh at myself then, a silent ironic guffaw. I mean, here I am, one row and several disappointments later, worrying about something as stupid as eating sandwiches.

My absent-minded pacings have brought me to my favourite sandwich bar; the kind of place you vow to try every single combination just to see how good they really are. At the moment I'm stuck on smoked salmon and avocado on wholegrain. I do think about having something different, but somehow I always end up ordering the same. "Okay," I establish eye contact with the girl behind the counter and say the first thing that comes into my head. "Smoked salmon and -" I begin.

"Avocado on a wholegrain baton."

"Yes." I frown slightly, not just at her annoyingly good memory, but at her assumption that I will not deviate from my usual. "Actually," I say, "could I have thousand island dressing on that?" She nods indifferently, as if my request changes nothing and hands my lunch over the counter. I mutter my thanks, realising I have become the comestibles equivalent of a serial monogamist.

Sighing, I take my predictability and ordering a fresh juice, find myself a place in a quiet corner. Backing up to the red, leatherette stool, I prise myself off the floor. I probably ought not to attempt it in public, particularly as it normally takes me two or three goes. Today however, I have particular reason to try: I am outside the normal laws of behaviour. Settling myself, I look up and catch the eye of the bar's only other occupant. To my horror, he is smiling, not any ordinary hello gorgeous smile; this is pure, unadulterated amusement. He looks the sort of person who knows exactly how to sit on a stool and immediately, I hate him. I flash him a terse grin and concentrate on de-robing my sandwich.

I do all those things that a woman eating her lunch alone is expected to do. I study the menu just in case something better takes my eye, something, in my eagerness to swallow great mouthfuls of fish and fruit, I might have missed. Satisfied, I turn my attention to the juice menu. Here, I decide I am neither average nor outlandishly extravagant, but, having stumbled upon a source of potentially hot small talk, persist with my research, taking on board several new and interesting facts: dandelion leaves are useful in the fight against water retention, ginger counteracts sickness and should your mucus membrane need protecting, then horseradish is your boy. I sniff lightly, testing myself for congestion. "Oh, pardon," I wave at the girl who is walking past me, touting my tropical revitaliser seemingly to the highest bidder.

"Miss!" My chief critic raises his hand and in a yielding Irish lilt, attracts her attention. "Over here." He points his lofty finger down at me and arches his eyebrows.

"Thanks," I mutter, taking possession of the sunset-coloured potion.

"No probs." He holds my gaze longer than strictly necessary, his pale greeny-blue eyes unwaveringly fixed on my mine. "So, you suffering?"

I furrow my brow, "pardon?"

"The energising drink?" he nods at my glass.

"Oh, yes," I smile, "the usual office stresses." I hope my explanation has appeased him and looking away, go back to my lunch. I am just eyeing up the counter full of tempting deserts when I hear his voice again.

"Anything you want to talk about?" He smiles disarmingly, "I'm a very good listener."

I notice then, how he tucks his shaggy blond hair behind his ear, very Heath Ledger, and offers me proof of his good intentions. "Oh, well. That's very kind of you, but I'm not really in the habit of talking to strangers." I have been waiting to use that line, or one very like it, for a long time: polite, but cuttingly cool. It turns out he does not share the analysis and immediately bursts into laughter.

"All right. I'm Callum, and you?"

I hesitate, "erm, Maggie. Margaret really, but you know, I don't really like it, so -" I stare again into his eyes which, set above a crooked nose and wide smiling mouth, undermine my defences like gentle rain. "Why am I telling you this?"

"I dunno, right time, right place?"

I laugh at his flippancy. "Is that the famous gift of the gab?"

"You spotted it then?"

"What?"

"The Aussie accent."

I expel an airy chuckle, "and here's me thinking you were Italian."

"Well," he nodded, "we do share a Pope."

"Catholic, then?"

"The Pope?" His grin fades, "you know, in Ireland that's the first thing people ask you; what religion are you?"

