Looking for Andrew McCarthy

‘Shut up yourself,’ she yelled, snivelling. Unfortunately she wasn’t bleeding hard enough to go into his bedroom and do a Carrie imitation. She wiped herself with a dirty tissue and crawled back onto the bed, not noticing that the reason she had blood on her head was because she’d knocked the alarm clock off the bedside table. Lying back down, she dropped straight into a coma until the flat farting rev of her flatmate’s supposedly trendy scooter underneath her window woke her up at ten to nine.

‘Aargh,’ she yelped again, and leapt out of bed to look out of the window to try and work out what was going on.

‘Late for work again, Hedgehog? Not like you,’ shouted her big bastard landlord, a huge rugby player who was so muscular he couldn’t cross his own legs. Ellie was looking forward to his thirty-fifth birthday, when he would go to bed a brick shithouse and wake up morbidly obese. His hair was brown and stuck out persistently in different directions, despite his efforts to clamp it down with what Ellie fervently hoped was hair gel and not spit, and his face was permanently red.

She leaned out of the window. ‘Give me a lift on your scooter, Big Bastard.’

He snorted. ‘No chance. You are at least two hours off being ready and it’s morning traffic.’

‘Pleeease. I’ll do your ironing.’

He barked with laughter.

‘If I want fewer clothes I’ll give them to Oxfam, thanks.’

‘I hate you.’

‘I know, I’ve tasted your shepherd’s pie.’

‘I am thirty years old,’ Ellie rifled through her drawers, thinking. ‘And yet I do not appear to have a pair of unladdered tights. How can this be?’

‘Big Bastard!’ she hollered out of the window again. He was slipping his helmet on.

‘Ugh?’

‘Have you been stealing my tights for hilarious drunken pranks again?’

‘Guh … Yeah, I think so. We put one on Vince’s head for … ehm, some reason. Bloody funny though. Oh, and we took a pair of hold ups for Gaz’s stag. Oh, and that bet Willis had to put a pair on those monkeys at the safari park. And, ehm, Carmel borrowed a pair one morning. Oh, yeah, and I needed a pair to fix the car.’

Carmel was his dull girlfriend. Her only point of interest was that, as she was four foot eleven and Big Bastard was six foot four, people were always asking them how on earth they managed to have sex, as casually as if they were asking them if they wanted a cup of tea.

‘You are one big bastard,’ said Ellie.

‘Tough,’ he said. ‘Oh, and I need your rent and your share of the satellite TV.’

‘But I never watch the shagging satellite TV! You only use it for sport and women’s bosoms!’

‘Just write us a cheque, eh darling?’

‘Yeah, minus tight tax. Now I’m going to have to wear my white tights again.’

‘Nothing wrong with white tights.’

‘Yes, Big Bastard, but you think Jordan’s gorgeous. And please give me a lift.’

‘Phforr … Jordan. Sorry, what was that darling? No, I couldn’t possibly be seen out with someone in white tights.’

‘I hope you get run over by a lorry carrying really stinky chemicals that hurt you really badly and make you stink for the rest of your life. Even more than you do now. And maybe turn you purple.’ Ellie petered out, slamming down the window as Big Bastard completely ignored her.

‘Aha,’ she thought. ‘I’m thirty and even the quality of my insults is deteriorating year on year.’

Still, Big Bastard had been right about the ironing. Prodding desperately at a silk shirt that appeared to have taken on several different shades, Ellie cursed the entire institution. ‘In the future,’ she growled to herself, ‘ironing will be like dunking witches and bloodletting. They won’t have a bloody clue why anybody bothered.’

She turned the shirt over and groaned at the large water stain that appeared.

‘Along with commuting,’ she sighed, throwing on a jacket with only one button missing and diving for the door, stopping to scoop up a spoonful of the horrid brown supposedly athletic mush Big Bastard had left behind to cement itself to a bowl. ‘And breakfast cereal, probably. They’ll discover it on an archaeological dig and say “Well, we’ve analysed it, and it’s not food.”’

Ellie stormed out of the door, not even stopping to pick up her newly delivered copy of Smash Hits.

‘Miss Eversholt! How kind of you to join us.’

Ellie tried to smile without using her teeth. Her boss, Mr Rooney, was of the school headteacher sarcastic variety, but you didn’t have the option of sneering back at him or pretending you had your period as compensation. He was pink-eyed, with thinning red hair, and had suspiciously scrofulous looking skin.

‘Everyone, we can start now! Miss Eversholt has deigned to grace us with her presence.’

‘Sorry Mr Rooney. Sorry everyone.’

As usual, the rest of the surveying team looked at her with complete blankness. They always did this, as if they thought being Assistant Administrative Director of Business Development was in some way odd. Ellie hated her job. Beyond hated it. She’d liked the idea of it, but then her idea of it was kind of sexy architects crossed with sexy builders. This didn’t turn out to have a lot to do with what it was, which involved large numbers of protractors and lots of long division. And for some reason the men who worked in it seemed to be required by law to wear loads of pens clipped onto their top pockets, and great big shoes that looked like Cornish pasties.

‘Well, you’ll be glad to know we’ve got a new job in, and it’s going to be taking up lots of our time. They’re turning the old library into … anyone? Anyone?’

‘Don’t tell us, groovy new fake open-plan warehouse flats with fake wooden floors and metal sinks,’ Ellie muttered to the person sitting next to her who was wearing a polyester blouse and completely ignored her.

‘… a revolutionary evolution in inner city migration.’

‘Thought so,’ said Ellie, slugging back some more revolting polystyrene coffee.

‘Miss Eversholt, if you have anything to say, perhaps you’d like to share it with the rest of the group?’

‘No Mr Rooney.’

‘And are you chewing?’

‘No Sir,’ she said. That wasn’t true. There was an undislodgeable and inedible piece of Brantastic stuck to the roof of her mouth.

‘Well, I need a volunteer to dig up the archived Victorian plans … anyone? Anyone?’

There was silence.

‘Ellie, why don’t you take that on?’

This was the filthiest job possible and usually meant several sixteen-hour days in a locked windowless basement, which was good if you were a method actor researching a play about the Beirut hostages, but not particularly useful for anything else.

‘Sir, how can I look for things down at the library when you’re converting all the libraries?’

‘Don’t play smart mouth with me young lady. Now, any other business?’

Ellie sighed and ate another fusty custard cream. Rooney & Co. specialized in ripping the guts out of proper, useful buildings and turning them into Lifestyles for young single professionals; identical rough-walled wanker machines that sold for hundreds of thousands of pounds. As well as it being horribly dull, Ellie always had the sneaking feeling that there was something actually totally wrong with what she was doing, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Arthur had patiently explained it was post-modern and at least they weren’t ripping up the countryside, but the niggling feeling remained, alongside the budding repetitive strain injury.