Page 62 of (Not) The One
‘Fine.’ You’d think Jorge would be too old to roll his eyes. Not that he’sold, but that level of violence in an eyeroll is usually reserved for fifteen-year olds, I’ve always thought. ‘Do you want a cuppa, Miranda and Heather?’ he asks, monotone.
I shake my head and suppress a shiver.
‘No thanks, Jorge.’ With a big smile, Heather adds. ‘Oh, by the way, I used the last teabag this morning.’
‘Then why are you making me ask?’
Heather shrugs a sort of one shoulder affair. ‘To replay the favour of you refusing to pick me a box of tampons up from the Co-Op.’
‘Oh, not bloody tampon-gate again,’ he mutters belligerently, referring to an ongoing argument between the pair.
‘I’ve told you,’ she snipes, pushing back her chair so forcefully, it whizzes back on its castors, only stopping when it hits the photocopier. ‘They’re not bloodybefore.’
‘Can we please dial it down a notch,’ I interject. ‘And there’s a box of them in the back of the cupboard. Tetley’s teabags, that is.’
Jorge’s complexion turns the colour of beetroot before he scurries into the kitchen as he remedies the situationtout de suiteas Heather flashes me a look that’s less than impressed, but whatever. Apart from not possessing the bandwidth to deal with their bickering today, helping Heather tick him off doesn’t come under the good employee remit.
‘And Heather?’ I unlock my desk drawer and pull out an unopened box of tampons. ‘Here.’ She catches them, dropping the box on her desk before retrieving her chair. ‘Let’s bury the tampon hatchet, eh?’
‘Until he does something else to annoy me,’ she mutters. ‘Heads-up.’ A blur of colour sails through the air, causing me to fluster as the box of tampons drop to the floor. ‘It seems you’ll be needing these sooner than me,’ she adds meaningfully.
Picking them up, I pull open the drawer again and end up doing so jerkily, almost snapping my fingernail on the metal handle. When did I buy these? I know I bought them right before my period was due. Roughly. I’m not one of those girls who times everything to the day. Up until recently, I was on the pill, and it was all taken care of by that little numbered packet.
Stop it.
Now you’re being ridiculous.
What happened to no more ducky legs?
I drop into my chair and flip over my phone, swiping to the calendar app because, apparently, I can’t help myself. It’s not like I made a note of the date of my last period, but I have noted other things.
‘Where were you this weekend?’ Heather asks.
‘Playing referee between the two home teams,’ I answer a little distractedly.
‘What?’
‘I was preventing a murder-suicide. Mum and Dad,’ I add quickly by way of further explanation.
‘Who was killing who?’
‘It’s pretty even. The hate is equally strong.’
‘You should’ve called. I’d have come over. They might’ve played nice with their niece as an audience.’
Oh, now I remember. I helped Heather babysit her siblings one night last month when my period turned up. When was that?’
‘Heth, what did your parents go to see at the movies last month?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘When I came over, and we ordered pizza.’
‘That was two months ago.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ I retort.
‘It was late June. They went to see something about birds with Alexander Skarsgård in ’cause Mum has a massive crush on him.’
