The Lonely Fajita
ABIGAIL MANN

One More Chapter

a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Abigail Mann 2020

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover image © Shutterstock.com

Abigail Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008408183

Ebook Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008393687

Version: 2020-02-13

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

About This Book

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

For all the women who offered a hand down to pull another up.

About This Book

This ebook meets all accessibility requirements and standards.

Chapter 1

I’ve come to accept that I am honestly and truly terrible at my job. Like, seriously bad. Until recently, I thought I’d naturally ‘come into my own’, like one of those women who gesticulate wildly in front of a flip chart with red nails and swishy hair fresh from the blow bar. I’ve had jobs where I’ve been decidedly average, like the bakery gig I had at university (I overstuffed the baguettes), or the two bar shifts I managed at the campus club (I self-diagnosed sleep deprivation and had to quit), but never wholly incompetent. Ironically, I’m not even earning a wage at this internship and it’s where I feel most out of my depth.

I look down at the notes I made on the tube this morning and feel a lurch in my stomach like I’ve driven over a humpback bridge. How it’s possible to interpret these blunt scribbles into a meaningful report about the past week’s social media engagement is entirely beyond me. But last week I sat through a three-hour-long webinar on Big Data without slipping into a coma, so I can surely get through this. When it comes to anything digital, my only saving grace is that my boss Mitchell knows less about social metrics than I do, which is really saying something.

Adam, who has worn flip-flops and a salmon-pink polo shirt throughout winter, is coming to what I think is the end of his presentation. He’s slightly sweaty and puffy-looking under the glare of the projector lamp. I shift on my yoga ball, which squeaks like a fart and makes my heartbeat quicken. Suki is the only one who breaks into a smile from across the desks, which have been wheeled in front of Mitchell’s glass cube of an office. This is the ‘conference zone’ and it’s a sign that we have to switch into ‘serious mode’. The rest of the time we’re in ‘self-governed workplace allocation’, which basically means ‘sort yourselves out and don’t fucking bother me’.

‘I made progress, yeah. They were just about tugging me off for another meeting next week, so I’ll get on that, Mitch.’ Whilst Adam talks, he pulses his hips. Eurgh. If I did that, it would definitely be considered indecent.

Last night, Adam took two Indonesian investors to a Hoxton-based craft-beer brewery followed by crazy golf and penalty shots, which, according to him, isn’t the reason I was swapped into today’s early-morning conference call with our developers in San Francisco.

My phone, which I’ve placed over a shopping list I’d been writing, buzzes loudly and scurries a centimetre or two across my notebook. This doesn’t bother the rest of Lovr’s seven employees, who are all scrolling through digitised notes, but it does make Mitchell glance from my phone to my paper, which he looks at with a slight twitch. A few months before I got here Mitchell gave an impassioned presentation on the necessity of going paperless, influenced in no way by Louis, the successful Stanford dropout and CEO next door, who had done the exact same thing earlier in the week. So thoroughly applied is this new ethos that Rachael, who works on the front desk, meets the postman every morning on the pavement outside and types up anything worthy enough to ping over in an email.

As it buzzes once more because I didn’t pick it up the first time, I slide the phone onto my lap and unlock it. In the darkened room, my face is upwardly lit with the light from my screen and I catch my concertina of chins staring back at me as I accidentally switch the front camera on. I jab at the screen to open my messages and glance up at Suki, who watches Adam with her chin propped up on a fist. Without catching my eye, she gives a slight Mona Lisa smile.

Her message reads,

Do you think Adam purposely wore shorts that show his ball sack to best advantage or is this a happy accident?

I try to suppress the laugh I’m holding in my ribcage and instead trace the outline of my lower lip with my finger in an attempt to look appropriately thoughtful. Rhea – our infuriatingly competent PR manager – starts nodding, so I nod too.

Adam clicks through to his last slide, which shows a stock photo of two suited executives grinning like maniacs whilst shaking hands. He lifts one foot onto a chair that he’s swivelled round to face him in what he likely thinks is a ‘power pose’, but instead causes everyone’s gaze to drop three feet to his eye-level bulge. I bite my lip and try going back to my grocery list. I don’t really feel like adding to it now. Of all the long hours spent in this room, this has surely been the longest.

‘People do business with people, guys,’ Adam says with an expression of mock pride, ‘especially if those people are three Jägerbombs down and have scored a hole in one!’

Another buzz. Suki has sent a string of green ‘sick’ emojis. I slowly shake my head and purse my lips, focusing on the corner of the ceiling.

Mitchell, notoriously unpredictable in his reaction to these briefings, is silent for a moment. Looking down at his highly polished brogues, he chuckles and waggles his finger at Adam as though he’s a cheeky grandson who has taken an extra chocolate biscuit. ‘Good man, good man. You’re seeing Gabrielle and Raj from Pound tomorrow?’

‘Yes, boss,’ Adam says, thankfully now sitting on the edge of his seat. He crosses his ankle onto his thigh, flip-flop bouncing against the sole of his foot. ‘Drinks in the Sky Garden then press night with the British Olympic boxing team – my mate over at Red Bull sorted us some passes.’ Adam pouts and smugly leans back against the springs of his chair. God, I hate him.

Suki, in what I now recognise is her version of an eye roll, blinks rapidly and pulls her face into a vacant smile. A meet and greet with boxers? How Adam’s overeager public-school lisping, and a clear sense of the obligations owed to him by others, works in any way other than to expose his brazen arrogance is beyond me. Mind you, Mitchell believes and talks bullshit in equal proportions. It’s like they speak the same language.

Do you think he’ll wear closed shoes for that?

I message Suki, tapping on my phone under the table. Within seconds, it buzzes back a reply.

High tops and his Yeezy shirt – he’ll want to make a good impression, obvs.

I smirk, looking down at my nails still half covered in a shellac manicure I’d paid for with a Harvey Nichols gift card, courtesy of Mum. The midnight-blue polish is now scuffed and waxy, but I can’t afford to have it taken off, so I’m letting it grow out. Another couple of weeks should do it.

Just when I think Rhea might announce coffee, and thus the end of the meeting, Mitchell turns to me with his chin held in the air. ‘You’re up, darlin’.’

Like always, I choose to ignore his slightly sexist introduction. Instead I think back to last Thursday, remembering how utterly miserable it was. In an attempt at ‘market research’, I’d set up a little ‘dating booth’ in Waterloo station (a table for two, an M&S picnic selection, and a ten-minute timer), and although my presumption that singles would be lured by a mini lamb kofta was right, my hope that they would feel an obligation to stay and chat was wishful thinking. One guy didn’t even bother sitting down. At one stage, I was actually lunging for commuters as they walked past – which I’m sure is harassment of some kind – and a group of secondary-school kids swiped handfuls of pretzels whilst my back was turned.

‘Yes, thanks, Mitchell.’ I am going to be sick. Today is the day I am going to vomit on someone.

I bounce myself up and off my ball and side-step once, just behind Jonathon, purely so I don’t have to see his face as I talk.

‘Do you need the projector, Elissa?’ he says with a half-smile, using this moment to comb his hair along the ruler-straight line of his parting.

‘No thanks, Jonathon, I’ve got it all here.’ I flop my notebook a little too enthusiastically in my hand. Deep breath. ‘So, the pop-up Lovr stall in Waterloo had a really strong reception from the public.’ Not a lie. Not technically a lie. ‘And we had constant footfall next to the booth, which is great for brand exposure.’ Of course there was footfall; it’s literally the busiest train station in London. ‘We had fourteen couples take part in spontaneous dates whilst we were there.’ A bicycle courier stayed on for five dates, asked me to watch his bike, and chomped on antipasti for the best part of an hour. ‘And seventeen of them downloaded Lovr to start chatting with the person they’d had a date with.’ Okay, this one’s a flat-out lie. They’d signed up because I said they’d get a push notification when we’d be there with free food again. Half of them had deleted the app in the hours that followed when they were prompted to fill out a profile.

‘Seventeen?’ Mitchell says, looking at me over the rim of his glasses, which I’m pretty sure aren’t prescription.

‘Er, yes. Yes. Seventeen.’ I glance down at my notes, half expecting a number to magically appear that would sound more impressive. I have circled two figures, neither of which are seventeen, and one has a heavily pencilled question mark next to it. Thank you, Past Elissa. Very useful.

‘Because if it was seventeen, not every couple signed up. So where’s that extra person come from?’ Mitchell asks. Jonathon slips into a wry smile and presses his fingertips together in a pyramid. Shit.

‘Um, well—’

‘An interrupted download could account for the mismatched figures. This has happened over at MeowCall in the past when users are hooked into public WiFi networks. What I did notice –’ Suki swipes quickly on her iPad, her mouth pursed to one side and her cheekbones sharp in the uplighting from the screen, ‘– is that conversion rates from first and second connection users had a sharp increase in the hours that followed Elissa’s pop-up.’ She looks around the room expectantly. ‘Which is a sign that those who came across the booth told friends and acquaintances about the app, and they in turn downloaded. That kind of traffic is a far more valuable metric of engagement, because it’s word of mouth.’ God bless you, Suki. I have no idea what she’s talking about, or if it’s even true, but by Christ I could lean over and kiss her beautiful bald head.

I adjust my stance and put a hand on my hip, closing my notebook with a twang of elastic. Mitchell is nodding, which doesn’t mean I’m entirely in the clear, as his facial expression rarely matches his mood. But then he traces a circle on his tablet and the office solar shades oscillate to let daylight in. I mouth ‘thank you’ to Suki, who sticks her tongue out in way of reply.

Jonathon gets up with such alacrity that his yoga ball bounces out of its chair frame as he strides towards the kitchen. ‘Drink tonight?’ Suki says as she slots her iPad into the pocket of her lime-green dungarees. The tech team have been moved up to the second floor as a better access point for the six start-ups that share The Butcher Works, a co-working space with a very expensive postcode. As a result, Suki and I don’t see each other every day any more. I’m glad I got to know her when we shared a desk, because she’s way too cool for me and I would never have approached her if I hadn’t seen her playing Neopets when I know she was meant to be editing code.

‘I can’t. Tom’s heading off on a Vegas stag do tomorrow and I should really get home to see him.’

Suki pulls a face at me and makes a gameshow ‘whamp-whamp’ noise.

I do love Suki. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever met and is so perceptive. When Mitchell or Jonathon have said something really tactless, or I’ve accidentally deleted all my scheduled tweets, Suki is there, pinging me an inappropriate emoji or giving me an excuse to go upstairs to the break-out space for a bit of venting. She’s mentioned going out before, or has loosely asked if I’ll join her at a Saturday-morning HIIT gym in Hoxton, but the actual invite rarely follows. We became chummy really quickly, but I’ve only seen her once or twice outside of work and she often cancels plans at the last minute. She’s always popping up on my feeds doing something fun, usually on a Saturday night when I’m halfway through a tub of Nutella. If she knew how little I had going on in my life outside of this building, I worry she’d drift even more.

‘Hang on, isn’t it your birthday soon?’

‘Yeah … wait, what’s the date?’ I say.

Suki perches on the front of Adam’s desk, leans backwards with enviable core control, and wiggles the desktop mouse. ‘The sixteenth.’

The sixteenth? Well, that’s crept up.

‘Christ, it’s tomorrow,’ I admit. ‘Twenty-six. Had to think about that for a second.’

‘How could you forget?’ says Suki, slinging an arm across my shoulders.

‘I’m not sure. I’ve already had my birthday present from Tom, so I’ve not been looking forward to anything. Like an “event event”, you know?’

‘Right, that’s it then. It’s decided.’ Suki thumps me triumphantly on the chest like we’re about to run onto a football pitch. ‘We’re going to Snatch on Saturday.’

‘That’s your favourite club, not mine.’

