Foston Slacks - Time's Flies

1

Clara peeled her face from the dribble encrusted pillow and felt her stomach turn. During the night she had kicked the covers from the bed, leaving her lying there in only her day old knickers. Reaching to her bedside cabinet, she grabbed the box of tablets praying that she'd found the antacids instead of her morning after pills. Through blurred eyes, she saw the correct box in her hand and popped two of the fresh mint, chalky pills from the blister pack and tossed them into her dry mouth.

Rising to a sitting position like a zombie coming to life, she searched the immediate area for her dressing gown. It used to be a lovely, silken robe with vibrant colours in a style she thought of as Japanese, but was, in fact, designed by some badly paid intern in a clothing house in Bristol. Now, the gown looked faded from years of use, abuse and washing at the wrong settings.

She slipped the gown over her arms and tied the sash in a half-bow that she hoped wouldn't knot up when she needed to untie it. She tried running her fingers through her hair, cursing the knots that she should have brushed out the night before, if she hadn't been so drunk that walking had become one of her greatest accomplishments.

She knew she was late. That was a given. But, she also knew that she could still make the interview, if she didn't take too long getting ready. Looking in the mirror as she entered the bathroom, she realised that the task would require Herculean effort. Her hair stood upright in several places, lay flat against her head in others and she couldn't even begin to describe what the rest looked like.

She leaned against the cool lip of the sink and tried to focus on the task in hand, or tasks. If she did this right, she could make that interview. Get there in time and knock the interviewers socks off. Prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt that she, and only she, could be their receptionist. With this in mind, she found herself sat on the toilet and brushing her teeth at the same time.

As she wiped herself and spat into the sink, she reached behind the curtain and turned on the shower, tossing her knickers into the clothes basket. Multi-tasking her daily ablutions like a master. With a quick, but rigorous, shower now performed, she needed to get dressed, realising that she had no clean underwear.

A dig into the clothes basket and a quick spray with odour destroying freshener, she felt almost half-way there. Her 'interview' outfit hadn't seen the light of day for months, so, apart from a little brushing on those padded shoulders, that part of getting ready was golden.

Finding shoes caused her the worst problem. Either the cutest shoes were separated by some insane wormhole, or the second cutest ones needed repairs. The third cutest she couldn't even look at anymore. And then, deep in the back of the closet, she found a pair of shoes she hadn't seen in years that were, strangely, just about perfect.

Make-up got slapped on. She wasn't born yesterday. If she could put make-up on while Maggie drove at ninety-five up the A1 to Durham for that concert, she could damn well do it almost without looking, at home!

The hair, however ... the hair didn't want to play. Despite that new shampoo and conditioner that guaranteed, guaranteed!, silky, shiny, manageable hair, hers refused to be managed. She would need to resort to drastic measures. Opening her bedside cabinet, she pulled out several thousand products and found the hairspray at the back. That hairspray! The one that made her hair feel like concrete but made sure it stayed in place. Even if a meteor struck it.

Looking in the mirror again, she gave herself a wink and blew a kiss at the reflection before bouncing out the door, full of all the confidence.

Before the door closed fully, she thrust her hand back in, charged over to the table and picked up her handbag, keys and phone. She couldn't afford to be locked out of her flat. Again.

Walking down the road, she waved for a cab, which ignored her. In fact, several cabs whooshed by, all 'available', or so their lamps on too showed. None willing to take on this winsome punter in her killer interview gear. She stopped, almost breaking her neck to look over her shoulder. No, thank goodness, she hadn't walked out of the house with her skirt tucked into her knickers. This time.

She couldn't wait for a cab to decide whether or not they liked money. Pulling out her phone, she flicked through her social media to see if anyone with a car was alive. Bernie was awake, but he was, it seemed, knee deep in being 'The Dad' today. She couldn't bother him. Or could she? No! No, she couldn't! Or could she? No!

Her thumb continued to flick through, searching, searching, searching. Alice was in Birmingham. Why Birmingham? Donna would love to, but she was having her nails done. She passed through Carli's profile without stopping. She knew what she did!

She stopped, and stared up the street, getting her bearings in a part of town she'd lived in for years. If she ran, she could catch the Tube next to Boots, get off at Oxford Street and she'd definitely find a cab from there to the offices three, four streets away. Or would that be lazy? Could she even run in these shoes? Of course, she could take them off and run, but that would risk getting a hole in the bottom of her tights, them twanging up around her ankles and making her look like a reject from an early-80s Madonna video. Not that she watched Madonna videos. Not like Madonna was a goddess, or anything.

A ping from her phone almost made her orgasm from anticipation. Were Donna's nails finished? Had Bernie decided to become a dead-beat-dad and come to her rescue instead?

Sadly, neither. It was Dad. Wishing her a Happy Birthday and good luck in the interview. Bless Dad! Seconds later, another ping from her phone and she scrolled through to a message from Mum, forgetting her birthday, but remembering to tell her not to mess up this interview like she had the last time. Swear words at Mum!

She tried hailing a cab again. This time she swore she could see the cabbie stare at her as he passed by. And give a thumbs-up. Why did he give a thumbs-up? This all became too impossible to deal with. As she raced towards the Tube station, she rummaged through her handbag hoping that she still had that packet of cigarettes she'd confiscated (stolen) from Phillip. And his lighter. And some breath mints for after. She couldn't find any of them, but she did find an old card for a taxi firm. Result!

Almost out of breath, now, Clara tapped in the number, putting the phone on speaker mode as she click-clacked down the street in heels that she now realised were inappropriately high and spiky. A girl named 'Candace' breathed out of the speaker, saying how happy she was to have been called so early and that you, you lucky person, get the affordable morning rate.

"Oh, my god! I've called a hooker!" Clara knew she had said that out loud when the granny walking past tutted and called her a slut.

Clara stopped racing. She knew she wasn't going to make it to the interview and she was going to prove her mother right. She tried to run her fingers through her hair in frustration, but found herself foiled by the concrete hairspray. The only way things could be worse were if it had been raining the night before and she got splashed by some dirty great puddle. Probably by a black cab driving through it. With the cabbie giving her the thumbs-up.

It was then, as she stood in the middle of the pavement, falling into despair and self-hatred that she noticed the six foot tall lemur, in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit, racing towards her.

"Do not move! Not a single centimetre!" Shouted the lemur in perfect English.