Elisabeth spent the rest of the day glancing from the digital clock above the desk to the clock at the bottom of her screen, from the time on her phone to that on her watch and back again. She knew she wasn't being the least bit productive but she also knew she had to stick it out until market close, which meant that Mike would almost certainly succeed in cornering her at reception. She thought of using her still very real headache as an excuse to bump off early, but in the end she waited until ten to five before packing her coat pockets. Even so, Willy Wanker raised an eyebrow at the time on the ticker tape as she walked past his desk on her way out. She ignored him and hurried away.

As soon as she stepped out of the lift doors on the ground floor she scanned the reception area and she saw him. Mike was leaning against the counter, all easy nonchalance as he chatted with one of the security guards. She froze while half a dozen other early leavers exited the lift and brushed past her towards the turnstiles. Was that a red rose in Mike's hand? Oh, mercy! Since when did Mike believe in buying flowers?

The lift doors started to close again behind her just as Mike turned to check the crowd clearing the turnstiles. He caught her eye and her blood froze. She threw herself back into the recess of the lift doors, praying for them to re-open soon. Her heart was pounding in her chest but her brain reminded her that she was safe as long as she stayed behind the turnstiles. He didn't have a swipe-card, OK? He couldn't get in here. She was safe.

Only how would she get out now? She was too proud – and far too exhausted- to contemplate heading back up to the desk and hiding there all night. The lift doors opened unexpectedly behind her and she tumbled in, smashing right into Toad's PalmPilot.

'I'm so sorry...' she started, breathless with panic, as he stepped around her with a tut.

Elisabeth leant back against the side of the lift to let the rest of the people out.

'Forgot something, Elisabeth?' the last guy asked before he left.

'Hmm?'

She knew he was from the UNIX team, i.e. the people in charge of the really big computers she played with all day, but her brain was in no condition to recall his name. The doors were about to close on him so he pressed the "Doors Open" button. The doors re-opened with a loud ping, and Elisabeth had a Eureka moment:

'Thank you!' she cried, shoving him out of her way to press "B".

She'd only been down to the basement once before, with the very same UNIX guy. He'd insisted on taking her to see the new machine he'd been configuring for the research team. She had felt neither the need nor the inclination for the visit at the time, but she'd indulged him because he was pretty generous with disk-space every time she ran out, so he deserved to be kept sweet.

The basement held the vast secure server room that Elisabeth had then visited, the post room, print room and, more importantly, her escape route: the loading bay. Now all she had to do was remember the way there. She left the lift and half-ran down dimly lit corridors. There were no purple carpet squares down here, but instead a streaky linoleum in greyish white. It made each of Elisabeth's nervous steps echo under the harsh neon light. She came to a dead-end right of the server room, turned back, went past it again and found the post room down the end of another long corridor. That corridor then made another three bends before stopping by the print room. She turned back, walked past the post room again and came to a t-junction. With no windows to the outside she had no idea by then which way she might be heading, so she went left and came to another dead end by some showers she didn't even know existed.

A door burst open in front of her and she jolted back as a big white portfolio manager with a tiny black rucksack emerged, ready for his jog home.

'You heading for the loading bay?' she asked, trying to keep her eyes on his face rather than on the fat hairy legs sticking out of inappropriately small running shorts.

He nodded and she followed him. Soon she saw daylight ahead and the fat portfolio manager ran off without a word. She watched him go and breathed a sigh of relief. The evening air was cool. Without thinking she started to run too, down the narrow strip of pavement skirting the back of the building. She had to lean to round the sharp corner Westward onto the main road, but by then she was no longer jogging, she was running as one runs for the last night-bus home. She ran on with all she had, her arms swinging far ahead of her as the beat of her boots on the pavement scattered oncoming commuters. She thought fleetingly how horrified Jane or Charlotte would be by such lack of decorum, and ran on faster. She followed her bus route the wrong way, figuring that even if Mike had twigged by now, he would never look for her South of here. She passed one then another bus stop, her heart beating almost as hard as her heels on the ground, her cheeks flushed red. She crossed the Thames at London Bridge, still running. Bright City lights were twinkling against darkening skies both sides of the river and that, too, was breath-taking. She ran on, away from Mike, and from Andy too. Away from Willy Wanker and Toad and from every other jerk in that office. All this hard breathing was beginning to clear her head. She could see the next bus stop over the river: she may be out of breath but she still wasn't quite out of anger so she picked up her pace, enjoyed a final sprint, and then stopped.