"Really?" My surprise is sincere. "No one here really cares, unless you're one of these loons who go about knocking on people's doors, that is." I try diversion, "it's a bit like trying to flog a fleeing horse."

"Interesting metaphor." He leans forward, "is that how you feel then?"

At first I want to make light of it, but realising he has asked in good faith, I offer the only explanation I can think of, "I suppose. You can't really blame the horse for the stable door not being bolted."

He eyes me critically and takes his time to speak, "you know, I can't really see you as that type."

I raise my chin, "and what's that?"

"The opportunist." He smirks warily, "maybe a bit skittish sometimes and you need enough space to kick up your heels now and then."

The notion of my running unfettered through the green fields of England amuses me and chuckling louder than I had intended, I wonder if he can take it as well as dish it out? "So, what are you?"

"I'm one of those very rare creatures; a beast that is all things to all people."

Intrigued, I egg him on, "uh huh!"

"You want me to carry you on my back, I'll carry you on my back, you want me to run, I can run," he pauses, "the only thing I won't do is trot around one of those silly little circus rings with a feather in my hair."

"Mane." I ignore the humour and go for level correction.

He maintains eye contact and drops his voice, "aye, mane."

"Callum?"

"Aye?"

"What are we talking about?"

"I have no idea." He furrows his brow and looks away, and for the first time, I don't believe him. "Would you walk with me?"

The enquiry takes me by surprise, "oh, erm - yes, of course." I allow him to take my hand and descend with unusual finesse.

He nods towards the floor, "your bag?"

"Oh, yes," I bend down and snatch it up, "you're lucky men don't have to carry these things," I laugh, "my whole life is in here."

Outside, the afternoon is overcast, but thankfully, not rainy. We walk across the sparsely populated square, of no more interest to other people than any other couple seen walking away from a sandwich bar. As we go, talking, I begin to wonder what it is exactly that I have agreed to and suddenly, I feel like a conspirator.

"There's great architecture, isn't there?" he asks lightly, his hand bearing the question up towards the roof tops.

"Yes, there is." I glance upwards, seeing my city through other eyes.

He has stopped in front of an open door way, "d'you fancy a drink?"

"Callum, I -"

"Ah, just one. Surely one won't hurt?"

"No." I follow him into what could only be describe as an old man's pub, unashamedly shabby, yet possessing a pride that prevents open criticism. There is the smell of an old man's pub too, beery, smoky and dank.

"Not much, I know," Callum stared about him, "but back home, we'd call this classy." I laugh at his joke, relieved that he recognised the need for humour. "What'll you have?"

"Oh, erm," I glance up and down the pumps, "half a lager?"

"Which one?"

I point to one I hope is lower in alcoholic content than the rest and offer my thanks.

"And take one for yourself." Callum holds out a ten pound note to the barman, watching with all the intensity of a social anthropologist as the face minutely describes the journey from intolerance to indifference.

"They love the Irish really," Callum jokes as we lay claim to a corner table.

I laugh again, "of course; I suppose the bar staff treat everyone with the same contempt?"

He shakes his head authoritatively, "I bet most don't even make it over the threshold." He gazes around, quietly commenting on the effectiveness of their policy.

"Well, I guess I'm honoured then." I take a mouthful of my lager, finding it cold and refreshing. There is something, I want to say, about drinking beer at lunch time, a kind of illicitness that makes it all the more enjoyable. It's not like Friday lunch time drinking when, let's face it, half the city's young professionals are out celebrating the imminent arrival of another weekend, this is self indulgence at its extreme.

"What time do you have to be back at work?" Callum asks. "I presume you have work to go back to?"

"Yes, in about," I consult my watch, "forty minutes." Thinking of the office, I suffer what I can only describe as an involuntary spasm of memory, "but there's something I have to do before I go back; pick something up."

"That's okay," he nods, "I s'pose I've got stuff to do too." He stares at me then, as if his time, measured and spent in exact and pre-ordained ways, is given at the expense of something else; something important even. I reach out my hand, laying it over his. If I were honest, I would admit I hadn't thought of him as being a busy person, I'd have thought he had all the time in the world.

