Happily Ever After_ - Benison Anne O'Reilly [57]
So, with the possible exception of Edward, with whom he seemed to have struck up a bit of a friendship, we knew little about the real Alex. The guys sometimes used to head out for a drink after work on Fridays. Melanie and I were also invited, but, being mums, didn’t have the luxury of swinging by the pub after work; we had to make the mad dash to childcare before it closed.
All Melanie and I could surmise from our snooping was that there was a girl on the scene. There was a gorgeous photo of them, obviously taken on a skiing holiday, on his desk. She was a slender, fair-skinned brunette, beautiful as you’d expect, and they looked lovely together, like they really belonged. I was so envious of the love that was apparent in that photo. Apart from that, all we knew was that they lived in Balmain and presumed his girlfriend was called Sophie, as I’d once overheard Alex mention her name to Edward.
Melanie was dying to ask Alex for more details, but I warned her it was a no-go area and it would be inappropriate to start prying into the personal life of her boss. With the vibe he gave off I had a strong feeling that it wouldn’t be viewed favourably at all.
After a couple of months, however, there was a question I felt confident enough to ask him.
‘Alex, would you mind if I asked you a personal question?’ I said one day.
‘That depends what it is, I suppose.’
‘It’s only about your name. With a surname like Andersen I was expecting you to look quite different.’
‘You mean, why am I so dark?’
‘Well, yes, but more than that. You have quite unusual colouring.’
‘Well my father - he’s passed away now - was Danish, but my mum is Anglo-Indian. They met overseas but moved here before I was born.’
‘Oh, Indian - I should have picked it. My brother is married to an Indian girl. I was thinking maybe Mexican or South American or something. Sorry to hear about your dad.’
‘Oh, it was quite a while ago now. But while we’re on the topic of names I see your real name is Eleanor. Why don’t you ever use it?’
‘I just never liked it.’
‘Why? It’s a lovely name. I knew a French girl called Eleanor once and I remember thinking what a beautiful name she had.’
‘Well it sounds nice enough when you say it with a French accent or even your accent [Alex had spent so long away that, at least to the unpractised ear, he sounded more British than Australian], but with the Australian strine - Ell-en-oor - it sounds dreadful.’
‘Well you’d better watch out. If you start misbehaving I might have to start calling you Ell-en-oor,’ he said, giving me a sly smile.
I left his room feeling all hot and prickly; that is, until common sense took over. For goodness sake Ellie get a grip, I thought, can’t a good looking guy have a normal conversation with you these days without you getting your cheap thrills?
That didn’t stop me wondering who the French Eleanor was. Was she a former lover? If so, she was probably a very lucky girl. He was certainly a mysterious one, our Alex.
***
And what of my new professional responsibility: Erecta? I’ll let Emma have the last word on that.
I arrived at Mum’s place one day after work to pick up Isabel and found that Emma was at home, sick. In fact she was lying on the leather lounge in her candy-striped pyjamas with her head resting on a pillow on Daniel’s lap. She had a red nose and bleary eyes and was definitely not looking her best, but if her devoted had noticed he didn’t seem to care. I observed she was drinking some noxious green potion I’d seen brewing in the kitchen. It resembled the contents of my green waste recycling bin mixed with old bath water.
Knowing her propensity for alternative medicine I asked, ‘What is that you’re drinking?’
‘It’s tea for cold and fevers - got echinacea and some other stuff. My naturopath gave it to me.’
‘I bet it cost you a fortune too. Why don’t you just