XXX

She slammed her front door behind her an hour later, hung her raincoat on one of the pegs in the tiny hall, and smiled at armless, body-painted Brenda. By the half-finished plate of cheese on toast on the kitchen counter she could tell Ben was home, but the lounge was empty and the TV, mercifully, off. She switched the kettle on and sunk down into the sofa, contemplating the disaster that had been her day.

'Hello…' she spoke into the phone, which for once had had the good grace to ring at a convenient time, just as she was rising to pick up the boiled kettle.

'Hi.'

'Hi ..?'

'Hi'

(sigh) 'Hi…'

'Hi!'

'OK very funny, Tom, I give up. How are you doing tonight? Apart from facetiously, that is.'

'I never cease to admire your command of our language, Elisabeth.'

'It's not your language. I'm British too, remember.'

'I said 'our', not 'my'.'

'But you meant 'my'.'

'I do beg your pardon, and I am bearing admirably well, under the circumstances.'

'Good.'

'And how are you then, apart from grumpy?'

'Well, a bit pissed off, yes, since you ask. And knackered. Do you want to talk to Ben? I think he's in.'

'Well,' he repeated, aping her intonation, then left a pause, 'Do you want to talk to me?'

'Technically, I'm doing that already.'

'Cop out.'

'Fair cop.'

'Do you?'

'What?'

'Want to speak with me? Banter. Chat. Have a conversation. Might cheer me up.'

'I thought you said you didn't need cheering up. I thought you said you were fine.'

'I said I was bearing admirably well under the circumstances. That's not the same.'

'I see. I thought you were just being flowery. My mistake. What's wrong? Tell me, it might distract me – Schadenfreude and all that.'

'You speak German too?'

'Some.'

'I see. Like you speak some French and some English?'

'No, a lot less than that. But I do know some poems…'

'They have poems?'

'They have wonderful romantic poets. It's not as ugly as you think, German, it scans really well.'

'I'm sure you're right. Out of curiosity: do you speak German with a French accent or an English one?'

'I speak German with a middle-class, middle Ruhr accent if you must know. And anyway, why are we talking about my German? I thought you were going to distract me with your tales of woe. What's up?'

'I miss Sara.'

'I see.'

'Hmmm, not sure you do.'

'Well, no, you're right, actually. You haven't told me much about her. Could you describe her to me?'

In her experience star-crossed lovers never needed much encouragement to go on about their beloved, but Tom was silent for a bit.

Elisabeth crossed her legs under her on the sofa and leant back. Not ten minutes ago she was still so stressed out she still hadn't caught her breath. And now here she was, so busy trying to picture the mythical Sara that she'd forgotten not just all about Mike, but even about getting on with dinner.

'I can't describe Sara,' Tom said gravely. 'Sara is far too great a thing to be summed up in terms of mere hair colour and noses and eyes and limbs.'

'I'm sure she is, Tom, but it's a start. How many noses exactly does she have, for instance?'

'Just the one.'

'Excellent. What else?'

'I told you, she's not just...'

'OK then, I'll ask questions. A bit like playing Who is it? Is she tall?'

'No.'

'Ickle?'

'Not really. Just not tall.'

'Blonde?'

' 'ish.'

'Natural?'

'Yeeeess.'

'Moustache? Glasses? Hat? Umbrella?'

'No, no and occasionally...'

'Oh good, we're getting somewhere now, you're laughing. Let's carry on: is she…' she paused for inspiration, still no closer in her mind to a picture of the mythical Sara. Though it was proving a great distraction from thinking about Mike, somehow Elisabeth was finding this little game irritating in its own way:

'Is she very clever?' she asked.

