Page 105 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
Stayed over with Guy again last night, and at the weekend too. His wife’s therapist thinks it’s important for his wife’s self-actualisation that she should have the house to herself, at the weekend as well as during the week, to get used to life alone. He’s not, it transpires, a fan of the therapist. ‘I’m paying her, Alice. So I’ve effectively handed over thousands of pounds for her to kick me out of my own home. She’s a bloody shark in a cardigan.’ The upside is he’s been at the serviced apartment more than usual; we spent half of Sunday together. When I mentioned the situation between Aziz and Astrid to him, Guy was surprisingly thoughtful and said I may as well just stay with him and give them some space.
‘I hate it,’ I said. ‘Watching two people who were so close grow so far apart.’
‘That’s marriage for you,’ said Guy. ‘People change. They’ll either grow back together and be even stronger for it, or they won’t.’
‘Do you think you and your wife could grow back together?’ I asked casually. ‘With space?’
‘Christ, no,’ said Guy. ‘Those shoots have been well and truly cauterised. And I get enough ball-aches at work.’
He’s been increasingly stressed by the LL Group. He said the barrage of questions about his personal life was taking fucking liberties and that little shit Paul in HR had clearly shopped him in. ‘No, I haven’t gone on the Menopause Matters training. Why do I have to learn to manage my menopausal colleagues with respect and compassion? Why can’t my menopausal colleagues learn to be less fucking shouty and emotional?’
He said he was convinced someone had also mentioned that he’d slept with a ‘couple’ of women from work over the years. ‘The sad thing, Alice, is it makes you doubt people you thought were friends. I feel like I’ve got to watch my back all the time, now. At least I can trust you.’
My stomach shifted uncomfortably at that; I remembered everything I’d prattled on about to Matthew Lloyd when we went away, and hoped that it wasn’t me who’d inadvertently screwed over Guy.
He got quite drunk and maudlin and said that the tide had turned, just like his father had warned him it would. ‘I’ve got a horrible suspicion that being a white male who can speak properly and has a healthy sexual appetite puts me at a disadvantage in this day and age.’ He didn’t like Clare Atkins, either. ‘She’s got it in for me,’ he said. ‘Acts like I’m some kind of predator.’
‘You’re not going to lose your job, though, are you?’ I said. ‘Didn’t you go to school with half the shareholders?’
‘A couple. But a couple of others went to school with my wife, and she doesn’t just want the house – she’s made it clear she’s going to take me for everything I’ve got.’
‘Ah.’
‘Thing is, Alice,’ he said, ‘I beat budget by miles every year. Regardless of who I know or don’t know on the bloody board.’
Just as I was falling asleep, Guy said, ‘Alice, can you ask him?’
‘Who?’
‘Matthew.’
‘I’m not allowed to.’
‘At the end of the week when they’ve wrapped up. I’d like to know before everyone else knows. It will affect my divorce.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘If I see him.’
I doubt I will see Matthew Lloyd. He has managed to make sure our paths haven’t crossed for this entire time and they’re out of the offices on Friday. I’m looking forward to no longer having to listen to my colleagues losing it over how fit he is; they seem to have forgotten exactly why he’s in the building. I haven’t.
I just really hope Guy hasn’t been fired.
I am grateful for:
Guy letting me stay over more.
Date: Friday 24 MarchTime: 11.30pm
My thoughts and reflections:
When I sauntered into Astrid and Aziz’s kitchen at half past three this afternoon, I really did not expect to see Matthew Lloyd, or, to be fair, Astrid either. I didn’t expect to see anyone – in fact, I’d counted on it. But there they both were, sitting at the island.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Astrid.
Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who’d banked on having the house to myself.
‘Working-from-home-Friday-afternoon,’ I said. Then added for Matthew’s benefit, given the good-looking fucker could get me fired, whatever he claims: ‘Working-hard-from-home. Like always. Work, work, work.’
‘Looks like you’ve been shopping. And had your nails done,’ said Astrid.
