Newham Writers Workshop Anthology 1998

		Frances Gow I have been coming to the workshop for about four years. I have spent the best part of this year working on a novel, some of which I have already read in the workshop. I hope to have the first draft completed by the time this goes to print. The following piece is an extract of that novel. Nothing Is Forever - Chapter Three The walls are grey, the floor is grey, the desks are grey, even the people are grey. I hate office parties. Especially when I hardly know anyone here and there is not a single interesting person in the room to talk to. The only attempt to brighten up the room is a few faded paper chains and a banner that looks like computer paper with a printout, saying "Good luck, Tony". Well, good luck and fuck off, whoever you may be. Bah humbug; I hate office parties. ".cannot have machine consciousness without human perception-" "I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?" The grey face looks blankly at me and I wonder if he has realised that I have not been listening to a word he has been saying for the last half an hour. He has not been talking to me, so much as, at me. He hesitates for a moment before replying. "Err, Tony. Tone, you can call me Tone, err Raye, isn't it?" I nod and smile with watery thin enthusiasm. "Right. Raye. Interesting name. I suppose your dad wanted a boy, eh?" He seems to find this enormously funny and it is my turn to look blank. "No." "Righto. Anyway, what was I saying? Ah. artificial intelligence as a dependent consciousness." This must be the wanker that all this effort is in aid of. I look around the room, desperate for some kind of distraction but Danny is indulging in chatting up all his colleagues' wives and girlfriends who look as equally grey as their partners. I turn my attention back to our host who has launched into another speech about something I have absolutely no interest in whatsoever. He has this bizarre manner of speaking which makes it impossible to tell if he is actually addressing you or someone else over your shoulder or across the room. His eyes, a sort of greyish green, float upwards and his eyelids close and flicker every so often so it looks as if he is in the midst of a concentrated stretch of REM. Apart from the grey featureless expressions, he sports an unflattering pair of square black-rimmed specs, which remind me of two miniature televisions. As his eyes flutter open and closed, my vision is absorbed by the two black spots in the centre of the screens surrounded by a grey fuzziness, and for a moment all I can hear is the hiss of interference in the background. The low hum of voices around me mingles into one single transmission as I stare in wonder at the technological brilliance of my discovery. A TV screen in a pair of specs. I could watch something as equally mind-numbingly boring as that which this fatuous git is trying to tell me. "-which is, I suppose, more a sociological than a technological trend. are you OK?" I suddenly get the full glare of his unflustered gaze eyeballing me through those black square rims and I jolt back a step in surprise. "Err, I don't suppose you've got anything stronger, have you?" I ask, holding out my empty wineglass. He nods approvingly and makes straight for the bar, which is a corner desk on the other side of the room, stacked with a variety of bottles and cans. He winks at me over his shoulder, nearly bumping into someone in the process. "Don't go away now, I haven't got to the best bit yet." Oh God. I wonder if it would look too conspicuous if I spent the rest of the evening in the Ladies. I get waylaid by Danny before I manage to make my exit. He practically drags me across the room to introduce me to another bunch of grey faces one of which is introduced as Marshall who, I gather from the occasions Danny has spoken of him, is the manager of this particular department. Danny drops me into the conversation as quickly as possible before picking up the trail of yet another office boy's bimbo. He gives me a studious glance over his shoulder, which I can only translate as "you can't be nice enough to Marshall, short of screwing the guy". Thanks a bunch, Dan. "Not drinking, Raye?" says Marshall with a look of reproach. Then a clammy hand slips onto my shoulder and Tony thrusts a large tumbler of whiskey into my grasp. I sigh with relief. "Cheers," I gasp and lift the hand from my shoulder by the little finger and let it drop. Before Tony has a chance to resume our earlier conversation I try to strike up some kind of rapport with Marshall. "So, Marshall. How long have you worked here?" His face lights up and I can see that this is the kind of question he has been waiting all evening for someone to ask. And I don't think that Tony is going to get a look in, as Marshall launches into a lengthy r‚sum‚ of his career to date. I suddenly spy my salvation sitting on the edge of a desk, nursing a tumbler of something amber and watching me with an amused look on his face. Unfortunately for me, I am trapped; pinned down by the verbal antics of Marshall's years as a junior office boy. How long it will take him to reach his current position in the company, I would not like to speculate, but I surmise that I must come up with some feasible plan of action to excuse myself from this sleep enhancing monologue. Until that moment, I had not noticed this man in the room, and now I cannot look anywhere except where he is sitting. His face is so radiant compared to the rest of this bunch, that I can hardly believe he is alone and no one is paying him the slightest bit of attention. One of the bimbo wives saunters past him on the way to the bar and does not acknowledge his existence, despite the fact that he is following her with his eyes, and moves into the wake of her path to get a better look at her figure. He moves out of the way just in time to avoid a collision with the bimbo's other