'Not as clever as you, no.'

'That's OK, I am uncommonly clever,' she replied with bravado. Where Sara was concerned all she felt was uncommonly puzzled.

'I know. Everyone knows you're clever,' Tom said, aping her again, which he did very well.

'That's the way I like it.'

'Good for you then.'

'OK, so not that clever. Oh I know! She must be beautiful. Or at least you must think so. Eye of the beholder and all that.'

'Yes. No. I mean she's not nearly the most beautiful woman I know.'

'So she must be very very good at something.'

'Yeeees,' he laughed again.

'Don't tell me, don't tell me. She's really really good at:'

'Go on, say it!'

'Singing!'

'Yes!' he laughed again, 'That too: how did you know?'

'I didn't. So what does she do?'

'Not much. Paint. Sculpt some. Occasionally sleep with me.'

'I see. An 'aartiiiste' as my dear brother calls them when he's mocking me.'

'Hey?'

'Can't blame you, Tom. I fell for that one too.'

'Did you?'

'Back to Sara, please. Who does she do? Is that what you're bearing with so admirably?'

'Bingo, and her gallery owner.'

'Ooooh, that hurts! I can only assume he's old and pompous and ugly and ever so much more successful than you.'

'You put it so nicely…'

'It's a compliment. You're neither old nor ugly. And only a little pompous.'

'Thanks. I feel better already.'

'Anytime. So we have a blondish artiste of middling height and average intelligence, who's very good at singing, and who's left you for a gallery owner. I gather this not the first time she's left you?'

'No, but we've never not got back together.'

Elisabeth heard him sigh and paused for thought:

'Well, give it time?'

'I have.'

'I see.' She thought again. 'Go see her?'

'I have.'

'And?'

'And we didn't. That's what's not right. There's no one I haven't been unfaithful to with Sara, and there's no one she hasn't been unfaithful to with me.'

Elisabeth took a moment to process the triple negative, and to try and form some numerical estimate of how many people Tom and Sara might have messed up between the two of them.

'Apart from the gallery owner,' she concluded, then thought, and added more kindly: 'So far.'

'I guess,' he sighed.

She sighed back, thinking of Tom in one of the dingy rooms in that house in Oxford, mourning his lost love, or lust, or habitual "bit on the side" or whatever Sara was to him. Yes, whatever Sara was, and she had a feeling it might not be anything that she, Elisabeth Bennet, would approve of, Tom seemed to care an awful lot about her. So much for cheering him up then:

'I'm sorry,' she said at last, and bit her lip.

'What do you mean? That game was supposed to cheer you up, remember? Where's your Schadenfreude now? I was promised some Schadenfreude and some good German verse.'

'Right!' she said, only too glad to change subjects, 'Listen up:

Ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten, dass ich so traurig bin

Ein Maerchen aus uralten Zeiten, dass kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn...'

'Shit, so you weren't kidding either. Or are you making it up?'

'I'm not.'

'What does it mean?'

'I don't know what it means …'

'Bullshit, I knew it! Gobbledegook: doesn't even sound German.'

'No, it means "I don't know what it means, that I should feel so sad. A tale from olden times, which I can't get out of my head".'

'Oh I see. That's strangely appropriate.'

'Indeed. It's appropriate to quite a lot, you'll find. Easy to place in conversation. But just these few lines. They scan nicely too, don't you think?'

'Go again.'

She obliged, this time much more self-consciously, hence with less fluency.

'We should make a song out of them.'

'Sorry, but you might find Liszt beat you to it.'

'Who?'

'Franz Liszt? Bloke with a piano? Oh never mind.'

He laughed.

'Sorry, can't seem to stop bringing up your band.'

'So go on, what's down with you then?'

She hesitated:

'Hmmm, are you sure you wouldn't rather speak to Ben? I think I can hear him.'

'Naaa, I'd rather speak to you, or rather you speak to me now,' he said, as Elisabeth saw first Ben's broad face and shoulders, then his slender body, appear through the living room door. He gave her a surprised look, until he twigged that she was talking to the phone rather than to herself. He tip-toed to the counter, picked up his cheese on toast and made to leave, still without a word.

