Free A Thousand Cuts by Simon Lelic

desk who did not have to be. She thought about this for a moment. She thought about going to the pub, not doing it, more the concept: going to the pub. She thought about the last time she had gone to the pub in the manner the phrase implied, not as an event she would dither over and dress up for and look forward to. Be let down by.
    She thought about calling her father but doubted she had the right number. It was a better excuse than others she had used. She could call her mother. She should call her mother. But the thought of doing so made her feel tired. It made her feel more alone, somehow, than she already felt.
    That was unfair. Probably she was being unfair. She was tired already and she was tense and she could hardly blame someone to whom she had not spoken in a month. Talking might help, she told herself. It should help.
    She picked up the phone and dialled.
    ‘Mum. Hi.’
    ‘Lucia. It’s you. I was thinking it would be your father. This is just the sort of time he would phone.’
    ‘It’s late. I’m sorry. I thought you’d be up.’
    ‘I am up. But that’s not the point. The point is, he wouldn’t care if I were up or not. He’d just call and expect me to answer.’
    ‘I’ll call back. I’ll call you in the morning.’
    ‘No, no, no. It’s you. You’re not him. You can call any time, you know that. My, but it is late. What’s happened? Has something happened?’
    ‘No, nothing’s happened. I’m fine. I just called because, well. It’s been a while, that’s all.’
    ‘Has it? I suppose it has. But the phone rings these days and it’s like someone’s jumped out at me from behind the sofa. Because when he’s desperate he doesn’t let up. He doesn’t give me a moment’s rest.’
    ‘You know why he does it, Mum. You shouldn’t encourage him.’
    ‘I have to give him something just so he’ll leave me in peace. If I didn’t, he’d end up on my sofa. Or I’d end up on the sofa, more likely, and he’d take over my bed. And then he’d never go. I’d never get rid of him.’
    ‘You can’t afford it, Mum. And you shouldn’t encourage him.’
    ‘He has a plan, though. He tells me he has a plan. The debt - he says there are no debts. He’s starting at zero, he says, but he’s looking up now and he just needs something to get him started. A step up.’
    ‘A step up?’
    ‘I’m his stepladder. That’s what he says to me. We had thirteen years of marriage and still that’s all I am to him. Ironmongery. ’
    ‘He hasn’t got a plan, Mum. He never has a plan.’
    ‘Talking of marriage, darling, how’s David? Is he there? Let me speak to him.’
    ‘Mum. I told you about David.’
    ‘What? What did you tell me?’
    ‘David and I broke up. I told you that.’
    ‘No! When? You didn’t tell me. You never tell me these things.’
    ‘I told you. I did.’
    ‘You didn’t tell me. What happened? You work too hard, Lucia. You do. The thing with men is, they need to feel wanted. They need attention. They’re like poinsettias.’ ‘It wasn’t that, Mum. It wasn’t anything like that.’ ‘Or maybe it’s just our lot, Lucia. We’re hamsters, that’s what we are. They mate once in a while, you know, but they never commit. They cope, though, just like us. We’re copers, Lucia. You call yourself a May but really you’re a Christie. And Christies cope. We have to.’
     
    Half an hour later, Lucia was still at her desk. She had a report to write. Her hands, though, remained clasped in front of her keyboard. Her eyes focused on the creases on her knuckles.
    The sound of voices in the stairwell startled her. Her first instinct was to turn off her lamp, to pretend that she was not there. She forced her fingers on to the keys instead and frowned at her monitor as though it reflected something more involving than an empty page and a blinking cursor. She typed her name, spelled it wrong. She shut down Word and opened a browser window. Her fingers danced in the air for a moment. She typed