Ambition by Julie Burchill

Author:Julie Burchill [Julie Burchill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781782391173
Google: O3G3NAEACAAJ
Amazon: B00AD5GAHY
Goodreads: 1582823
Publisher: Atlantic Books Ltd
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TEN

Matthew Stockbridge wore a blue tracksuit and an expression usually kept in a jar by the bedsides of the terminally ill. Which was, nevertheless, very suitable to the occasion. ‘We’ve got to talk about our relationship,’ he said.

‘What’s wrong, run out of patients?’ Susan quipped weakly.

‘Very funny.’ He looked at her sternly. She sat at the kitchen table in a loose, long black T-shirt, her legs bare, her dark hair piled up, with a black Winchester Filofax and a black Harper House Dayrunner in front of her. The Filofax, bought five years ago, was going to the big brasserie in the sky; the Dayrunner had cost more than twice as much and was less than half as common. It was also made of something she didn’t even want to think about.

But trust Doctor Death to get his caring sharing oar in. ‘What’s this made of?’ he said with distaste, holding it up between thumb and forefinger.

She stood up and snatched it from him. ‘How should I know? A laid-off steel worker. An unwaged minority person. A member of the Fabian Society. Or one of your fucking patients. There. That’s the Susan you like to think you know and love, isn’t it?’ She sat down and continued copying numbers into it.

He chuckled, pleased with her performance and his own sense of superiority. ‘You’ve turned into a real little yuppie monster, haven’t you? The Filofax that ate the world.’

She sighed and threw down her Mont Blanc. ‘Yuppie. That has to be the laziest word, used by the most bog-standard of people, since charismatic. You know who’s called a yuppie these days? Anyone under fifty with their own teeth and a roof over their head on more than ten G p.a. It’s become completely meaningless, Matthew. I’m surprised you still use it.’ She scored one, and continued with her Bs: Bracewell, Brampton, Brody, Broughton, Blondell.

‘We’ve got to talk,’ he repeated.

‘Who’s stopping you?’

‘Susan.’ He put his hand on hers, stopping her from writing. ‘We can’t talk while you’re copying out your Filofax.’

She sighed. ‘Matthew. Every evening for the next two and half weeks, I have dinner with some hack, some money man or some poncey author whose poxy book we’re thinking of bidding for for reasons beyond my comprehension. On Sundays and Mondays I need to sleep and I can’t stand to either write or think; I do that all week. Now, my Filofax is embarrassing me to the point where I can’t bear to get it out in public – I feel disgusting, like a flasher. I feel soiled. I see people looking at me with pity and contempt. I have to spend my one free evening re-doing it. Now at this rate, I estimate that I’m free for lunch in the year 2000. Shall I book you a window then, or would you like to talk now? I can do two things at once, I assure you – I spend my days doing five things at once. Why, I can probably write, talk and chew gum at the same time.

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