‘You say that now, but when you’re grinding along to 90s hip-hop without any dudes trying to grab your arse, it’ll be your favourite as well,’ says Suki. She bites her tongue between her teeth and clicks her fingers, rolling her body as she walks backwards towards the office kitchen.

‘That does sound good.’

‘So, it’ll be me, you, Jazz—’

‘What happened to Fiona?’

‘Ah, we broke up. Long story. Your friend, what’s her name? The teacher?’

‘Maggie?’

‘Yeah, Maggie. Get her along. And your other friends, whoever!’ Suki lowers her voice. ‘Shall we invite Mitchell?’ she says, wiggling her eyebrows.

‘God, no!’ I laugh, racking my brain to think of these ‘other friends’ I supposedly have. Suki shoves a filter in the coffee machine and tips in an alarming mound of ground coffee beans.

‘Mine first for a cheeky drink and then I’m popping your Snatch cherry,’ she says.

I’m trying to think of reasons why I couldn’t, or shouldn’t, go. Other than the obvious: the fact that I’m already in my overdraft and won’t be able to afford more than a lime soda. Then again, the thought of cooking a two-person packet of tortellini, promising I’ll save half for lunch the next day, then eating it and going into a carb coma whilst watching the Keira Knightley version of Pride and Prejudice, is too much to bear. Fuck it. I’ll take Suki’s offer of poorly mixed cocktails and a lesbian club.

Chapter 2

My stomach grumbles and gripes as I walk up the steps of Stockwell station. I’m itching to stop at the deli on the way back to the flat for one of those sausage rolls that turn the paper bag see-through, but I really, really can’t. I’ve already spent my daily budget on a double-shot coffee, a pastry that stopped me being hungry for about ten seconds, and the miso soup that stood in for a proper lunch. Unless it is liquid-based and devoid of all nutrition, I swear it is impossible to buy lunch in London for under a tenner. It’s madness. Once, I was tempted to pick up a token for a ‘pay it forward’ coffee, but those are for actual homeless people.

I had an idea to cook a fancy dinner for Tom from scratch, and I even looked up a recipe on the internet during the slow hour between three and four, but I left the print-out at work and, to be honest, I lost the will somewhere between Old Street and Oval.

I nod at the man who runs the corner shop underneath our place and go to unlock the door, the metal scratching and grating from a cheap, poorly cut key. Although undignified, there’s a real knack to it. You have to tease it in, flirt with the lock, if you will, and then quickly jerk the key round whilst furiously rattling the handle. I must be lucky today; the door opens on the fourth attempt and I’ve only sworn once.

When I get inside, the smell of burnt cumin hangs in the hallway and I can hear Yaz tapping a utensil along to the beat of a Primal Scream track from behind the closed kitchen door. Down the corridor, our bedroom door is ajar. I chuck my scarf in the direction of the coat rack, miss, and kick it to the skirting board instead. Tom’s hiking rucksack is propped up against the bed, a row of folded outfits lined up on the duvet, complete with socks and a rolled-up pair of underpants for each day he’ll be away.

‘Still refusing to use a suitcase?’ I say, opening the wardrobe to pull on a jumper. The office carpet that runs through the flat feels cold, almost damp, underfoot.

‘What?’ he says, scratching behind his ear in irritation.

‘Your rucksack? For a stag trip?’

‘Yeah, well, I’m going with the lads, aren’t I?’ he replies, as though this explains it.

‘Ah, of course. What was I thinking?’

He doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm and instead sits on the bed with a travel-sized bottle pinched between his knees. ‘Can you pass me the shower gel?’ he says, holding out a hand. I turn and pick up a tube of sea-salt and black-pepper body wash that I’ve long since been banned from using because it’s ‘manly and expensive’. When he takes it from me, his hand slides up my forearm and he pecks me so briefly that I hover stupidly, mouth open, preparing for a deeper kiss that never arrives.

‘Hello then,’ I say, squatting down to look under the bed for my slipper socks.

‘Hey. Sorry, I’m just trying to get everything sorted so I don’t wake you up later. You all right?’

‘Yeah, fine. I was thinking stir-fry for dinner. And cheesecake.’ Tom frowns and lifts things up one by one from the bed, looking for something.

‘I ate already. With Ben, after work. I told you about it yesterday, remember?’

He didn’t.

‘Oh, right. I thought it might have been nice to eat together, seeing as you’re going away,’ I say, trying not to sound hurt that he’s ditched me and my offer of slightly dry ribboned carrot and sweaty noodles. ‘And … it’s my birthday tomorrow, so, yeah.’

‘It would have been nice, sure, but I had a load of stuff to sort out at work and I needed to talk over some logistics with Ben.’ Ah, logistics. That delightful turn of phrase that could, quite literally, mean anything. ‘We had last weekend, didn’t we?’

‘Hmm,’ I reply, thinking back to my ‘birthday meal’, which wasn’t the all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant I’d been hinting at for weeks, but curry night at the local pub – a real treat, especially when the boxing came on. If I wanted to see two blokes fighting for an audience, I’d get the night bus more often.

I run my hands along his shoulders, pushing his knees apart to place myself squarely between them, his head level with the waistband of my jeans. He looks up and I hold his gaze with doe eyes, silently willing him to hold me by the hips, to pull me down onto his perfectly folded t-shirt collection, but instead he frowns and is, if anything, embarrassed.

He taps my leg with one hand.

‘Can you move? I need to get my shoes.’

I don’t answer immediately. Tom raises one eyebrow and I have an overwhelming urge to kick his bag across the room. I don’t, though. Of course I don’t. I smile away the tightness in my throat and squeeze his shoulder as I scooch past him to sit on the desk chair – a relic from a previous tenant.

When we first got together, we barely left his bedroom, except to get coffee and walk in the park for an hour before the sun went down. But when Tom got a job I couldn’t explain to my parents on the phone, the broken chairs we’d picked up during lazy mornings at flea markets were put back outside on the pavement, the intention to fix and paint them abandoned as weekends became a negotiation between the office, golf awaydays, and time spent with me.

‘Did you put this in here?’ says Tom, pulling out a disposable camera from a side pocket of his bag. Oh, I’d forgotten about that. I cross my legs, struggle to pull my ankle into my lap, and silently chastise myself for not keeping up with yoga tutorials on YouTube, as had been my resolution this year.

‘Yeah! Thought it would be cool for you guys, like in The Hangover? You could have it developed on the way back and piece together the bits between tequila shots. Pose with Mike Tyson, that sort of thing.’

He sucks on his lips and turns the camera over in his hands. ‘Hmm. Not sure how it would go down with the boys.’

‘What do you mean?’ I say, irritated now. ‘There isn’t anything to “go down”; it’s just a fucking camera, Tom.’

He looks up at the ceiling, his face partway between a smirk and a smile. As he goes to reply, a neat knock at the open door turns our attention towards Shamaya, the most recent addition to the house and – most unnervingly – the landlord’s daughter.

‘Any chance I can interrupt? We’re having a house meeting, so could you come through, Tom? Elissa, you too?’

Not again, I think. If this is another lecture about putting clingfilm on leftovers, I’m going to weep.

***

When we head through to the living room (well, it’s more of a living room-cum-kitchen-cum-dining room) Yaz gives us a nod from the beanbag and ladles a spoonful of chilli into his mouth. I perch on the back of the sofa and Tom sits on an upturned stack of empty plastic boxes, left over from Shamaya’s move last month. The four of us cast glances at each other, no one keen to speak first.

‘I don’t want to make it sound like I’m being, like, the “house boss”,’ says Shamaya, using her fingers to make quote marks in the air, ‘but I thought it might be a good idea to talk about a couple of issues that have come up.’ Oh, no. This doesn’t sound like one of those meetings. Usually, she brings in evidence of our deviances and lays them out on the kitchen counter like a domestic member of the KGB. She’s only been here three weeks and so far we’ve covered morning bathroom arrangements, pungent food items that are now banned from the fridge (basically all the good cheese), and a detailed chore chart that I have completely neglected to obey.

Shamaya leans against the kitchen cupboards and weaves her hair into a braid that drapes over her left shoulder. ‘This has got nothing to do with Dad being the landlord, though. I’d say this in any house I was living in.’ Now that I don’t doubt. She ties her plait off with a twang of black elastic and folds her arms across her chest. ‘Now, I know we all came up with a set of house rules – well, not rules really. What were they? Guidelines? Well, I’ve noticed that we’re not all taking them seriously.’

‘Are you talking about my gym stuff in the airing cupboard?’ says Yaz, scraping at his plate. ‘Because it’s not sweat. They’re damp because I washed them.’

‘No, you’re good, Yaz,’ says Shamaya, tapping her forearm with a row of manicured fingers. ‘It’s more this. All this washing up.’ I notice it now. On the counter, a number of cereal bowls have been stacked up, along with smeared plates and a few mugs, sticky with hot chocolate and marshmallows. My stomach does an awkward little jump. Shit.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Tom looking over at me.

‘Er, I think some of those might be mine,’ I say.

‘They’re all yours.’

‘Right. Okay. Sorry about that, I’ll just …’ I walk over to the sink and reach for the Fairy Liquid, but Shamaya interjects.

‘It’s not just that. And I’m not saying it’s you necessarily, but I’ve noticed that someone’s been using my hair oil in the bathroom.’

‘Definitely not me,’ says Yaz, pointing to his buzz cut.

‘Can’t claim that one. Sorry, Liss,’ says Tom. Bloody traitor.

Shamaya raises her eyebrows at me and I root around inside, searching for any semblance of guilt, but … no, I don’t regret it one bit. That oil has been a wondrous gift from the heavens. The curl definition. It defies logic. I’ve been flicking my head about at work so regularly that I’m sure I’ve got mild whiplash.

‘It might have got knocked over?’ I offer lamely.

‘Hmm. I don’t think so, do you?’ says Shamaya. Ouch. ‘Look, I’ve been helping Dad out with some of the property maintenance, and to be honest, this place was only ever meant for three tenants. Technically, it’s me, Yaz, and Tom on the lease. Oh, and the utility bills,’ says Shamaya, trying and failing to seem like she’s only now remembered a clearly rehearsed piece of evidence. ‘So, I don’t know what you guys want to do, but according to the multiple-occupancy license, two adults sharing a room need a minimum bedroom space of 10.22 square metres, which we can’t provide for you here. It would be different if it was just Tom, but when you moved in …’ she trails off, angling her head towards Tom, who sits on his hands and refuses to look up.

Is she … is she suggesting I move out? because of a few crusty dishes and some fucking argan oil?

‘Look, this hasn’t been a problem before. We’re fine! I’m sorry about the dishes – seriously – but me and Tom have an arrangement about the bills and stuff. Don’t we?’

The sound of crunching polystyrene balls comes from the corner, as Yaz does his best to sink deeper into the beanbag.

‘Don’t we, Tom?’ I repeat.

He looks up as though I’ve yelled his name from across a park. ‘Well, yeah. I mean, we said I’d pay for both of us until you got a job and then we’d move somewhere nicer. No offence, Shamaya,’ he says, turning to her briefly. She shrugs. ‘And, well … you’ve got one now—’

‘– that pays me enough to get the tube to work and buy a Freddo at the end of the week. I’ve hardly got enough to start banking in the Caymans,’ I say. Tom always complains about the fact we live somewhere grotty when he could afford a place without lino on the floor. He likes lingering at estate-agent windows – a pursuit I’ve never seen as anything other than self-flagellation. Although it increasingly seems like fantasy, Tom knows I want to share the rent equally.

‘The thing is, Elissa, it’s not a case of wanting you out, but Dad would have to apply for a new license from the council, which he’s not keen on,’ says Shamaya.

‘That sounds sort of … fair enough,’ says Tom, shrugging.

