Page 6 of Seen
But then what? Once I say the words out loud, it becomes real. It becomes a thing I must face up to and deal with, alongside everyone’s unasked-for kindness and their unwanted fucking pity.
“Of course everything’s okay.” I grin my trademark flirty grin. “I’m young, solvent, and getting a lot. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Ezra shrugs, shrewd gaze searching mine. “I don’t know. But are…are you drinking more than usual? You know, maybe too much?”
Barely a drop, actually, which is ironic, because the worse my eyes become, playing drunk becomes easier and easier. But how much longer can I keep up the clumsy alcoholic pretence?
“Nope.” I shrug back, not convinced he believes me. “Nor have I gone back to doing coke, before you ask.”
Spoiler alert: I haven’t always been squeaky clean. Neither of us have.
“You’d tell me wouldn’t you, Neil? If something was troubling you?”
“Of course! Stop fussing! Just burning the candle at both ends. You know how it is. We’ve been busy lately, haven’t we?”
“Yes, agreed.” Ezra sighs. “I’m knackered too. But your head.” He taps his own. “That’s twice you’ve banged it. Maybe you should get checked out. You might have a low-level chronic concussion or something. That can affect mood and balance.”
“My mood’s awesome!” I’m redefining awesome to include a sullen glare that could melt a steel beam.
“Is it?” Apparently, Ezra is immune. “You were horrible to Luke the other night. He was only trying to help you. He hasn’t been back here since, and I’m not surprised. Getting him to come out at all takes Isaac a lot of effort. The least we can do is show him a decent time, considering everything he’s been through.”
“Like what?” I’m not especially interested; I’ve enough shit on my own to deal with. Luke looked pretty fine to me. I mean, he’s always swathed in a dowdy, oversized hoodie like a grumpy teenager, but at least his eyes fucking work. Even if they did appear bloody anxious staring into mine the other night. Well out of his comfort zone.
Join the fucking club.
“None of your business, to be honest.” Ezra frowns. “Nor mine. And anyhow, at the moment, you’re concerning me more.”
Fuck, I need to wrap this up. “Jeez, Ez, all I did was let my hair down for a couple of hours and trip over that warped board on the stage! Jacko left a foot pedal sitting proud on it, and I was too busy checking out some bloke near the front of the crowd to notice. Stop sounding like my dad!”
I’m not sure he’s entirely reassured, but I’ve ground him down for now. “Alright, whatever. Should I ask Isaac to have a chat with you about concussion before we go away, just to be sure?”
Ezra’s brother-boyfriend, Isaac, is also a doctor. What with Alaric, Isaac, and this other guy, Luke with the hoodie, I’m bloody surrounded.
“For the last time, I’m fine.” I shoo him away with my hand. “I’ve got your list of things that need sorting, and I’ll be on it tomorrow. Go! You and Isaac have been planning this for ages. And it’s not like you’re not at the end of a phone, is it? Everything will be peachy; I can run this bar standing on my head.”
For the first week, I cope brilliantly. Olfactory glitches such as the intermittently blocked ladies loos don’t require twenty-twenty vision, merely a cranky bloke with a very long flexible hose and an encyclopaedic knowledge of the London sewerage system. His quote for moving the water cylinder is reasonable too; my brownie points stack up. The brewery spreadsheet proves a little trickier, until I land on the idea of sweet-talking Jess into doing it on my behalf, in exchange for a paid afternoon off. If she chooses to interpret this as a roundabout apology for letting her proudly heterosexual brother blow me, then that’s her problem.
On day eight, the email from the accountant arrives. And that’s when the universe starts to fuck with me.
I open it with optimism, telling myself I’ll breeze through it. Our accountant is meticulous and knows us well. Ezra had a meeting with her a fortnight back. This is simply dotting the i’s prior to filing the return.
Hi Neil, I’m Dan. I’m filling in last minute for your usual accountant, Lorna, who’s had a family bereavement. She gave me a handover; I think I’ve got everything. For ease of understanding, I’ve reviewed the year month by month, then did quarterly summaries, crossmatching expenditures against income stream onto three Excel spreadsheets. Let me know if you need anything more before filing. Best wishes.
My heart sinks. Excel: the spreadsheets of my nightmares.Three of them.
Okay, don’t panic.I can enlarge the font, turn everything to bold and, worst comes to the worst, print it out. Or I could get a ruler and trace along the lines with my finger like my teachers taught me after my dyslexia was diagnosed. Back when that was the only problem I had with reading.
Holding my breath and crossing my fingers, I click on the first attachment. And almost burst into tears.
Tiny dense print fills the screen in a multi-column layout. I scroll and scroll and scroll until I reach what I think is column AX. Twenty-four fucking columns. Cells of different depths. Dan has bolded some items, underlined others, and used varying font sizes.
Feeling sick, I blink. Squint. Rub my eyes as if that will magically reset my duff factory settings. I push the laptop farther away. Then bring it closer. Then farther again. Then contemplate hurling it at the wall.
My throat tightens. The cells dead centre swim into focus, but the words and numbers and the edges don’t sharpen, even when I track along the horizontal lines with my finger. Not even when I turn my head and shine my phone torch on it. They sit there, mocking me in all their indistinct glory. Is that a nine or a seven? What fucking font it that? Why is it printed so small? I increase the brightness, then sit back and try to catch my breath.
My heartbeat pounds in my ears. Anybody sane would phone this Dan person. Explain the problem, ask him to go through it with me, section by section on a Zoom chat, or rewrite the whole thing differently, so that a person with low vision can make sense of it. And that’s exactly how I’d explain it to him. I’d sayAlright, Dan, mate? Having trouble reading the email you sent me. Ezra’s away and my eyesight isn’t great, so I’m going to need a bit of help.And he’d be all apologetic and promise to make itsimplerfor me. Or explain the maths and the accounting like I’m three not thirty-three and in possession of a perfectly functioning brain, thank you very much. Just two fucking big brown eyes that have become so used to being the main draw, they’ve forgotten the whole fucking point of being on my face.
They still know how to produce tears, though. A frustrated one trickles down my cheek.Thirty-three, Neil. Pull yourself together.Thankfully, I’m alone in the office. We’re not open today.
