by Abigail Mann
‘I mean, if you’re asking …?’ Mystery Running Man says. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, did that actually work?! All those years spent reading flirting advice in Cosmo as a teenager, and almost passing out from a light jog is the method that does it? I open my mouth, about to wrap things up so I can’t embarrass myself further, but he starts talking. ‘That’s not what I meant. I was joking. Badly.’ He looks up at the sky and shakes his head. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes. Loads. Thanks.’ I smile at him in a way I hope comes across as coy but charming.
‘It’s probably low sodium levels. Marathon runners get cramps and feel dizzy all the time because they’re sweating all the salt out.’ Less talk about sweat and more talk about how you want to lick my face, please. He taps his watch again and the timer starts up. ‘I’ll see you around. What’s your name?’
‘Elissa.’
‘Nice to meet you, Elissa.’ He puts his earphones in and … was that a wink? He winked at me! It wasn’t a big wink, but it was clearly a wink.
I wonder if there’s some sort of app that allows you to see if you run the same routes as Mystery Men who rescue women with diminished cardiovascular ability? Could be a bit dodgy; I’m 99 per cent sure it would end up getting used by stalkers who like to flash their willies from beneath a trenchcoat.
As I limp back to Evergreen, I remember Tom, red-faced and angry at how terrible I was the only time we went jogging together. In fact, he jogged off and left me clutching a silver birch sapling for support. Normally I feel guilty when I think about seeing someone else. Today? Not so much.
Chapter 18
The following Monday, I manage to get in and out of the bath in a record fifteen minutes, including the time it takes to fill it with three inches of water. Annie is up early, sweeping soggy blossom from the patio into a dustpan. I make her a cup of tea in her favourite china teacup and put it on an upturned terracotta pot in the greenhouse as I leave. I walk around the oval green, even though every fibre in my being wants to take a shortcut over it. I did that once last week and there was a Mexican wave of curtain-twitching.
George and Margaret are sitting on a bench in the early morning sunshine, and as I pass their gate, he smiles and waves at me with big, swooping arms. Margaret scowls. The sky is clear and blue, except for a criss-cross pattern of jet streams from planes heading into Gatwick airport. The dogs who trot on loosely held leads, the petals caught in the wind, the smell of sourdough as I pass the posh bakeries near the tube station – it’s all a beautiful distraction from what’s waiting for me at work.
During days on the underground when the noise of the wheels grinding around corners is too loud for my motivational Beyoncé playlist, I like to play a game called ‘Spot the Hipster’. It basically involves predicting which people in my carriage are going to get off when we arrive at Old Street. The biggest clues are: man buns, bum bags worn across the chest, and very severe fringes. But this morning I’m far too distracted. I’m tempted to avoid going into work altogether by just … not getting off the train.
Even though Annie struggles to understand what it is my job involves, I’ve had to accept that she (infuriatingly) made total sense when we spoke about what the ‘community dating’ campaign could mean for me. Last week, I described the secret photograph Suki had taken of the presentation (I left out the details of Mitchell and Rhea to save her from an early grave) and she doesn’t understand why I’m reluctant to lead a campaign that was my idea in the first place. She also gave a rousing speech, whilst gesticulating with some sticky baklava pinched between her fingers, about how women should own their own accomplishments, rather than let a bloke re-fabricate them as his own. She’s very modern for a pensioner. Obviously, she’s right, and whilst the petty side of me wants to remind her that she gave up a career for her husband, I know she’s telling the truth.
Even though I truly believe that I made a decent – if improvised – pitch, I would happily let someone take that away from me if it meant I could stay anonymous. What if the whole thing fails miserably and I end up blacklisted from ever working again, because I’m the one who stuck my neck out? I think about what I’d say to someone else in the same predicament as me – Maggie, for instance. I’d absolutely turn all Sasha Fierce and tell her to work it, own it, sell it, and take a fat payslip home at the end. I’m a totally upstanding feminist, except when it comes to me.
I try and keep a low profile when I get to work, expecting everyone to look at me with collective cynicism, but the mood is instantly bright and … sweet Jesus, cheerful? Mitchell can’t have announced the Pitch Off results yet, otherwise I doubt there’d be this much festivity. A table has been pulled into the middle of the room and on it sits a hot plate with a steaming jug of coffee, a tray of assorted Danish pastries, and sliced fruit arranged in aesthetically pleasing concentric circles.
Mitchell still has the blinds pulled down inside his glass cube and Rhea is once again missing from the walking desk. They’ve either gone straight back into his office, or alternatively never left it at all.
I take a few slices of kiwi from the fruit platter and lick my chin as the juice dribbles over my bottom lip. Adam takes long, lolloping steps over to me.
‘Why’d you have to eat it?’ I go to spit it back out into my hand, purposefully to annoy Adam, but he grimaces and looks away. ‘Me and my girlfriend do a food blog. Circles do well. Circles and hands, that’s what the algorithm likes. But you know that, eh?’
I nod along, pretending that, as the social media manager, I’ve got a clue as to what he’s on about. Food and circles? Why do people care? As for algorithms … well, that’s an ongoing mystery.
‘Haha, yeah, sure!’ I reply as Adam precisely rearranges the fruit with the end of a pencil.