half, who totters along behind carrying the empty glasses. The husband stops for an instant and looks over his shoulder. He appears to be staring straight at this colourful young man who has just lit up my view of the office, then he shakes his head as though dismissing a crazy thought and scampers after his wife. The young man turns his attention back to me, notices me watching and lifts his glass to say "cheers" then downs the drink in one. All around me I can hear the chatter of conversation like a background hum and the unceasing sharpness of Marshall's voice coupled with ums and ahs coming from Tony in the appropriate pauses but on top of this there is something else. Something that I cannot equate with what is going on in this room. It is a sort of low pitched tune to the words of pah pa pah pa pa, like someone singing under their breath. I am watching this man carefully. His lips move in time with the noise, but the noise seems to be coming from all around and even if he was singing, I ought not be able to hear him from that distance. He looks at me again and grins. He actually looks remarkably like Danny when we first met. Not classically good looking but charming in his own way and oozing empathy. It does make me wonder what happened to that man I fell in love with. I look at Danny now and see a completely different picture. I turn my gaze away, nod a few times at Marshall just to let him think I am still listening, then briefly scan the room. There is Danny, by the bar, putting on the charm for some other unsuspecting woman. Perhaps that is it; he just turned down the volume on his charm after the initial challenge had diminished. I have been put out to pasture, in order to amuse his colleagues while he can amuse himself by bolstering an ageing ego. The tune is beginning to dominate every other sound in the room and I am forced to look up and around in confusion, searching for the source. Once again I meet that young man's eye and he starts to mouth the words of a song to me, accompanied by a cheeky lilting melody. Now I know that I have to get away from Marshall and his cronies. I am entranced by this performance and can only think that he is somehow adept at throwing his voice, impossible as that may seem. I look up suddenly at Marshall. "Stop!" I put up my hand, as though in surrender. He has a startled look on his face but he stops talking. The instant he ceases rambling, the song in my head stops playing. I look wildly around me then laugh nervously. "I've just remembered something." I thrust my glass into Marshall's hands slopping whiskey down his shirt and dart out of the room towards the Ladies. Tony's voice is audible, a little too audible perhaps, as he reassures Marshall. "Women's things, I expect." He waits for me in the corridor outside. Eyes sharp and focused, cheek bones prominent, a slanting nose and wild. beautiful wild dark hair. I am astonished now at how much he resembles a younger Danny. He is dressed casually, unlike the rest of the office workers who have already done a day's work. Besides, he doesn't look like the type who would work here, but then I remember thinking the same of Dan when I was first introduced to the "office". "How did you.?" He smiles. Help. "I had to see you." His voice is like a perfect song; that moment of utter joy when all you can do is turn up the volume, tip back your head and cry, "yes!" The hubbub of party noise has diminished and faded into an unfortunate memory, filed under "access only if absolutely necessary". I am entranced. But now comes the paradox of every first encounter like this, when everything seems right; the chemistry, the looks, the opportunity; all I can do is shuffle my feet nervously and wonder what to say next. "You, err, work here then?" Dumb, boring, stupid grey question. Of course he works here, what else would he be doing here? "No." He says it so casually that I am momentarily startled. "Oh. Why?" Damn it, how old am I? Now he probably knows I spend the best part of my time with no one to talk to but my five year old son. "I had to see you. Sorry to drop in on you again like this. Now I feel that I know you a little better, I can present a more acceptable fa‡ade. Do you like it?" I stare blankly at him. The excitement, I felt just a moment ago, is escaping fast, like someone has just burst my fantasy balloon and I am starting to deflate. I am starting to deflate. I realise suddenly what a horrible mistake I have made and the immediate response is to take flight. But I remember only too clearly the tricks he played on me before and I'm painfully aware of the sudden stillness in the air and the lack of party atmosphere in the building. "Perhaps we could start all over again. My name is Robert and I'm most pleased to meet you at last, Raye." Well, at least his speech has improved since the last time we met. He holds his hand out to me. I take it reluctantly. "You're warm." I turn his hand over in my own and trace the bluish line of his veins with my forefinger. That rush of energy that I first felt when he spoke to me comes exploding back into my body and the tips of my fingers start to tingle. I have to withdraw, suddenly abashed at the emotional turmoil that is swirling around inside me. I am reduced to the silly girl stage of teenage years when you are just discovering the wonders of the opposite sex. But how can he know, how can he understand? He is not even. A snapshot memory flashes across my mind of the silvery substance that this man, or creature, or whatever, is really made of. I have a thousand questions to ask, but hardly know where to start, so I just stand there staring like a dumbstruck groupie before a pop idol. He makes a move towards me and I can feel the warmth of his aura as he steps into my personal space. "What about.?" "The party? Don't worry, they won't miss you." He wraps his arms around me and I dissolve into his embrace.