“No,” I say, a bit rankled at her expression. “But it’s no problem. I’ll send it back to the dry cleaners.”
Mrs. Farley is appalled. “You can’t sew a button on? Your mother never taught you?”
I stifle a laugh at the thought of my mother sewing on a button. “Er … no. She didn’t.”
“In my day,” says Mrs. Farley, shaking her head, “all well-educated girls were taught how to sew on a button, darn a sock, and turn a collar.”
None of this means anything to me. Turn a collar. It’s gibberish.
“Well, in my day … we weren’t,” I reply politely. “We were taught to study for our exams and get a career worth having. We were taught to have opinions. We were taught to use our brains,” I can’t resist adding.
Mrs. Farley doesn’t seem impressed. “It’s a shame,” she says at last, and pats me sympathetically.
I’m trying to keep my temper, but I’ve worked for hours, I’ve had a nonexistent birthday, I feel bone-tired and hungry, Ketterman is living two floors above me—and now this old woman’s telling me to sew on a button?
“It’s not a shame,” I say tightly.
“All right, dear,” says Mrs. Farley in pacifying tones, and heads across the hallway to her flat.
Somehow this goads me even more.
“How is it a shame?” I demand, stepping out of my doorway. “How? OK, maybe I can’t sew on a button. But I can restructure a corporate finance agreement and save my client thirty million pounds. That’s what I can do.”
Mrs. Farley regards me from her doorway. “It’s a shame,” she repeats, as though she didn’t even hear me. “Good night, dear.” She closes the door and I emit a squeal of exasperation.
“Did you never hear of feminism?” I cry at her door.
But there’s no answer.
Crossly, I retreat into my own flat, close the door, and pick up the phone. I speed-dial the local wood-fired pizza company and order my usual: a capricciosa and a bag of Kettle Chips. I pour myself a glass of wine out of the fridge, then head back into the sitting room and flick on the telly.
A workbox. What else does she think I should have? A pair of knitting needles? A loom?
I sink down onto the sofa with the remote and flick through the TV channels, peering vaguely at the images. News … a French film … some animal documentary …
Hang on. I stop flicking, drop the remote onto the sofa, and settle back on the cushions.
The Waltons. On some obscure syndicated channel. I have not seen The Waltons for years.
Ultimate comfort viewing. Just what I need.
On the screen the whole family’s gathered round the table; Grandma’s saying grace.
I take a swig of wine and feel myself start to unwind. I’ve always secretly loved The Waltons, ever since I was a kid. I used to sit in the darkness when everyone else was out and pretend I lived on Walton’s Mountain too.
And now it’s the last scene of all, the one I always waited for: the Walton house in darkness. Lights twinkling; crickets chirping. John Boy talking in voice-over. A whole huge houseful of people who love one another. I hug my knees and look wistfully at the screen as the familiar music tinkles to its close.
“Good night, Elizabeth!”
Partner. Or not Partner.
Oh, God. Stop it. Don’t think about it. I head into the kitchen and open the fridge. Dammit. I’m out of milk.
And coffee.
I must find myself a food-delivery company. And a milkman. I reach for a Biro and scrawl 47. Food delivery/milkman? at the bottom of my TO DO list.
My TO DO list is written on a piece of paper pinned up on the wall and is a useful reminder of things I’m intending to do. It’s yellowing a bit now, actually—and the ink at the top of the list has become so faint I can barely read it. But it’s a good way to keep myself organized.