The Lonely Fajita

by Abigail Mann

  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.’
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br />   ‘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.