Sally Says

by Elspeth Graty

Sally says we have to be there early. 10 would be okay but then she decides 9 is better – less queue.

“Please, Sally. I need some sleep. I’m not a morning person”

“9.30, then but if you don’t show for breakfast, we’ll go without you.”

We say nothing. Sally is forty. She’s older than us. Wise. Sally travelled round the world. She swam in the Ganges and gave oranges and bottles of oil to Buddha. She got a ‘gommage’ at the Turkish baths in Ankara and her feet hennaed. She went to East Berlin before the wall came down.

Sally is a PA. Her address book is as thick as the complete works of Shakespeare. She never looks in it though. Got all the numbers in her head. Organises her boss all day in three languages, then goes home and organises her husband Tom. He works in IT, doesn’t talk much. Silent rebellion. Kicks the shit out of foreign armies on his Playstation. Anger management.

Sally’s the only one who hasn’t got children. We ask her when she’s going to have some but she tells us women can choose now and she’ll get round to it when she’s ready. She’d better hurry up though.

We’re here for her birthday. Surprise present. Tom was in on it – he packed her case. First thing she did when she arrived was go through it, moaning about what he’d forgotten. He told her he was taking her for a meal. Drove her down to Waterloo. She shouted at him, when he turned into the International terminal. Kept telling him he must be going the wrong way.

“Surprise!” I pulled her out of the car, while Jo got her case. She didn’t like it.

“What an original idea!” Her voice stuck in her throat.

On the Eurostar, she took over. She’d been to Paris before, knew exactly where we should go. Back in control.

“Nine-fucking-thirty. Arghh.” The shower dial is hyper-sensitive. Ice to Burn. Red raw skin, raw nerves.

“Coffee.” I growl, “ Just coffee.”

Jo has black stains under her eyes. Her two year old has nightmares. But we don’t talk children with Sally.

“The public transport system is quite simple-“

“We’re getting a taxi – please, Sally.”

She looks at our grey faces and gives in.

We drive through the city. Just honking taxis on the road with us, looking out at clusters of tourists and dog walkers. Sally organises the money.

“You see! No queue – what did I tell you?”

Not a queue exactly but a group standing in front of the huge glass doors, waving banners at us. Not friendly.

“Looks like it’s closed.” Jo says and turns, but Sally marches up to the demonstrators, starts shouting at them. “You can’t do this. We’re only here for the weekend.” They look at each other and one says something in French. They all laugh.

Sally stiffens. I’m afraid she’ll swing for one of them. I rush up and put my hand on her arm.

“Come on, Sal, leave it. We’ll go up the Eiffel Tower instead.” And I see she’s trying to hold back tears, but one has escaped and is making its way down her nose.

The demonstrators have stopped laughing and ignore us now. Sally says, “ It’s always the wrong time,” almost to herself and then pulls herself up, shakes her head to lose the tear, and turns to us, “You weren’t that bothered about seeing the Mona Lisa, were you?” and she gives us a sort of sad, knowing smile.

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~ This piece was posted on Wednesday, May 25th, 2005 and was filed under Writing, Short Story. You can make comments on it below. ~