‘Yeah, I mean, if we have to find somewhere else, that’s that,’ I say. I look over at Tom. He’s cleaning muck out from underneath his nails.

‘Look, I know this is awkward.’ Shamaya exaggerates a grimace. ‘But there are probably loads of flats happy to take a couple. Elephant and Castle is on the up.’

‘We could, yeah,’ says Tom, slowly. ‘But if we break the lease early, we’ll have to find someone to take our room.’

‘What difference does that make?’ I say.

‘I’m just gonna—’ murmurs Yaz, easing himself up from the floor to slip between us, silently leaving through the kitchen door.

‘Well, it’s a lot of faff, isn’t it?’ says Tom.

‘Yeah, but we’d have to do that in a few months anyway,’ I say. The strip lighting of the kitchen feels razor sharp and I notice the beginnings of a headache pinching at my temples. I have an overwhelming desire to sleep, and to keep on sleeping until everything is simple and soft and uncomplicated. Shamaya clears her throat.

‘It’s inconvenient, that’s all. I’ve got a lot of work stuff coming up,’ Tom says.

I have a vision of tense room viewings sandwiched between arguments about affordability and yet another conversation, instigated by Tom, about asking my boss for a wage. If he’d met Mitchell, he’d know you can’t just ask him something like that.

‘I’m just the messenger,’ says Shamaya, wide-eyed and slack-lipped with concern, ‘but if you wanted to get your own hair products, you know, until you figure out the room thing, that’d be great.’

£17.50 for a 100ml bottle of perfumed oil? She must be having a laugh.

Tom gets up from his plastic-box perch and clicks his fingers absent-mindedly. I’m chewing on the skin around my little finger and don’t notice him near me until he’s slipped his hand into mine, pulling me over to stand beside him. His grasp is a little too tight around my fingers and I can feel his rough, bitten nails digging into my palm.

‘We’ll have to sort something out,’ says Tom, breathing through his nose. I twist my hand free, feeling heavy and hollow with the realisation that my housemates clearly find me an utter drag to live with.

It’s true that I haven’t really made an effort with Shamaya, but to be honest, passive-aggressive Post-it notes about ‘bin etiquette’ aren’t the best foundation from which to build a friendship.

‘Come on, we don’t need to decide on anything right now,’ says Tom, his voice soft, eyes insistent. He gives me a little tug and motions towards the door. As we turn to leave, Shamaya puts down her bowl with a loud clunk.

‘Oh, one more thing. Could you also remember to separate stuff for the recycling? I found an After Eight box stuffed in with the milk cartons yesterday.’

‘Elissa?’ Tom prompts, half out the door. He nods towards the neatly labelled recycling tubs and yawns. I swallow with immense effort and kiss my teeth.

‘Recycling. Sure. Not a problem.’

When I try and smile, I bite my cheek and wince at the pain.

Chapter 3

Last night whilst Tom brushed his teeth, I climbed into bed and tucked myself as close to the wall as possible, my back to the door. I don’t know what I thought it would achieve. A prompt to pull me closer, perhaps, even though I’m still angry that he hasn’t once mentioned Shamaya’s smear campaign against me. Aside from grazing the back of my head with a kiss, he’s apparently unconcerned. I spent an hour blinking at the flaking plaster on the wall before I gave up and turned over, hooking my arm across his chest. He shuffled back to nestle into the curve of my body, at which point I must have drifted off. When Shamaya woke me up at 5.30 a.m. with her military stomp to the shower, he’d gone.

The pipe from the basin runs along the wall above our bed and, in my half-conscious state, it sounds exactly like a trickle of wee. I would say there are worse ways to wake up, but after the rampant foxes that shag on the green opposite the flat and sound uncannily like a woman being attacked, the pissy shower is a close second.

There’s a small flurry of birthday messages on my Facebook page and I wonder if it was incredibly narcissistic of me to reactivate my account just before I went to bed last night, largely from a fear that otherwise this day would go entirely unrecognised. They’ve ranged from Maggie’s 12.03 a.m. re-post of an old picture of us from school, aged ten and doing ‘girl power’ peace signs at the camera, to a video clip of my mum and dad on the deck of a cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean. I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying because of all the wind, but there’s lots of blowing kisses from Mum, and Dad is wiggling around and dancing with his elbows up near his ears to avoid spilling his pint. Other than that, a couple of people I haven’t spoken to since school and a guy called Paul I slept with once at uni (bit weird) have sent birthday wishes. Oh, and my brother, who has sent me an emoji of a birthday cake. Nothing from Tom. I guess it’s early.

I’ve missed my designated bathroom slot, as Shamaya is followed by Yaz, who has been singing in there for a full twenty minutes. Tom so irrationally hates Yaz’s singing it makes me laugh. In fact, I’ve always found Tom’s cynicism and general intolerance of other people’s quirks endearing. But then again, it means he also won’t let you talk during a film, or when Pointless is on, or during the cricket, which is sadistic because sometimes those matches go on for actual days.

Earlier, I’d jumped out of bed to put my dressing gown on the radiator and only now manage to slide out of my marshmallow duvet, straight into the gorgeously pre-warmed robe. It had been my nanny’s before she died a few months ago and I’d brought it back to London with me, seeing as she’d hardly used it before she went into hospital. Tom thought that it was morbid and weird, but I find it quite comforting. The thick towelling material had swamped her when she’d worn it; her little bespectacled face peeked out of the top, the belt tied twice round the waist. With Mum and Dad declaring early retirement a few years ago, Nanny had been the only one I could call for a chat without someone thinking I needed money.

From the midst of my bedcovers I hear the muffled tinkling of my snooze alarm, now on its eighth repeat. I look at the screen whilst scraping my hair into a rough bun:

REMINDER: Friday 8.30 a.m. Smear Test @ Vassal Medical Centre

No! How is that today?! No, no, no!

I look at my phone, which now reads 8.11 a.m., and throw it back down on the bed. Mentally calculating my options, I quickly assess the two most likely. One: I could skip it, but that would mean I’m struck off the surgery’s patient list and I’ll have to sneak over the border into Southwark to register under a pseudonym. Or, two: I could go, somehow explain to Mitchell why I’m not coming in, and turn up unshowered with a faint red wine stain around my mouth.

Why would I have booked a smear test on my birthday?! Happy Birthday, Elissa. Here’s your present: having your fanny winched open in front of a total stranger. In addition to the horrifying fact I’d read this morning (at age twenty-six, your cells decay more quickly than they are replaced, so you essentially begin dying. What a treat!) this has to be the worst start to a birthday I’ve ever experienced. Worse than waking up in my second year of university with a sticky pillow, because my housemate had climbed into bed with me and promptly vomited the previous night’s snakebite all over the sheets.

I’d put off asking work for a late start because I couldn’t bear the thought of having a talk with Mitchell about anything even remotely associated with my vagina. I’d tried writing out different versions of the conversation in my notebook, but I’d torn out all the pages like an indecisive teenager writing a love letter.

Last time I went for one, I’d had a mini freak-out in the waiting room when I realised the doctor was a man, so I panicked and told the receptionist that I’d left an egg boiling on the stove and needed to rescue it immediately.

I leave the house with mottled skin from the splash of cold water I’d chucked at my face as I left the flat, and jab Suki’s name into my phone as I quick-walk up the road. Suki picks up on the third ring.

‘Suki, I’m in a—’

‘Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to—’

‘Suki! Suki, I’ve had a ’mare of a morn—’

‘– YOU. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ELLISSAAAAAAA.’

A pause.

‘Suki, I’ve—’

Oblivious to my plight, Suki breaks into a Maria Carey style riff and runs up and down the scales like a has-been 90s diva. ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUUUUUUU!’ The last note turns into a screech and I hold the phone away from my ear.

‘Thanks, Suki, that was, er … lovely,’ I say, my body straining from the burst of movement I’m forcing it into. I take a breath and glance at my screen to check I’m still heading the right way. ‘Suki, I’ve got a problem. I’ve booked a fucking smear test and I’m already late and I’ve forgotten to tell Mitchell. Is there any chance you could make up something that explains why I’m not in? Like I’ve … twisted my ankle or dropped my phone on a tube track or something?’

‘A smear test on your birthday? Fucking hell, Elissa, you know how to celebrate.’

‘I know, I know.’ I don’t know if it’s the sharpness of the cold air on my throat, but I’ve got a sudden urge to sink onto the floor and have a bloody good cry. She’s laughing down the line and I force a smile even though I know she can’t see me.

‘I absolutely would – in a heartbeat – but I’m not in the office, babes. Louis’ got some bloke over from Seattle and he’s using my desk. I’m working from home. Well, I’m playing Street Fighter with Jazz at the minute but I will be working. Soon.’

‘Okay.’ I take a ragged breath and hear my voice crack on the line. ‘Okay, don’t worry. I’ll sort it out.’ I try to feign enthusiasm, but it sounds like I’m in a hostage video with a rifle-clad soldier standing just out of shot. ‘See you tomorrow then!’

‘Snatch night, babe!’

‘Can’t wait!’ My voice wobbles and I bite into the casing of my phone to stop myself from screaming. A man walking in the opposite direction recoils, flicks up the collar of his navy woollen coat, and quickens his pace. My phone now reads 8.26 a.m. and according to the map I’m ten minutes away. Lurching into a quick walk with a hop every other step, I dial Mitchell’s work number and wait for him to pick up. I chew my top lip as it rings for the fourth time.

Just as I’m about to celebrate the far less intimidating prospect of explaining myself to Mitchell’s voicemail, his clipped, nasal voice breaks across the hum of rush-hour traffic on Clapham Road.

‘Mitchell Chandler speaking.’

‘Um, hi, Mitchell, it’s Elissa.’

‘Who?’

‘Elissa. Elissa Evans?’

‘Oh right, Els, what’s going on?’

My rehearsed explanation slips entirely out of my head.

‘Are you running?’ asks Mitchell.

‘Yes, well, no, I mean, I am running but I’m not on a run. Hahahaha!’ Come on, Elissa, initiate brain!

‘Unless you’re about to give me a visual description of your sports bra, I’m not interested, darling.’

‘I’m phoning to … I’m phoning because … I’m having a …’

‘I’m having a fucking existential crisis listening to you. Would you please get to the fucking point?’

‘I’m a … I’m … It’s my vagina! I’ve got vagina issues! It’s a vagina thing!’ I scream down the phone.

What. The. Fuck. I’ve lost it. I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at it in disbelief, gaping as the call lengthens by the second. I want to shove my whole fist in my mouth. I’m effectively fired now, aren’t I? And if I’m not fired I’ve got to quit. And move cities. Possibly countries.

‘I’ll be in later. Thanks, Mitchell! Doctors, you know, the appointments always run late, what can you do! Okaythanksbye!’

Well, that’s one way of dealing with it.

By the time I arrive at the surgery, I’m puce, panting, and sticky from the run.

I strip off my coat and fan myself with a meningitis leaflet to try and appear as anything other than a sweaty monster. The waiting room is bulging with elderly people and parents with tiny, sticky-fingered children who squabble over toys and frayed cardboard books in the corner of the room. A mum, straight out of a Boden catalogue except for the slightly swollen and bloodshot eyes, yawns wearily and pushes a pram back and forth, despite the fact that her chubby baby is gurgling happily on her lap. Behind her, a noticeboard hangs heavy with community adverts: kittens for sale, a request for a French-speaking au pair, mother and baby groups, and local litter-picking walks (I will never be a good enough person to do that.) Just as I’m considering whether ‘mother and baby’ groups are an example of everyday sexism, my name flashes up on the obtrusively large LED screen and I’m called through to room five. Gender politics will have to wait.

Chapter 4

Okay, not the horror show I was expecting. I could have done without being shown that strange speculum thing before it went in (why does it have to be made of clear Perspex?), but in all honesty I’ve had far more awkward sexual encounters with Tom, so this was an upgrade if anything.