"I like you Maggie. You know, really like you," he says unexpectedly.

"I know." I drop my gaze to our entwined fingers. I want to tell him I like him too, but I don't. Instead I strengthen my hold, waiting for something to happen.

"Can I see you, you know, later?" he asks me, almost at a whisper.

"Callum, I really don't -" I look up into his eyes and am shocked at the intensity.

"Look, I'll give you my number. If I don't answer, just leave a message." He pauses, searching through his pockets and pulls out a mini biro. "Here," he tears a layer off a beer mat and writes hurriedly before handing it over, "I'll call you back."

"I have to go," I say, stowing it in my bag, afraid that even in this God forsaken hole, someone I know will see me.

He pushes his chair back and stands. I am not sure if he means to stop me or simply make a gentlemanly gesture and overtaken by curiosity, I wait. "Bye Maggie," he leans forward and kisses my cheek.

"Good-bye Callum," I whisper, the words brushing his lips as I draw away.

Outside the dry-cleaners I fumble in my bag for the ticket, trying not to think about it, trying not to imagine what might have happened. Pushing my pocket diary to one side, I find it; not the answer, not the thing that will make everything all right again. I find the ticket.

"I'm sorry," the assistant apologises, "I can't find it. Do you know what it was your friend bought in?"

"No. I don't know," I complain, "a suit I think, a dark blue one." An idea occurs to me, not one I particularly relish, but needs must. I reach into my bag for my mobile phone. "Laurence? Hi, it's me. I'm at the dry cleaners." I wait while he interrupts, "well, I wish you'd told me." I cast an apologetic look at the assistant and cover the mouthpiece, "sorry," I say, "he says he's already picked it up." I walk out, my mobile still stuck to my cheek. "Well, that was embarrassing."

"I did try to call you."

"I had my mobile switched off."

Laurence let's out a heavy breath, "look, why don't you leave work early. I'll meet you at home and make it up to you."

I know what he means. It isn't just the dry cleaning, it's everything. "All right," I say, "I'll be there about five."

By the time I get home it is raining, that soft, persistent stuff that soaks you to the bone before you've even realised it.

Shaking my coat, I stand in the hall way and call his name. There is, as I always fear on these occasions, no answer. "Typical," I complain. "Not even here."

"Yes, I am."

He steps into view, his tall frame filling the living room door way. "I'm sorry Maggie," he offers me a gift enhanced hug; "it got a bit out of hand, didn't it?"

"It doesn't matter," I mutter into his chest, "it's all over now."

"Is there anything else I can get you Madam?" Laurence asks as I lie in my lavender scented heaven. "Do you need anything scrubbed?" He flashes his eyebrows suggestively and plunges his hand deep into the bubbles.

"Well," I sigh, feeling the brush of his hand against my knee, "it is rather lonely in here." I watch as he slides his shorts over his hips and steps carefully over the edge of the bath.

"Do you want to go out later?" he whispers, leaning forward to kiss me, "or maybe we could do something else."

Even though it is mostly in recognition, I smile, folding my legs beneath me so I am kneeling in front of him, "what did you have in mind?"

"Well, you could start with that potato sack of a bag of yours; I'm amazed you can find anything in there." He looks at me completely straight faced, so I cannot tell whether he means it or not. "Then maybe -"

I sigh and drop myself back on my heels, "yeah, maybe a spring clean is a good idea."

"Maggs, I'm joking," he smiles indulgently and beneath the foamy water I feel him reach for me, "you know I love you, even if you did forget my curry."

"I know," I reflect the warmth of his teasing smile and search deep into his eyes. What I see is a brash, enduring confidence, one that does not recognise opposition or failure. Even as it advances into blurred faith, I convince myself of its validity, trying, as I descend into acceptance, not to think of that scrap of the unknown in the bottom of my bag.