High Tide
By Orly Castel-Bloom
Something was wrong with my and Alex’s way of life. The pace was frantic, there wasn’t a drop of air. He left home at seven and came back at ten, eleven at night. I left quarter of an hour after him and came home at about the same time. We had different-coloured diaries, in which we wrote down where we would be and when. Our diaries were full up a month and a half in advance. I don’t know how he managed with meals, I always ate fast food: sandwiches which I ate while waiting for the green light.
We had a number of advantages. Like two fast and very comfortable cars each with air-conditioning, and a double bed with a special orthopedic mattress to soothe the cramps in our back and leg muscles. We always had hot water in the bath, there were always cold soft drinks in the fridge, and our bar was always full. I had someone in three times a week to clean and take care of the housekeeping for me. For an extra pittance she also ironed and did the shopping, and that really made my life easier.
We worked at weekends too. Each of us has a study furnished in his own personal taste. We would sit there, summing up the week and making plans. Alex is an importer. He imports whatever he feels like, he has a sixth sense that tells him what will sell. Naturally he travels a lot, but his trips are short. I’m in clothing. I own a quality chain that everybody’s heard of . I have twelve shops in the centre, five in the north and another three in Beer-sheba and its suburbs. I go from shop to shop, travel abroad for the shows, and buy more clothes for the chain. Sometimes I meet women who want me to design a dress for them like this and like that. I always say to them: You’re the customer, but I’m what I am. You want to tell me what’s running through your head, I’m prepared to listen, but I’m not some little dressmaker. I don’t take orders from anybody, and the money makes no difference to me. I have something to say in the matter too, and a lot.