As I leave the surgery, I tuck into the wall, allowing a man in an electric wheelchair to navigate expertly round the socked feet of crawling toddlers. I hitch my bag up onto my shoulder, but when I do it catches on thumbtacks and dry Blu-tack, sending a flurry of notices to the floor.

‘Oh, bollocks.’

Hurrying over with small clicky steps and a jaded expression, the receptionist helps me pin the adverts back up, some of which are stiff and crinkled with age. I pass her each notice and after a quick glance, she scrunches and drops most of them into a bin that she’s dragged beneath us using the pointed tip of her shoe.

As I hand over the last one, I waver, and we end up clutching either end of a purple-bordered flyer lettered in bold Comic Sans. From under her thumb, the phrase ‘rent-free’ peeks out at me, along with a picture of a young woman perched on the arm of a winged armchair. In it, an elderly lady sits, her eyes crinkled with a strained smile.

‘Hang on, can I keep this one? Is that okay?’

She looks down at my hands and shrugs, speaking out of the corner of her mouth to save the pins from falling. ‘Sure, saves me some space.’ I look at the flyer and squint to read its sun-bleached words:

Are you seeking a unique opportunity to care for an elderly member of your community? Are you looking for low-cost accommodation, whilst greatly adding to another’s quality of life? The ElderCare Companionship Scheme could be for you! A rewarding and fulfilling opportunity, our scheme is open to anyone patient, friendly, and helpful (over 25 years) willing to be a live-in companion. Contact the ElderCare team to find out more about matchmaking, locations, and availability.

It shouldn’t feel aspirational, but the people on the flyer look so … content? I thought companionship would be easy if you lived with someone, but recently I’ve found myself apologising to Tom for asking to spend time with him. It’s like I need permission to be his girlfriend.

I fold it up and slide it into my back pocket.

I wind my scarf around my neck and walk out of the surgery feeling oddly proud of myself, kind of like when you use a trolley to go food shopping for the first time. I’d done a grown-up thing! And I hadn’t cried! Yes, the doctor may have referred to the scraping of cells as ‘a bit like caving’. Yes, I may have shouted the word ‘vagina’ to my boss, but I have achieved something today!

I stand outside the surgery, take my phone out, and flip the camera round. I grin and point to the sign above the door, adding a spattering of ‘thumbs up’ emojis around my face along with the caption:

I had a smear test and it wasn’t horrendous!

I send it off to Maggie. Within seconds she’s pinged one back, her face grimacing in front of a plywood stage.

Well done Supergirl! I’m auditioning Year Two for the Easter musical. All trying very hard but tone deaf. Only one recorder so far! Bless them!

Oh, Maggie. She has oodles of patience and an unrelenting ability to see the best in everyone, even screechy children. At university, she had the reputation for being the ‘mum’ of our group, so naturally she’s fallen into teaching. Whilst we all took advantage of five-for-£10 sambuca deals at the bar, she’d happily nurse a single pint of snakebite and she’d always put us to bed with a glass of water and two paracetamol laid out on the bedside table. She lives over in Richmond and I wish I saw her more, but she’s busy and I pretend to be. When she does moan, it’s about middle-class mums who linger at the school gates to discuss Japanese counting methods or trampolining club. She says I can call her whenever I like, and she does really mean it, but I know I’ll only have her for ten minutes before she has to get back to marking, or the vital stage of a complicated Ottolenghi recipe. I sound quite bitter. I am, I guess. She’s always known what she wants to do and she’s even been putting money into some sort of ISA that’s designed to help you build up a house deposit, which is an alien concept to me.

Whereas Maggie went straight into teacher training after school, I spent a few years waitressing at a pizza restaurant, gained ten pounds (a calzone for dinner five times a week will do that) and did the odd bit of admin temping until I applied for an internship at Lovr. I’ll admit it: I was seduced by the idea of legitimately working from a beanbag, a Cilla Black for the new age, pinging off witty tweets between coffees (made by the in-house barista, of course).

I inflated my experience; they gradually deflated my hopes of a decent wage, and nine months down the line I’ve barely anything to show for it.

***

As a birthday treat, I buy myself a meatball marinara sub and clutch it like a baby on the tube platform. The train arrives and I sit down, carefully pulling away the wrapper, at which point the train lurches and a fat meatball plops onto my lap. I pick it up and put it straight in my mouth. I’d be mad not to. This thing cost me £4.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and scrunch the soggy wrapper into a ball, licking each finger clean before I pull out the flyer I kept from the surgery. I smooth it out on my leg to study in closer detail. The old lady pictured is buttoned up in a lilac cardigan and next to her a woman with pastel hair and a nose ring holds a plate of bourbons between them. It reminds me of the battered biscuit tin my nan kept in a cupboard of her little council house. My chest aches a little at the thought.

I read over the flyer again: ‘Live-in companions wanted in London.’ This might, might, just be my last resort, if Tom’s still weird about breaking the lease early. Sigh. If it’s only for a few months before we can find somewhere new together, what have I got to lose?

Chapter 5

I leave the station as one of a sullen mass, jostling our way onto the streets of East London, until the crowd spreads and splinters down side streets and into glass-fronted buildings. The smell of sweet, fried dough from a churros stand mingles with the remnants of last night’s gnawed chicken bones, which are scattered around Shoreditch’s ‘Silicon roundabout’ – the grubby cousin of California’s ‘Silicon Valley’. They might have palm trees and curated gardens, but we have a hot yoga studio inside a shipping container and baristas who sigh when you ask for cow’s milk.

I pull out my phone. Am I completely mad? Is this a decision that will frame my quarter-life crisis? I could just get a fringe, or start going to CrossFit classes and then humblebrag about how enriched my new life is all over social media. I hover over the green ‘dial’ button on my phone and press it before I can convince myself that prostitution is also a feasible option.

It’s ringing. They’ll hear my desperation on the phone, won’t they? From the list of companion credentials, the only bullet point I can mentally tick off is ‘friendly’, but beyond that I’m not sure what I could offer a pensioner. If a burglar tries to break in, I’m hardly going to stop them from nicking anything; I’m about as intimidating as Eddie Redmayne in an arm wrestle. I’ll hang up. Mum and Dad were right. I’m not cut out for London. Maybe if I moved back to Hereford for a bit and took up that job at the garden centre with Auntie Rena and—

‘Hello, this is ElderCare, Alina speaking, how can I help you?’

‘Um, hi there.’ My stomach lurches. ‘I’ve seen a flyer for your home-share scheme and I wondered if you might, by any chance, still have a need for a companion? You’ve probably got everyone you need, but if—’

‘No, no, no, we’re far from full! Thank you so much for calling! What’s your name?’ I tell her, along with how old I am and how long I’ve lived in London, leaving out any details about this companion gig being a very likely temporary situation.

‘So, let me give you the rundown about how the scheme works.’

‘Sure.’ She sounds so chipper. I wonder, how many people have actually rung through about it?

‘We’re a charity who work within a number of residential villages for the elderly, as well as older people who want to continue living at home, but for whatever reason are struggling to retain the same level of independence they had in their younger years.’

Oh God, please don’t say it’s wiping bums, please don’t say it’s wiping bums …

‘They’re not at the stage where they need a full-time carer, but what they often have in common is a sense of isolation. They might only have the TV for company, not have the confidence to leave the house, or cook proper meals for themselves, because it can be depressing eating dinner alone, right?’

It sounds like she’s describing me. All the evenings I’ve reheated pasta with a heap of grated cheddar on top, only to eat in bed with RuPaul’s Drag Race for company. ‘Yeah, I can imagine that’s horrible,’ I say.

‘So, we’ve established a mutually beneficial arrangement: our companions move into a spare room in the home of one of our gorgeous older people, rent-free, and keep an eye on them. They do small things that make a big difference, like going for a walk, cooking a meal together, getting books out of the library, making sure they don’t rob any banks …’ Alina starts laughing and I join in, now within sight of the office.

‘Honestly though, it isn’t too much responsibility. I always say that it’s like living with your grandma, without the uncalled-for observations about weight gain, or how her other grandchildren visit more than you.’ She laughs again and the sound makes me smile.

This might be the longest conversation I’ve had with a stranger for … weeks? Maybe she’s being too nice. Like she’s trying not to put me off because volunteers are thin on the ground. She needn’t bother, because if Tom doesn’t want to live with me right now, it’s not like I’ve got any other options.

‘Elissa?’

‘Sorry, I’m here. What was that?’

‘I said I’m sending over an application form with all the nitty gritty details in it. Try to be as detailed as possible in the longer answers, because if it turns out that you’re eligible, we use that information to match you with one of our lovely older residents who we’re sure you’ll get on with, okay?’

‘Okay, sounds great!’ I say.

‘Speak soon, Elissa!’

I hang up and stand there for a moment, looking up at The Butcher Works, a building I recognise as Georgian from countless Sunday mornings spent watching Jane Austen adaptations whilst nursing a hungover with Maggie. You wouldn’t be able to tell from the inside, what with all the exposed pipes, polished concrete, and surplus of bean bags.

There could be loads of benefits to moving in with an elderly person, right? I like talking to old people. I feel a bit weepy when I see an elderly man at the bus stop, especially if he’s got medals pinned to his chest, although you hardly see them nowadays. I used to love staying at my nanny’s house, too. We’d have a dinner I’d never think to cook myself, something like minced beef pie with cabbage and watery gravy. Then again, knowing my luck I’ll match with an old pervert who worked in advertising fifty years ago when it was normal to sexually harass your secretary.

***

Even though Mitchell bangs on about how the ‘hot desk’ system was designed for ‘self-motivated, free-flow work cycles’, everyone ends up in the same spot each day. Rhea spends the morning at the ‘walking desk’ (essentially a slow treadmill with a laptop stand), Jonathon is nearest the kitchen (makes a lot of tea to avoid work), Bismah is next to the radiator (always cold), Adam faces the door (to monitor the attractiveness of incomers), Rodney’s tucked round the corner (sometimes I don’t notice he’s there until the afternoon), and I sit in the middle at an angle (so no one can see my screen and question why I watch so many videos of hamsters eating tiny versions of regular dinners).

I’ve managed to slip in without talking to anyone. After a lunch that lasts the best part of two hours, Jonathon walks in flanked by a guffawing gang of tech guys, one of whom sways on the spot, having reacted badly to Jonathon’s day drinking. I can’t hear exactly what he’s saying because I’m watching a TED talk about human altruism in an effort to look busy, but it’s clearly hilarious because his little group of cronies laugh and shake their heads. I pull one of my earphones out just in case I overhear something I can add to my secret list of ‘Reasons Why I Hate Jonathon’.

‘And then one of you dickheads spilt a White Russian all over the ping pong table. How much did you pay for that again? £15? What a mug!’ Adam, who for unknown reasons was invited to Jonathon’s lunchtime schmoozing – possibly to help legitimise the £500 bill – smiles and shrugs awkwardly.

‘I still won, didn’t I?’ he says. ‘What was it? Five games for me and how many for you? Four, I think?’

‘All right, mate. No need to get all Billy Big Bollocks about it.’ Jonathon laughs and smacks Adam on the back, and he bluntly smiles in suppressed annoyance. The others titter around him. From my desk, this display of male posturing is so potent I can almost hear David Attenborough’s commentary: ‘And here we have the young corporate man, defeated by the alpha male for failing to “banter” with necessary vigour.’ Jonathon waves them out the door and exhales deeply, cricking his neck from one side to the other.