'Ben?'

'Yes?'

'Leave him alone! Speak to me! I'll talk to him later!' came Tom's voice from the receiver, which she was now holding at arm's length.

'Do you want to use the telly or anything?' she asked Ben with a headshake at the phone. Ben looked at her and at the handset, which was still talking at her.

'No.'

Exit Ben, bearing cheese on toast.

'Has he gone?' Tom started again.

'Yes, and I'm back on, so no need to shout.'

'Sorry.'

' 's OK.'

'Good. So go on, what's bugging you? Is business down at the mini-millinery?'

'The what?'

'Where your colleagues trade their little hats and swaption the oil stocks and...'

'...discuss their blow jobs from the receptionist?' Elisabeth cut in. 'Tom, have I ever told you about our Sarah, at the office?'

'Don't think so. I'd definitely have remembered, if she's that friendly.'

'Oh, rumour has it she gets very friendly with a lot of people,' Elisabeth sighed.

She heard Tom blow out some smoke and was seized by a violent urge to light up too. She'd only kicked a twenty-a-day habit on the day she'd flown to New York, and experience had shown that if anything nicotine withdrawal is an excellent distraction from lovesickness. But though those days were long gone, and she nowadays considered herself a casual passive-aggressive smoker, tonight it was good that with Mac gone there was no longer any tobacco kicking about the sofa.

'Do they talk about blow jobs a lot then, your lot?' Tom asked with unfeigned interest.

'Not just blow jobs: sex in general. I don't know why I had to let it get to me today.'

'Gosh, yes, I don't know why, re-uh-lly,' he said, switching into Royal Family English. She smiled, and he carried on back in his usual voice: ''cos girls love that kind of talk, right?'

'Oh in porno movies, yes, I'm sure all the hot lesbian quant girls do.'

'So hang on: these guys sell fish all day, and then they have blow jobs and chat about it and get paid vast sums of money? It sounds like a nice gig, are you sure I couldn't...'

She almost laughed out loud: Tom? On the desk? It was the funniest thing she'd heard in ages:

'OK, Tom, I told you: it's a relationship-based business, open to alpha males and a very few alpha females only. You and I would never cut it.'

'Speak for yourself, I'm alpha male!'

'Oh are you now? D'ye even play rugby? Did you row for college?'

'Does getting trampled during Gaelic football count?'

' 'fraid not. Golf? D'ye even run?'

'What?'

'See! I told you: not a chance, sorry. But didn't you read engineering?'

'I did.'

'You could try for a quant.'

'Doesn't sound as much fun.'

'You're right. But I'm not doing it for fun, remember? Some of us actually need the money.'

He made no reply.

'But hey, grand scheme of things, it's not like I'm busting cockroaches for my living either. I'm sorry I'm in such a grumps - d'ye want to talk to Ben?'

'In a while, plenty of time. He never goes anywhere on a Wednesday.'

'OK,' she said, racking her brain for places to take the conversation.

'And you haven't told me about Mike.'

'That would be because I don't want to tell you about Mike.'

'Why not?'

' 'cos I know you'll just make fun of him, which far too easy and hence not entirely fair.'

Tom did not contradict.

'...even though he did just practically stalk me out of the office.'

'What? I thought you'd auto-deleted the poor sod out of your life?'

'Well, Microsoft can only do so much. He called.'

'You should have put the receiver down: it hangs up.'

'Thank you! In fact I might do that right now if you don't stop taking the piss.'

'Don't! You'd regret it.'

She begun to smile.

'Sorely,' he added, and her smile got broader.

'Besides, hanging up the phone is a lot less effective when people call in person.'

'What?' he asked, and choked on his own smoke so that his chuckle ended in a racking cough.

'He showed up at reception, bearing a single red rose...'

Tom's laugh rose on the other end of the line before ending in another coughing fit.

