Three Things About Elsie(47)

Miss Bissell would try to talk her out of it, of course. She had even tried to talk herself out of it. She had tried to rearrange her existence to make it more appealing. She had wandered around IKEA, and trespassed in make-believe rooms, filled with carefully tousled bedsheets and empty breakfast trays. A little series of worlds, inhabited by absent families, who lived laundered, stainless-steel lives. She had once taken a book from one of the shelves. It was hollow cardboard. Still, she had filled her car boot with potted plants and scatter cushions, to layer over the Cherry Tree beige, but they sat in her apartment and watched her like hostages.

When that didn’t work, Miss Ambrose had joined a gym. She had run away from herself on a treadmill and sweated out the very essence of herself on a cross trainer, and then she had walked through department-store beauty halls, past the rows of painted faces, trying to pick which one she might like to become. At one counter, she had been persuaded into an expensive lipstick, in the hope that it might transform her into someone else, but when she put it on, she discovered that she was still only Miss Ambrose, but wearing an expensive lipstick and thirty pounds out of pocket. She had even decided to call herself Ms Ambrose. The only problem was, most of the residents couldn’t understand what they were supposed to be saying, and the few who did made her sound like an angry wasp.

The only thing left was her job.

She turned her head, in the hope that her CV might look more attractive from a forty-five-degree angle.

‘You want to watch yourself. Sixty-three per cent of people experience neck strain from using a computer.’

‘Simon.’ Miss Ambrose straightened her neck and tried to click out of the screen, but it was too late. Simon was leaning over her shoulder and pointing.

‘What did you do in 1997?’ he said.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You don’t want to leave big gaps like that, it makes people nervous.’

‘Simon, was there something you wanted?’

He sat in the chair opposite and pulled out his notebook. ‘This,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure what I should be writing in it.’

‘Anything you find suspicious.’

‘I find most things suspicious, if I stare at them for long enough,’ he said.

‘Then go with your instinct.’ Miss Ambrose gave a small sigh. ‘Your gut feelings.’

‘I’m not sure my guts have any feelings.’ Simon examined his belly. ‘I tend to think about something before I make my mind up. For quite a while,’ he said. ‘Weeks, sometimes.’

‘Do you never make quick decisions?’

He shook his head.

‘Never?’ said Miss Ambrose.

Simon looked down again. ‘I went on a day trip once. Caught the first train out of the station without checking where it was going.’

‘And?’ Miss Ambrose held her breath.

‘Ended up in the railway sidings. It was three hours before they found me.’

‘Simon …’

‘I came out in a rash.’

Miss Ambrose tried to find a sentence, but she couldn’t decide on all of the words.

‘Is that what you’re doing now?’ He nodded at the computer screen. ‘Going with your gut instinct?’

She looked back at the CV. ‘I suppose I am,’ she said. ‘Although I’m not even sure what my gut is telling me either.’

‘What kind of job do you want?’

‘Something interesting,’ said Miss Ambrose. ‘Something where I can make a difference.’

‘Retail can be quite interesting.’

‘I want to make a difference, though.’ Miss Ambrose twisted the back of her earring.

‘Try going into a shop with nothing on the shelves.’

She looked around the office. ‘I think I’m in a bit of a rut. I feel exhausted just being me.’

‘I was exhausted being in the railway sidings. Perhaps that’s the problem.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I wasn’t being me,’ he said. ‘I was trying to be someone else.’

‘I’m not even sure who I am, Simon. And I don’t know where to start looking.’ Miss Ambrose studied herself in Times New Roman. ‘I used to be so definite about what I wanted. So certain. Now I’m not even sure who Miss Ambrose is any more.’

Simon didn’t speak for a while. Instead, he brushed at the fluff on the sleeve of his shirt. When he did reply, he replied softly. ‘My granddad always said …’ His words tailed off into the distance.

‘What? What did your granddad always say?’

Simon coughed. ‘My granddad always said, who you are is the difference you make in the world.’

Miss Ambrose frowned at the computer screen.

She was still frowning when she heard Simon cough.

‘About this, then?’ He held up the notebook. ‘What do you think I should do?’

‘What does your …’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘… heart tell you, Simon? What do you think is going on?’

Simon took a very large breath. ‘I think Florence is frightened,’ he said. ‘She spends half her time sitting on the benches in the courtyard. She’s as white as a sheet. She doesn’t even argue with people any more.’