‘I’ll pop a cafetière on, shall I? Enough for …’ Jonathon points to those gathered around him and mouths numbers. ‘Rhea? Coffee?’ She shakes her head from her treadmill by the window. Jonathon looks around the room, catches my eye for a split second, and turns back to the others. ‘Four then.’ Ha! I don’t even want a coffee. I’ve got one already; a coconut latte with butterscotch syrup that I spent £3.70 on.

Bismah comes in wearing a huge puffer jacket that she sheds like a chrysalis under a blast of heating above the door, draping it over the radiator near her desk. She puts down a Pret a Manger bag and opens her drawer, pulling out an impossibly long scarf that she winds around her neck and shoulders as she sits down. ‘Cold today, isn’t it? I’ve got two head scarves on. Have you spoken to Rachael on reception?’

‘No, I haven’t been in long, why?’

‘Something’s going on. Something big.’ Bismah looks at me in earnest and lowers her voice. ‘Rachael was flitting about and I overheard her on the phone trying to order a cold buffet, but not from that place we had last time with the brown food and soggy salad. Do you remember?’

‘For the market research thing? Yeah, gross. Bleurgh.’ I’d actually enjoyed that food. It was free and there was loads of it. I’d even snuck back up before the cleaners came in and filled a tub with dry brownies and veg pakoras.

‘Mitchell’s ordered from the delicatessen in Selfridges. The stuff they only get in when the investors are here. Have you seen it? They carve the carrots into lotus flowers and emboss the app logo onto macaron shells. It’s too nice. I doubt there’ll be leftovers we can swipe.’

‘You’re right. We might get to scoff some dry sandwich crusts.’ I tap the table with my pencil. ‘As a treat, you know?’

‘Potentially. If we still have jobs by then.’

My stomach twists into a knot and before I can question Bismah about what she’s just said, Mitchell opens the doors with a double-handed shove and strides towards his glass cube, stumbling over a loose laptop cable as he goes. I really want to laugh but going from the look on his face I decide that this would be akin to signing my own death warrant.

‘RODNEY!’ Mitchell stands rigid, having recovered from his trip. Rodney’s head appears, meerkat-like, from behind a whiteboard that he’s wheeled in front of his computer. His eyes are magnified and watery from the thick-lensed glasses he wears.

‘Why, in Chairman Mao’s name, is there a FUCKING LAPTOP CABLE ON THE FLOOR?’

Adam skips across the room and picks it up. ‘Er, it’s mine, boss. Left it out – no big deal,’ he says casually. Everyone tenses and looks from Mitchell to Adam to Rodney, like we’re watching a match on centre court.

‘Put it down, Adam.’ Mitchell’s cockney voice has turned soft and supple. You’d think he was comforting a kid who’d just grazed his knee on gritty tarmac. ‘There’s a good lad.’ Adam looks around. No one moves. ‘Come here, Rodney. That’s it. Come on. What’s this, Rodney?’ Rodney pushes his glasses back up his nose.

‘It’s an AC adapter.’

‘Is it? An AC adapter?’ says Mitchell, pinning Rodney to his side, who visibly stiffens at such contact. Mitchell laughs and turns Rodney to face us all. ‘Guys, it’s an AC adapter! Bismah!’ Bismah squeaks. ‘Did you think this was an AC adapter?’

‘Um, yes.’

‘Who else thinks this is an AC adapter?’ Mitchell looks around the room, winching Rodney round under his arm. ‘Come on, Bismah, get your hand up! Jonathon? Rhea? You?’ He looks at me, his neck stretched and sinewy. This is a trick question. We all know this is a trick question. I look at the corner of the ceiling and raise my hand like all the other muppets in the room. ‘Right! So we’re all agreed, are we? This is an AC adapter.’ We’ve all put our hands down, except for Bismah, who looks so terrified she must have mentally detached herself from her own limbs. Adam and Jonathon nod.

‘WELL IT’S FUCKING NOT! IT’S A TRIP HAZARD.’

Mitchell plonks Rodney down on a beanbag, which makes a ‘pfffff’ sound as he lands. Watching this is like sitting through a dinner party with people you don’t like, whilst the hosts bicker in the kitchen. Mitchell rolls his head in a semi-circle and stands behind Rodney, who must be meditating or something, because he’s completely expressionless.

Mitchell rests his hands on Rodney’s shoulders, massaging them in a way that is clearly painful. ‘Relax, Rodders! All that stress!’ His voice is almost a whisper. ‘Forgetting to replace the laptop batteries … leaving cables all over the floor … what’re you like, eh?’ Oh God, there is nowhere to look. I’ve gone a bit hot and feverish. Abruptly, Mitchell releases Rodney and makes a show of helping him to his feet.

‘Ten minutes. Upstairs. Conference Room.’ We remain deadly still. Mitchell gives Rodney a final withering look, picks a bit of fluff from his shoulder, and continues into his office, kicking the door closed.

‘Bismah.’ I scoot round in my yoga ball chair. ‘You can put your hand down now.’

***

I make another cup of coffee, which is unusual for me so late in the day (I get jittery and paranoid), and head upstairs. I’ve only visited this level of The Butcher Works once before, when I was given a tour on my induction day. Lovr’s meetings never take place here. They involve nights out, beer, and a lot of blowing wind up someone’s arse, which is best done outside the office.

When I get to the landing, the others are huddled in the corridor like moody teenagers loitering outside an off-licence in the hope that a passing adult might buy them alcohol. ‘How come we’re all out here?’ I say.

‘Mitchell doesn’t know the code to get in,’ says Rhea, nodding towards a tablet sitting on a podium beside the door. She looks more impatient than amused and I find it odd that no one sees the irony in a tech CEO locking themselves out of the ‘smart security’ system. We stand there in silence, except for Adam and Jonathon who are talking about last night’s rugby match. After a few minutes, Mitchell appears, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. He inputs a four-digit code that he’s drawn in biro on his hand.

‘Voila.’ He goes in first and paces the room whilst we take our seats. Not wanting to infuriate Mitchell with my notebook, I left it downstairs (hidden out of sight), but now I feel naked and underprepared. Needing to do something with my hands, I wrap them both around my mug. I wonder if I look all cosy and warm like the cover of a Danish lifestyle book?

‘Do you want the shit news, or the shit news first?’ Mitchell says, putting his hands on the table. Oh, it’s this kind of meeting.

‘Er, the shit news?’ says Adam.

Mitchell turns a chair around and sits down with one leg crossed over his thigh. He looks out of the window and scratches his chin, pushing his orange-framed glasses up onto his head. He doesn’t acknowledge that anyone has spoken. ‘Bismah, you got a calculator on you, darlin’?’ He’s talking in soft, quiet tones – the Mitchell equivalent of a rhino scraping the floor with its foot.

Bismah dives under the desk and pulls out a scientific calculator that I vaguely remember using in maths at school, mainly to work out different sums that would all provide the answer ‘80085’, which looks like ‘BOOBS’ on an old mercury display. Ahhh, those were the days.

‘Type in £270,000.’ Bismah taps it into the calculator. ‘Good girl.’

Mitchell lists a number of costs and expenditures that Bismah inputs with a long, manicured nail, deducting from the total. Some of it seems obvious (domain subscription), but a lot doesn’t (£576 drinks bill from Adam’s last water-polo-themed client meeting). Finally, Mitchell finishes with a breakdown of the rent he pays for each desk in The Butcher Works.

Numbers have never been my strong point (the only thing I know is that they go down whenever I post something on our Instagram account, which is the opposite of what’s supposed to happen), but even I can tell that this isn’t adding up properly.

‘Now take away £179,489. That’s what I pay for all of you.’ He motions to us. I inwardly scoff. It’s not like I see much of that money.

‘What does that leave us with, Biz?’ Bismah blinks slowly. She hates it when people shorten her name.

‘Well, er … nothing.’

‘Be more specific,’ he snaps.

‘Minus £117,983. And 72p.’

Mitchell nods slowly and turns to face us all. ‘Well, I see university wasn’t wasted on our Bismah, was it? That’s the news, fellas. We’re in the fucking shitter and no one brought a paddle. MediaCell – our only guaranteed source of investment for the next fiscal year – are going to pull their funding if we don’t show some serious fucking improvement.’ He looks at us with accusation.

‘So, what to do?’ I’ve realised by now that this is not a meeting in which we’re expected to contribute. Mitchell looks like he’s delivering a Shakespearean soliloquy; he’s all narrow eyes and dramatic irony.

‘Bake sale?’ pipes up Jonathon, tittering to himself.

I can see the exact moment he realises what a terrible mistake he’s made. His face sort of … spasms and he shakes his head rapidly, biting his lips as though they’ve betrayed him. Despite his clear discomfort, it’s brilliant to watch. I wish I could turn it into a looping GIF to watch whenever I feel a bit sad. Mitchell fixes Jonathon with a hard stare. ‘Get out.’

‘What?’ says Jonathon, eyes darting around the room as though the ‘bake sale’ joke had come from a phantom body elsewhere. ‘Like, out of the room?’

‘Like out. Out, the opposite of in. Out, as in out of the building. Out, as in out of work.’ Mitchell has froth in the corners of his mouth.

Jonathon looks with incredulity at each of us, like this is a clear injustice and we should all be standing up for him. When no one does, he gets to his feet abruptly, blinking, like he’s about to cry. ‘Mitch?’ he says. After a horribly awkward silence, he whips open the door and disappears down the corridor. Holy fuck. I cross my fingers under the table in the hope that I’m not asked to take on any of Jonathon’s responsibilities: namely analytics, contracts, and pretending to do more work than I’m paid for.

‘Here’s the situation. Encounter have just launched a subscription platform. It uses a patented matching algorithm that works in real time to schedule dates in a user’s calendar without the need for previous virtual interaction.’ That’s exactly what we’d planned to launch next month. ‘They’ve got there first, which means three things. One: our guys over in Bangladesh who were working on the interface have done six months’ work which is now useless, but we still need to pay them. Two: MediaCell have suggested they’ll transfer our funding over to Encounter if things here don’t change. If they do that, we’re toast. Three: we need to come up with a new, different, better idea that keeps us relevant. And we have to be making a profit from that idea within three months.’

The silence in the room is like a taut balloon. Since when did my breathing sound so loud? Adam coughs. We all look at him, expecting him to say something that’ll deflect attention away from any of us. He drums his fingers on the table, which is somehow worse than before. A noise – a bit like a lawnmower chugging to life – comes from the end of the table. Mitchell is … laughing? He definitely sounds like he’s laughing, but he looks more like The Joker just before he detonates a bomb that’ll blow up a school, or a river cruise full of veterans, or something else equally disturbing.

‘What’s the matter with you all?’ He laughs and rubs the three-day-old stubble on his chin. ‘Why’re you all so fucking miserable?’

Oh, I don’t know, because you’ve told us we’re going to lose our jobs in three months? Because you just fired Jonathon for making a bad joke, like he’s done every day since I’ve been here? Because you look like you’re going to chop someone’s fingers off with a pair of bolt-cutters? Dear God, this man is unhinged.

This is a peak example of ‘classic Mitchell behaviour’; it’s like he rolls a dice and whatever emotion comes up, he goes with it, even if it doesn’t match the situation. Just before Jules (his last PA) went on maternity leave, he told her to work from home for her last few days with us because he ‘needed some time to process what she’d done’ (she was eight months pregnant at this point). Then, on her last day he threw her a surprise party (costing hundreds) and gave a speech on the beauty of new life that was genuinely moving. He even shed a tear.

‘Er, shall we … come up with … some sort of strategy?’ Rhea says. After an extended pause, Mitchell jumps up with sudden alacrity and smacks his hand on the table.

‘Yes! A strategy! I only had to wait a fucking age for someone to suggest it! Rhea, darlin’ –’ Rhea looks up, nervous ‘– you’re getting a pay rise, my girl. This is what I want! Solutions! Not problems! That’s what you’re on the books for!’