'So I rrrrran out of zee loading bay,' she concluded, hiding her shame, as she often did, behind a comedy French accent. Tom's laugh went up a pitch again, and she briefly found herself joining in, but it didn't last:

'I shouldn't laugh,' she said.

'Why ever not? I'd never heard you laugh before. You have a great laugh, Zab.'

'Thanks. But it's not fair to Mike, really.'

'Why not?'

'Because he's a good bloke, and he didn't deserve any of this.'

'Sounds to me like he's a sad stalker who did and does deserve every bit of it.'

'I don't mean today. I mean he didn't deserve me deserting him in the first place. Or cheating on him.'

'With the artist?'

'Precisely.'

'Though in fairness his sister was and still is a witch, and to listen to him I was an unhealthy cook who made him fat, and then of course I did this deeply objectionable job.'

'That I can sort of...'

'And I never listened to him.'

'Hmmm yes, clearly. So he must have been good at something, right? Was he really good at singing?'

'Rubbish at singing, but he was alright in the sack if that's what you were really asking.'

'Wow, OK.'

'Sorry, it's that trading desk.'

'No no keep it up, I love the dirty talk. Things never gets this interesting with Ben.'

'That's probably healthy. But seriously, I don't know what's wrong with me: Mike's a really good bloke, you know. I see my friend Jane, married to my nice-but-useless brother, and having to do everything around the house. Whereas Mike used to clean and tidy up and get on with the DIY. Fully house trained, just a nice guy, you know?'

'Hang on, isn't "nice" girl-speak for boring as hell? Fess up: he's boring as hell, isn't he?'

'He's not!'

Elisabeth stopped and frowned to herself as she realised that Tom might in fact have a point. In retrospect the one thing she'd enjoyed above everything else in the States, above even the endless free coffee refills and the generous size of the pancake stacks, had been making new friends. At last in New York there had been some new people in her life which, she now realised, there hadn't been these last four years. I.e. not since moving in with Mike.

Looking back, those years living with him had been so filled with sanding, painting and trips to Ikea that everything in their life had remained unchanged, save for their wall colours and soft furnishings. And whilst striving in vain to become Mike's domestic goddess Elisabeth had all but forgotten who she'd been to start with.

Yet to sit here slagging him off with Tom for a bit of fun was not fair either. It seemed needlessly bitchy, and didn't do justice to what love had been there between them, at least to begin with.

'I just wish I might have been less cruel to him.'

'Bullshit, I bet you enjoyed it.'

'What?! Of course not! How can you say that?'

'You protest too much for a start.'

'Of course I do! I hate seeing him suffer, I'm a kind person!'

'Are you?'

'I think I am.'

'Really?'

'Really, I am!'

'Can't see it. Unless your French idea of kind is to sleep around with aartiiistes?'

'Oh you're the one to talk! You don't seem to mind sleeping around with the one aartiiste anyway.'

'Bull. Shit.'

'What?'

'You're not kind, Zab. You're tough, you're clever, and a lot of things besides, but you're not kind.'

'Well you're not exactly being kind either.'

'Hey, never said I was!'

'Indeed. Well let me put you through to Ben, then.'

This time she ignored his protestations and got up to go and to hand the phone over to Ben. By the time she got back to the lounge her smile had vanished again and she let out a small, weary sigh. Was it possible that Tom had a point, and that she secretly enjoyed hurting Mike?

What did that make her?

Nothing to be proud of, for sure. She started making dinner, but Ben re-emerged before the water was even boiling for her pasta.

'So you're OK with Tom staying over, then?' he asked while he replaced the handset onto its base on the kitchen wall.

'What?'

'Tom, he said he'd talked to you about coming to stay in Mac's room Friday night.'

'Sure, I don't mind.' she said with a shrug.

Copyright Mel Liffragh 2021, all rights reserved

Glossary:
The ticker tape is a long black rectangular display screen hung above the trading desk. It shows a scrolling display of index and stock prices on various international markets. Nowadays you could get that sort of info on your phone screen whenever and wherever you liked, but back in 1999 you'd not have found a digital ticker tape outside a trading desk.
For a full history see: Ticker Tape ( )