Buoyed by this sudden validation, Rhea launches into a proposal, but Mitchell holds up a hand. ‘Don’t be fucking simple, Rhea, I’ve already come up with an action plan. I haven’t been sat at home with me trotters up, twiddling me thumbs, have I?’

‘No, of course you haven’t. I just—’

‘In three weeks’ time, we’re going to meet again, in here, and each of you is going to pitch a rebrand.’ He draws his hands in an arc, as though he’s a 1930s Hollywood director announcing his next big picture. I think I might have audibly sighed at this point, because Mitchell turns to me, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

‘Don’t think this doesn’t concern you, Miss Evans.’ I’m shocked. I really didn’t think he knew my last name. ‘You, Rhea, Bismah, Adam, and even Rodney over there will be pitching. Did you hear that, Rodders?’ Rodney, who up until this point had been coding on a mini laptop at the other end of the conference table, looks up from his screen. ‘Blink once for yes and twice for no, Rodney! You. Pitching. Yes?’ Mitchell over-enunciates his words. Rodney stares back, completely devoid of expression.

‘Fine,’ he says.

‘Three weeks. Two minutes each. Within the hour I’ll decide who wins and everyone – and I mean everyone – is going to be working their backsides off to make it a success. Got it?’ We all nod furiously and stand up, ready to get as far away from this horrible meeting as possible. Mitchell jabs at the keypad and swears under his breath.

‘Can anyone figure out how to open this fucking door?!’

Chapter 6

I stay at work half an hour later than my usual clock-off time, which is something I do pretty frequently on Fridays. It’s a semi-believable reason to keep my head down when Jonathon initiates a mass exodus to a bar round the corner. Occasionally, a mate of his invites me out of pity, which is an offer I can’t accept, not since the ‘cokecident’. Too frugal to buy beer, I’d once taken up an offer of Coke (thinking of the beverage) and ended up in a disabled loo watching Jonathon and one of the skinny girls from MeowCall snort lines of cocaine from the toilet cistern.

Back at the flat, the heating doesn’t kick in until 6.30 p.m., so staying at work for a little longer means less time turning myself into a sad blanket burrito with a hot-water bottle shoved under my arse. I riffle around in my bag for my bruised and neglected banana and as I do, my fingers catch on the pointed edge of a card. Pulling it out, I bend the corners straight and see my name hastily scrawled along the envelope. Tom’s handwriting.

Before I get too overwhelmed, I pull the card out to find a sun-bleached image of a martini glass, the glue marks showing beneath patches of glitter that spell out ‘Birthday Girl!’ I’m so horrified by Tom’s poor taste that it’s a few moments before I realise where I’ve seen this card before: in the window of the corner shop below our flat, where it has sat for approximately thirty-seven-and-a-half years. Wow. Tom’s hardly sentimental, but this? Inside, the message reads: ‘Sorry I’m not there. Have fun. Tom.’ That’s it? It’s so impersonal, I’m almost offended. I am offended. My throat feels thick. I pinch the skin between my finger and thumb and count down from ten, nine, eight … a fucking martini glass?!

I steal one of Bismah’s posh tea bags and make a cup of tea, using Tom’s shit card as a coaster. On my laptop, I open the questionnaire I’ve been slowly adding to all afternoon and scroll down to number nine. ‘How much time would you be willing to dedicate to your ElderCare companion?’ I’m not sure if this is a coded question. If I say, ‘whenever I’m not at work because I can’t afford to go out,’ would that be seen as a red flag? Too desperate, perhaps? I go for ‘most evenings and weekends, except for occasional nights at my partner’s residence’. Partner sounds better than boyfriend. More … mature. Under ‘hobbies’ I write, ‘Baking, swimming, and nature documentaries,’ which is well-rounded and wholesome enough to sound legitimate. After attaching a photo, I press ‘send’ and turn my screen off.

Tom is usually out on Fridays with the other venture capitalists. I’ve met up with them a couple of times in the past, but unless you’re out-of-your-mind-pissed, thumbscrews would be less painful than sustaining a conversation with one of his colleagues. Before he got promoted, I would say that Tom was too much his own person for silk ties and Möet. But when he won golf clubs from his office raffle and asked if I’d like a set so I could join him on the course at weekends, I knew he’d turned to the dark side.

As I’m waiting for my computer to shut down, I think forward to my prospective weekend and am engulfed by a wave of loneliness. I should be at the pub with workmates. I should be ordering £12 cocktails, or chipping in for a bottle of prosecco. I should be one of those dainty drunk girls you see slumped against the Perspex partition on the tube and secretly judge for their smeared mascara, but also envy. I’m twenty-six. It’s my birthday. And so far today the most fun I’ve had has involved two strangers gaping at my vagina and a video of dogs pretending to play musical instruments.

I open my phone and ping a message to Maggie, copying the same text to Suki even though there’s a very slim chance either will be free tonight. I should have made plans knowing Tom was away, but I think part of me left it late on purpose. At least if I’m stuck on my own, it’ll be down to bad organisation. The thought of being cancelled at the last minute for a better Friday-night offering is too much.

When did it get so hard to socialise? When did I have to start bargaining with myself to make plans? If you go and have a coffee with that snooty girl from your last job, you can read in a café by yourself for two hours afterwards. If neither Maggie nor Suki messages me back, I’ll buy a bottle of wine on the way home and have a bath, even though there’s a strong chance that it’ll need a deep clean before I can possibly put my bare arse in it.

I hoick my tote bag up onto my shoulders and pick up my phone as it pings. It’s a voice note from Suki:

‘Yo, birthday bitch! Sorry I can’t come out tonight. I’ve got a ceramics workshop. Forgot I booked it for my ex, didn’t I? Long story short, Jazz now thinks I’m into romantic surprises, so might have shot myself in the foot, there. Snatch night tomorrow, though! Ah, that reminds me. A mate of mine is a curator at a gallery in Mayfair and there’s a charity art auction in a few weeks’ time if you fancied coming along. It’ll be packed to the rafters full of tossers, but free booze, right? Let me know. See you soon, bud!’

I smile and play it again, listening to her shoes scuff the street amongst the guffaws of City boys who drift in swathes to Shoreditch for Friday drinks, having only worked two hours either side of lunch. The sound of Suki’s voice drowns out as Pamela, the cleaner, starts dragging a Henry hoover across the floor. Why is it that his creepy cartoon eyes always look slightly … mocking?

***

When I get to our flat, I hear the rumbling bass of a bloke talking and the distant chatter of a crowd. I tentatively push the door open to our kitchen-cum-dining-cum-living room as a swell of cheering swiftly merges into an incomprehensible football chant. Yaz jumps in front of the screen, which replays a goal I presume he just scored on a video game, and is about to pull his T-shirt over his head when he spots me.

‘Oh, hey, Els!’ he says somewhat sheepishly. The leather sofa creaks as his mates turn to look at me too. He pulls his shirt back down and makes finger guns with his hands. ‘I got you a birthday present!’

He did? I didn’t even know Yaz knew when my birthday was. He scoots past me to the fridge and pulls open the door. A sausage roll sits insipidly on a plate with a single candle stuck in the top. Sweet, really. I know we might not have exchanged much in the way of heartfelt discussions, but if there’s one thing I haven’t kept secret it’s my love of ‘so-cheap-it-can’t-be-real’ meat wrapped in flaky pastry. ‘Oh thanks, you shouldn’t have!’ I say, feeling a tad embarrassed as his mates, exclusively wearing a combination of white shirts and ‘nice jeans’, start a rowdy version of ‘Happy Birthday’, with added fist pumps. Yaz scrabbles around in his back pocket and pulls out a lighter. I give it a second or two before I blow it out again and smile meekly.

‘Look, Tom’s checked in with me about everything that’s gone on between yous two.’

This completely throws me. I think about what ‘goings on’ Tom could possibly have informed Yaz about, because as far as I’m aware, we completely failed to talk about the impending reality of my being homeless before he buggered off to Vegas for a long weekend.

‘Mmmm,’ I reply, deciding to play it cool until I’ve got a single fucking clue what he’s talking about.

‘Yeah, so like, I wanted to let you know that you don’t need to worry about finding someone to take the room, yeah? Tom mentioned that he was gonna let you find a replacement so we don’t have to get the estate agent involved – save on those fees – you know what I’m saying?’ Yaz thumps my shoulder and grins conspiratorially. It takes me a little while to process what he’s said. If Tom isn’t planning on staying, which is news to me, why would he expect me to advertise our room, all whilst figuring out how to avoid living behind the trolley stand at Sainsbury’s? That total, total shit! He’s the one who was funny about terminating the rental agreement early.

‘Right! Totally!’ I say. I must look psychotic, because Yaz looks a little scared.

‘My mate Lance is looking for a place and he can move in as soon as you’re ready.’ A guy with a neat haircut salutes me from a beanbag on the floor. His aftershave is so strong I can practically taste it. ‘That’s him! So, we can keep it all between us, but just let me know when I can give him the green light, okay?’

I look down at the sad-looking sausage roll and bite off a huge mouthful. The candle hangs from a soggy flap of pastry. ‘That’s great, Yaz,’ I say, spraying him with crumbly flakes of dough, ‘in fact, tell him next weekend is just perfect. Fuck, if he wants to come earlier, he can top and tail with me!’ Yaz squints, unsure if I’m having a laugh. ‘I’ve actually got something lined up, so tell him he can start bringing his stuff round.’ Yaz takes a small step away. Come on, Elissa, resume normal human interaction.

I swallow the wodge of beige mush and feel it slowly travel down my throat in an uncomfortable clod. This was a bad idea; I can barely breathe. ‘So, you all off somewhere exciting tonight?’ Yaz looks visibly relieved.

‘Yeah, we’re heading to a bierkeller near Borough. You know, two-litre pints, bratwurst, girls in Bavarian costumes …’

‘Ah, beer and boobs, I get you!’ I’m not sure I do get it, though. I’ve been to one of them before. It’s basically a load of blokes who ironically wear lederhosen, whereas the girls have tits pushed up to their chin and pin plaits across their forehead. ‘Have a good one,’ I say to Yaz, who vaults over the back of the sofa and picks up a video game controller.

‘You too,’ he says, giving me a thumbs-up without turning around.

I take a tumbler and head to my room with a bottle of red that I’d hidden behind a bag of lentils, in case of emergency.

***

A few hours later, I hazily sit up in bed and kick off the blanket that I seem to have swaddled myself in. The flat is mercifully quiet, so I pad down the hallway and flick the central heating onto ‘manual’, ignoring the sign next to it, which reads,

LEAVE THE HEATING ON TIMER OR WEAR A JUMPER!!!

Shamaya, who is luckily spending the weekend at her parents’, taped it up as soon as she moved in.

Back in my room, I plug my laptop in and slide under the covers. I clumsily stab at the play button and lunge at my half-drunk tumbler of wine as it slips off the bedside table. Ross Poldark (the greatest period drama hero of all time) is threshing a field topless and it requires my absolute attention. Does he need to be threshing topless? No. Is it a health and safety concern that he’s threshing topless? Yes. Do I know exactly what ‘threshing’ is? No, but that doesn’t matter. I take another swig of wine. It slips over my tongue like velvet, softening the edges of Captain Poldark’s sweaty abs, which are now stuck with bits of straw and muck.

The doorbell rings.

I groan and swing my legs out of bed, pull my hoodie straight, and stand up. Whooooosh. My vision twists and the wall shunts sideways as I scrabble for the door handle and squint down the hallway. The nice fuggy feeling of red wine I’d had in bed with Poldark (I like the way that sounds) now throbs above my temples. As I shuffle down the corridor, the intercom rings again and I knock the phone off the stand by accident, my hand feeling paw-like as I swipe at the cord. From the receiver I can hear a woman’s voice. Oh, standing is so hard. I solve this problem by sliding down the wall until I’m sat on the floor. The receiver swings in an arc near my head and I mentally congratulate myself for making the horribly difficult task of picking up the phone oodles easier.

‘Hello?!’ I shout at the dangling mouthpiece.

‘Elissa? Elissa, is that you?’

‘Yeah wodduwant?’ I slur back.

‘Elissa, buzz me in! It’s Maggie!’ A sharp bubble pinches my throat.

‘Mags?’

‘Come on, my love, buzz the door!’

‘Okay, Mags,’ I say in a quiet voice. I stretch and smack the wall above my head until I make contact with the buzzer. A light trundle of footsteps taps up the stairs a few seconds later. By the time she’s squatting down next to me, smelling of the cool outdoors and jasmine perfume, I’m sniffing and crying in long-drawn-out sobs. She encircles me with puffy sleeves from her duck-down jacket. I want to slide my legs out and fall asleep with my head nestled on her chest.

I’m not sure how long we stay there on the hallway floor. I can vaguely sense Maggie cooing at me in soft tones, her hand rhythmically stroking my hair, but it sounds distant, like her voice is playing through a muffled train speaker.

‘Come on then, up we go, one, two, three!’

She lifts me up to my feet and we stand there a while, swaying and hugging. It feels so nice. This is the first time I’ve been properly touched or held in weeks. Not in a sexy way, obviously. I feel as sexually appealing as Mr Bean, and Maggie is my oldest and most platonic friend. She gives off a very maternal, matronly vibe, which is something I did tell her once, but she didn’t take it very well. I meant it as a compliment.

‘Oh, you’re such a pickle, aren’t you?’ she asks me after making me drink a pint of water.

I nod at Maggie, my head a little less cloudy now.

She smiles at me sadly, her red hair falling in a feathered curtain as it slips from behind her ear. She tucks it back. ‘Come on, let’s get you into bed. And if you drink the rest of that water, I’ll bring through something nice for you.’ Maggie walks me to my bedroom, her thumb moving in little circles on the small of my back. I climb under the covers obediently.

‘How come you came here, Mags?’

‘Have you looked at your phone? I sent you so many messages! I was going to come over here and surprise you! I thought you might need a cheer-up. And I needed some adult company. Just after I texted you this morning, one of the girls in Year Two got the pre-audition jitters and turned into a vom-cano during a rousing performance of “This Is Me” from that circus film.’ She smiles through a grimace. ‘Els, it was awful. Her bonkers mum insisted on coming in at breaktime to rig up these aerobatic ribbon things,’ she gesticulates in front of her, ‘and then plied her with Skittles before shoving her on stage.’

‘Well, that’s one way of encouraging talent,’ I say.

‘It’s the “drama mums”, they’re worse than the “sports mums”. Although I suppose in their way they’re being encouraging and supportive. And they pay for the costumes,’ Maggie says with a guilty smile.

‘Sounds like child exploitation.’ Maggie side-eyes me. ‘What kind of show are you putting on? It all sounds a bit serious.’

‘It’s a musical version of King Lear,’ Maggie says, blinking erratically.

‘Is that appropriate for seven-year-olds?’

‘Not entirely, but I had to chair the PTA meeting and my idea of Hansel and Gretel set in a dystopian future got completely shot down. You’ll never believe this, Els …’ She shifts to face me and puts the plate down, looking mischievous.

‘What?’ I turn my head on the pillow towards her, a surge of affection tickling my ribcage. I don’t want to be around anyone else right now or talk about anything other than the deranged parents of her students. I hug her arm and put my head on her shoulder, smiling contently.

‘Giselle’s mum – she’s the self-appointed spokesperson – she actually said that the set design for a house made of biscuit could be triggering for some of the students with gluten intolerance.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Honestly! She did!’

‘I’ll come and watch it, Mags.’

She squeezes my hand. ‘Ah, thank you, peach. Anyway, that’s how Giselle ended up spraying us all with rainbow vomit. And that’s when I decided that I’d had enough of anyone under four feet tall, so I decided to come here and hang out with you.’

‘You’re too good.’ I put my head on her shoulder. ‘This reminds me of when we used to get in after a night out, except no one’s lost a shoe.’

‘It’s a bit early for that. We wouldn’t have left for the club yet.’

‘What?’ I scrabble for my phone and see that it is, indeed, 22.04. Messages from Maggie dominate my notifications, including a public tweet asking after my whereabouts. Best hide that before work on Monday. ‘Oh my God. I’m an embarrassment. I hope the next twenty-six years of my life aren’t as pathetic as this.’

‘Don’t say that! You’re doing great! You’re a big-shot Twitter person who gets all the gossip on dating and love! You’re pretty much a fairy godmother, except you have an algorithm rather than little mouse helpers!’ I smile sadly. She’s being so nice, I don’t have the heart to tell her how unlike my life that sounds.

In a haze of incomprehensible spluttering, I tell Maggie about Shamaya wanting me to move out, but leave out the part where Tom does absolutely nothing to comfort me. I’m not ready to talk about it.

‘If you want to get away for a bit, I’m sure Mum and Dad won’t mind if you come to ours for a few days,’ says Maggie.

‘Thanks, Maggie. Honestly, that means a lot.’ I take a deep breath and smooth the duvet cover over my legs. As nice as Maggie’s parents are, they’re very … hands-on. My family thought it was a terrible idea when I moved to London. Impractical gifting of beauty treatments aside, Mum’s favourite motto is ‘what you can’t do on your own isn’t worth doing’ and Dad’s is ‘happy wife, happy life’, so there you have it. I need to keep up the appearance of independence, at the very least.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I add. ‘I’m going to try and figure something out with Tom. Maybe have a look at some new house-shares for us.’ I look around at our unremarkable room and frown at a red-wine stain on the carpet that wasn’t there earlier. Maggie’s smile is a straight, thin line, and my heart hurts all over again.

Chapter 7

It’s still early when I wake up the next day. The universe is targeting every sense as a way to rouse me: the early Spring sunshine hits my eyes in a retina-scarring blast, my pyjamas stick to my back and legs, and a repetitive ringtone is trilling so loudly it’s like rusty spoons are scraping in my earhole.

Maggie, an annoyingly heavy sleeper, is lying comatose beside me, her forehead dewy. My temples feel like they’re clenched in a vice. Hangovers never felt like this before. What would my twenty-one-year-old self say if she could see me now? Eurgh. I can’t even have a sad, drunken night alone successfully.

I lean over Maggie, who turns away from me and pulls the cover up to her chin, despite the sauna-like temperature of the room. I guess I forgot to turn the heating off last night. Shamaya would go ballistic. I groggily pick up my phone and see that it’s a London number. To answer, or not to answer; that is the question (for anyone my age, so it seems).

I press the green button and clutch my forehead. ‘Hello?’ I croak. If this is an advert for PPI repayment, I swear I’m never answering my phone again.

‘Hello? Is that Elissa Evans?’ says a bright and offensively cheery voice.

‘Yep, Elissa, I am her, I mean yes, Elissa talking. I mean, Elissa speaking,’ I garble back at her. By now I’ve woken up Maggie, who blinks at me from under the cover with small, puffy eyes.

‘Sorry!’ I mouth at her.

‘It’s Alina from ElderCare. Sorry to call on a weekend! I’ve got the graveyard shift. How are you?’

‘Alina! Yes, I’m great, thanks!’ I lie. She must notice my voice, which sounds like Tom Waits if Tom Waits was into heavy metal and liked taking meth of an evening, because she says, ‘I haven’t woken you up, have I?’

‘Ha! Not at all! I was just making pancakes, actually!’ Maggie wiggles her eyebrows at me expectantly, and slowly pulls the duvet down from her face. I shake my head and shrug.

‘Okay, so I’ve got some great news. Are you ready?’ Oh God. Alina takes my silence as an invitation. ‘We’ve found you a match!’

‘Er, a match?’ My stomach sinks. Have I signed up to some sort of geriatric dating service where homeless girls living in London can find a sugar granddaddy? I’m desperate, but not that desperate. Maggie sits up in bed. She’s clearly eavesdropping and looks increasingly confused.

‘Yes! A match! For the home share? I got your application yesterday and processed it straightaway. It really helped that you were so detailed. Usually I have to phone back and forth to get the right information before I’m happy to set up a meeting, but not this time! I don’t think I’ve had an applicant tell me about winning the “biggest sunflower award” in primary school before. Hahaha!’ Alina’s laugh is gutsy and loud. I feel myself wincing. ‘Just joking with you, sweetheart!’

In total, I spent the best part of four hours filling in the questionnaire, more out of boredom than anything else. I renamed it ‘social metrics for unique user engagement by location’; dry enough to stop Mitchell from snooping on me from his office.

‘I’ve had a lovely lady called Annie on my books for a little while now. We had her matched up recently, but it fell through – nothing to do with her, of course, just a slight issue involving her neighbour and a dog. You like dogs, Elissa?’

‘Um, sure! Dogs are great!’ I mean, dogs are dogs, aren’t they? I can’t say I’ve spent that much time around them, other than the occasional cockapoo at Brockwell Park.

‘Well, that’s great! I should add a “dog question” to the form … Hang on, I’m just writing myself a Post-it note …’ I can hear a scratching sound as Alina jots something down. ‘Right, what was I saying? Oh yes! Annie. She’s a lovely lady. Eighty-three years old. Widowed housewife. Lives in Hampstead – great part of London. Do you know it?’

With wide eyes and a deep frown, Maggie yanks my arm to pull the phone away from my ear. I twist out of her grasp and hush her quiet, scooting to the other side of the bed where she can’t reach me.

‘No, I mean, I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been,’ I reply. I’m very sceptical about ‘great parts of London’.

‘Okay, so I know this might seem quick, but if you’re happy to go forward, you can meet Annie this afternoon. I’ve already spoken with her and she’s had a read of your application, so what we need to do now is put a face to the name and after that comes all the boring logistical stuff: DBS, references. How does that sound?’

‘This afternoon?’ I grab Maggie’s arm and ignore her melodramatic reaction as I twist her wrist towards me. It’s 11.08. So, practically the afternoon. My head throbs and it feels like my skull is cracking from the inside. I really hadn’t thought anything would come from this, not this quickly anyway. I’ve barely had time to look into places for me and Tom, which would obviously be preferable to becoming a pensioner’s skivvy, even if it was only for a few months. Alina charges on, oblivious to my pain.

‘Annie has suggested 3 p.m. Craig from the ElderCare team will be there as well, you know, just in case he needs to pull your leg out of the dog’s mouth!’ She booms with laughter again. ‘Joking, ain’t I? I’ll email you over the address now. Call if you need to, love! Bye, bye!’ I look down at my phone and over to Maggie.

‘What was all that about? You hardly said anything but you seemed to be agreeing to a lot.’

‘Hmm. Yeah. I think I might have signed up to something really stupid.’

Maggie sits up and takes both my hands in hers. She’s using her teacher voice, which is equal parts sympathetic and stern, but also a little bit patronising. ‘I don’t want to be nosy, and I’m saying this because I care …’

Oh, my head. I want a little break from adulting now. I’ve done far too much of it over the past few days. I wonder how much it would cost to go in one of those sensory deprivation tanks. And then just stay there. For ever.

‘If you’re struggling for money, Els, I can lend you some. You don’t need to do this,’ says Maggie. I take a huge gulp of water and wipe my mouth with my forearm.

‘I’m just going to go and see what it’s like, Mags. Don’t worry.’

‘Well – and you know I’m just as much a feminist as you – I just don’t think this should be your last resort.’

‘Maggie.’ I move my hands and wrap hers instead. ‘It kind of is. Mum and Dad are on another cruise and stopped giving me handouts when I got my first student loan. The money Nan left me has mostly gone on my Oyster card, and my boss hasn’t given me a single sign that I’m going on the payroll any time soon. Tom is … Tom’s got this issue with the lease. I haven’t got a choice.’

‘You always have choice. Women should always have a choice. I can’t let you do this.’

Why is she being so self-righteous? It’s all right for her! Maggie’s parents won’t hear of her leaving their river-fronted townhouse on the banks of the fucking Thames and they bloody well don’t charge her rent either!

‘Well, I am, and you know what? For the first time in … ages, I feel like I’m doing this because I want to. And they might be really nice!’ I climb over her knees and pull my stretched grey pyjama top over my head.

‘When have you ever heard of them being nice, Elissa? They might treat you well at first, but I’m telling you now: intelligent, vulnerable people still get exploited.’ Maggie takes a deep breath and sits up straight. ‘This choice might seem right now, but it’ll follow you everywhere. It’ll ruin sex for you. I know they say you can detach from it, but I know you; you’re too sensitive.’ Maggie looks like she’s about to cry. ‘I mean, it’s your choice and your body, and of course, I’ll still be here whatever happens, but I can’t help thinking that you’ll come to regret this.’

‘Maggie,’ I say slowly. ‘What do you think I’m actually doing this afternoon?’ Maggie’s brow furrows.

‘Well, you know …’ She looks hesitant now. ‘I don’t want to say it.’

‘Did you think I was going to let someone shag me so I can pay the rent?’ Maggie’s expression smooths and she stifles a little sob.

‘No. No … that’s not what I thought at all.’

‘You did!’ I jump up. Maggie shrieks and I jab her ribs with my knuckles, laughing at how ticklish she still is. ‘I’m bloody well not becoming a sex worker!’

‘In my defence, you were in a very … distressed state last night!’ she says, between gasps. I stand up and shake the mass of curls out of my face. There’s no time to style it. A topknot and a comb-through will have to do. I pick up my knickers and ping them towards her. She screams and pulls the cover up as a shield.

‘I’m having a shower.’

‘Hang on, what are you actually doing this afternoon?!’ Maggie shouts at me down the corridor.

‘I’ll fill you in over porridge and coffee!’

***

I tell Maggie about ElderCare and the plan to go to Snatch that evening, but Suki has already messaged her (somehow) so she’s coming along. A tiny part of me hoped that Suki had forgotten, or had double-booked herself, but she’d sent me a clip this morning: her head on a pillow with another girl’s hand lazily draped across her collarbone. In it, she whispered, ‘Snatch night, Snatch night, Snatch night’ over and over again into the microphone, so I guess it’s still going ahead.

Maggie has gone off to meet her boyfriend Martin, whom she met last July on a charity gig overseas. From what I gather, it’s a scheme for overachieving teachers who don’t feel exhausted enough by the end of the year, so spend their summer holidays training educators in India. I’ve met Martin once but haven’t really formed an opinion of him yet. He laughs at Maggie’s jokes and doesn’t mock her for being perpetually upbeat, which is more than I can say for her previous boyfriend.

I’m due to meet Annie in a place called Evergreen Village at 3 p.m., which is around twelve minutes from Hampstead station and on the same tube line as me. Questions are swirling around my head about Annie and how this ElderCare thing might work, if I have to go through with it. I click through the website, which has the same garish branding as the flyer, and look at images of happy companions doing implausible activities: decorating a cake that I’m 99 per cent sure has been shop-bought for the picture; completing a puzzle and laughing as if it’s the most fun thing in the world; and walking down a garden to point at a slightly dog-eared rose.

I smile at this last one. When I’d go back to Hereford between terms at university, my nanny would always say, ‘Come and take a turn around the estate,’ which was entirely ironic because she had a tiny back-to-back garden. She’d point out all the flowers that had bloomed since my last visit, or tut in frustration at the molehills that had appeared overnight. Her little two-up-two-down terraced house had once housed seven children and she barely spent a day alone, right up until she went into hospital for the last time. Loneliness hadn’t been an issue for her. She’d had the same neighbours for decades and they swapped gossip over the garden fence about the new postman or ‘her who’s moved into Reggie’s old place’.

A single bed and handrails in the bath, though? I mean, it’s hardly the young professional life I’d imagined when I moved to London and got a job that didn’t exist when I was at school. But it can’t be worse than washing Yaz’s pubes down the plughole before taking a shower. I wonder if old people are more gross to live with than guys in their twenties who ingest all their protein in liquid form?

I think of Annie and wonder at the kind of old person she might be. Uppity and posh? Making the kinds of jokes you have to apologise for afterwards?

I wonder if last resorts really are last resorts if you’ve said that about every living situation open to you? I click through to a rental website and move the sliders down to the cheapest bracket possible, a perpetually depressing experience. The map of London, initially obscured by little purple flags indicating available property, reveals itself at such speed it’s like watching the opening titles for EastEnders. If I have to find a place by myself (and somehow manage to get upgraded from ‘expenses only’ to minimum wage) there are three. Three rooms that I could afford in Europe’s biggest capital city. I skim-read the entries and am left feeling a bit sick and slightly creeped out. Of the options available, one was masquerading as London, but was really in Southend-on-Sea with a two-hour commute; one wasn’t a spare room, rather a space in a ‘platonic double bed’; and the last was a shed. A shed. It was described as ‘spacious for a single tenant, with privacy shield’, but in reality it was a fucking shed shoved into a living room with a sofa propped up against it.

Chapter 8

I get off the tube at Hampstead and follow the map on my phone down a street with rows of tall Victorian red-brick houses dotted with sash windows and dainty shop fronts. I weave between demure middle-aged women who march along the pavement with arms looped through boutique bags. Others walk and sip coffee, pausing occasionally to look in the window of an estate agent, all whilst a well-behaved dog sits elegantly at their side. The bakery near my flat in Stockwell, which struggles to charge more than 50p for a croissant, would look entirely out of place here. Instead, pastries glazed with crackled syrup and delicate pastel macarons line patisserie windows. As I head up the hill, the shops make way for houses pushed back behind iron railings and heavily pruned box hedges. I veer left where the road splits into a single lane that tucks between holly bushes and a patchwork brick wall that ripples with ivy. We’re not in Stockwell any more.

On a final cobbled lane, blossom drifts against heritage-green garage doors and Victorian lampposts flank the entrance to austere-looking townhouses. This can’t be right, surely? Where’s the Sixties prefab with pebbledash walls and mossy rooftiles? The net curtains? The geraniums? This turreted stone gatehouse must be a portal to some sort of elfin village; it surely isn’t a home for the elderly. The entrance, a pointed archway, is framed with a Latin motif that sits below two Grecian statues; one holds a scroll and the other a set of scales.

Partially hidden behind the waxy leaves of a budding rhododendron, a carved wooden sign states ‘Evergreen Village’. I’d once flicked through a book called Secrets of the Capital and managed to skim-read a chapter on ‘London’s Villages’ before the sales assistant sarcastically asked me whether I was going to buy it. I was pretty convinced that places like this had been swallowed up by modern developments, or were empty through foreign investment, but here, barely five miles out of London, was a Dickensian remnant of the past. And it was glorious.

I check the email Alina has sent me. Along with the postcode, she’s written an instruction. ‘Tell the porter at the gate you’re there to see Annie and he’ll walk you round to her cottage.’ Tell the porter? I would if I knew what a ‘porter’ was …

I push on the iron gate and it swings open with well-oiled ease. ‘Um, hello?’ I say, stepping quietly under the archway. My footsteps echo down the length of sand-coloured stone. I pass beyond the threshold and hear a frantic scuffle, quickly followed by the appearance of a uniformed man who pops up behind a half-open stable door, his arms by his sides.

‘Welcome to Evergreen Village. You are Elissa, yes? Mrs De Loutherberg expected you five minutes ago. I’ll walk you over. Come this way, please.’ He unlatches the stable door, nods his cap as he walks briskly past me, and marches around the perimeter of an oval-shaped green that has been given a horticultural crew-cut, with ruler-straight lawn lines and metal edging. The man stops at an entrance between two hawthorn bushes and motions ahead with an upturned hand.

‘Please, this way,’ he says, before turning towards the gatehouse, leaving me alone in front of a lacquered front door. Annie. You can’t be horrible and be called Annie, right? De Loutherberg, though. No one at my semi-rural comprehensive school in Hereford would have got away with a name like that without getting thumped in the arm. I’m imagining Dame Maggie Smith, an uppity dowager, all wide eyes and quivering jowls.

I look around for a non-existent doorbell and as I duck down to see if it’s hidden between the vines of a creeping wisteria, a dangling rope knocks against the back of my head. I pull it hard and the shrill sound of a bell peals from a tiny tower above the porch. I jump back and look as it violently swings back and forth, then glance over my shoulder. An elderly man stares at me with his hedge trimmers poised over a juniper bush. In the cottage next to him a curtain twitches and a chunky woman steps quickly behind it, nearly out of sight but for a protruding stomach.

‘Hello, Elissa. How are you?’ A moon-faced man answers the door and stands with his hands on his knees, like I’m a new puppy he’s taken a liking to.

‘Fine, thanks. Sorry about the bell,’ I stammer, but he ignores it and beckons me inside onto a woven grass mat.

‘Shoes off!’ He points to each of my feet, like I didn’t realise I had two of them, and stands next to me with his hands clasped behind his back in the manner of a slightly creepy priest.

‘I’m Craig. Alina must have told you about me on the phone?’

‘Yep, she did. You work for ElderCare too?’

‘I do indeed!’ Craig replies, rocking on the balls of his feet. I’m aware of his body in proximity to mine and subconsciously lean away from him. ‘Twelve years as a warden for our ladies and gents in Hampstead. I also cover Kentish Town and round by Camden. Some would say that’s a big area to look after, but I’m sure our residents are lucky to have me!’ He spits out a laugh. Poor sods. ‘I visit them once a fortnight, or more if they haven’t got an ElderCare companion, which is what we’re hoping you’ll become.’ He smiles at me without showing his teeth and juts his chin forward. ‘This is a quick visit really – completely standard procedure – to make sure you two click and the like.’

‘Yeah, of course. I mean, I could be an axe murderer or some sort of scam artist trying to steal the weekly pension!’ I laugh and pull at the ends of my scarf. Craig doesn’t seem to get the joke. ‘I’m not, obviously. I’d be a terrible axe murderer. I’m quite clumsy with sharp objects.’ Stop talking about axes, you total moron!

‘Right you are. Shall we go and meet Annie now?’ Craig smooths his oily fringe over his forehead and I’m quite frankly insulted that he’s the one who looks more uncomfortable.

Craig leads me through an archway into a light, airy living room that opens into a small kitchen at the back of the house. A pair of French doors are pulled wide open and the tinkling of a wind chime drifts in from outside. Sitting in a wooden chair, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, is Annie.

‘Ladies! Annie, Eloise—’

‘Um, it’s Elissa?’

‘Right. There! Now we’re all introduced!’ Craig claps his hands in front of him and his blue polo-shirt rides up a couple of inches to rest on his hairy belly. I catch myself staring, so smile and turn to face Annie instead, but she’s looking out of the window bobbing her velvet moccasins up and down. Oh no. I’ve been lumped with a senile. I do not have the benevolence for this.

‘I’ll let you ladies chat whilst I do the rounds. I’ll be fifteen minutes or so, all right? Don’t be naughty!’ He speaks with palpable sarcasm, not that Annie has noticed. She’s quietly humming to herself. I hear Craig close the front door. The noise of Annie’s carriage clock thrums loudly from the living room and the sound of secateurs cuts the silence into awkward chunks of time.

Annie turns to me after a minute and lets out a sharp laugh. ‘Thank Christ. I thought he’d never leave.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.