I hang up my jacket and scarf and pull a face at my coffee cup, which has grown a crust over the weekend. As I turn back to the kitchen to rinse it out, Suki walks in. She winks at me and slides down the banister into our work space, her yellow-stitched Doc Martens clumping as she reaches the bottom.
‘Heard there was free food, so thought I’d come and say hello.’
‘How do you know about things like this? I’ve only just got here myself.’
‘You’re not on the right email lists, my friend,’ she says, giving me a lopsided smile. ‘Is all this in honour of your big campaign launch?
‘Shhhhh! No one knows that we saw—’
‘Mitchell and Rhea shagging in the romantic silhouette of a dusty projector?’
‘I knew,’ says a monotone voice from behind us.
‘Holy fuck, Rodney! You can’t sneak up on people like that!’ says Suki. Rodney blinks. How he manages to move with silent precision in an office made largely of glass is beyond me.
‘How long have you been standing there?’
‘I knew,’ he repeats, his face empty.
Suki spins round in surprise and drops half a cinnamon swirl on the floor. She kicks it under Adam’s desk and puts one hand on each of our backs, shoving us forward into the kitchen. There’s no one in here but the cleaner, who has earbuds in and hums tunelessly to a beat of late-Eighties soul music.
‘Er, context, please, Rodney?’ I say. He looks at me and blinks twice. Suki runs a hand over her bristled head impatiently.
‘Mitchell and Rhea. They’ve been making love every Thursday evening between 6.15 and 6.45 p.m. And sometimes between 6.50 and 7.20 a.m. on Tuesdays.’
‘Well, if that isn’t disturbingly specific, Rodney,’ says Suki.
‘They think I’ve gone home. But I haven’t. It is rare for anyone to notice when I have left.’ Rodney sniffs and wrinkles his nose to push his glasses back up.
‘Oh, er, I’m sure that’s not true, Rodney,’ I say, trying not to catch Suki’s eye. She is standing out of Rodney’s eye-line, biting her knuckles in awkwardness.
‘I don’t say it to inspire guilt. I prefer it that way.’ Rodney shrugs and smiles meekly. I try and paint a look of friendly encouragement
on my face, but it’s like building rapport with a mannequin.
‘Well, we sort of knew they were, you know—’
‘Banging,’ interjects Suki.
‘Yes, er, that. But do you know anything about the new campaign?’
Rodney squints, which I interpret as confusion.
‘Basically, Elissa needs to know if she’s going to become a Diary of a Call Girl type “girl-about-London”,’ says Suki. Rodney’s squint deepens.
‘I don’t know about the new campaign. I just write the code,’ he says, clasping his hands.
‘Right, well, great chat, Rodney, we’ve er, got to get on,’ I say, walking over to the sink. I find a fork to chip out the hardened coffee granules in my mug. Rodney clearly doesn’t feel it necessary to respond, because he’s already halfway out of the door.
‘He’s lying. He knows something.’ Suki looks through the kitchen window at Rodney’s receding figure, or what there is of a figure beneath a magnolia T-shirt that’s at least three sizes too big.
‘He doesn’t. You’re paranoid,’ I say over the spluttering of the hot water tank as steam fills my mug. I’ll ‘let it soak’, which, of course, is every lazy person’s reason for letting mouldy crockery linger.
‘Honestly, he does. I just know it.’
‘You’re acting like he’s a serial killer, Suki.’
‘He might be.’
‘Sook!’
‘What? I’m just saying! He’s weirdly chill about this whole thing, don’t you reckon? I mean, I know you think he just does the code round here, but Frank on the third floor saw him chatting to Amy – the one with the funny ears? – and both of them were proper spooked when Frank interrupted. Just saying.’ Suki chews the corner of her lip and folds her arms.
‘I’ve never seen him chat to anyone down here. I mean, I’ve tried, but—’ I break off as Adam taps on the window and points to an invisible watch on his wrist.
‘Bloody hell. Suki, this is it.’
‘Calm your tits! Look, I’m coming in with you. It’ll be fine. Well, it might not be if Rodney really is a serial killer …’ She drops to a whisper as we head back into the office and upstairs to one of the smaller meeting rooms. Mitchell holds the door open as people walk past and I can see he’s got sweat patches already. He’s either as nervous as I am or hasn’t quite recovered from last Friday’s rendezvous with Rhea. Suki bounds in behind me.
‘Sook, you in with us for this?’ Mitchell asks, rubbing his chin.
‘Yeah, got a calendar invite last night. Tech streamlining for the new campaign? Oh, thanks, I’ll have one of those, Bismah.’ Suki pulls a chair out and swipes a hulled strawberry from the fruit platter as Bismah places it on the table with a wobble. Bismah smiles and flexes her wrists. She’s such a tiny human, it’s a wonder she manages to hold up an iPad without toppling over.
‘Tech streamlining? For what?’ I hiss at Suki as she pulls her leg up onto her knee and leans over.
‘Chill out, I made it up. I’m meant to be working from home. Couldn’t leave you to face this lot alone, could I?’ Suki winks and pops a grape into her mouth.
‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling a little prickle in my throat. ‘That means a lot.’
‘Eh, it’s nothing.’ She shrugs.
‘Right. Sure.’ I fiddle with the elastic on my notebook, which I have no intention of writing in.
I’ve just got to remember what Annie said. I can’t keep dancing away from opportunities because I get freaked out and assume someone else could do it better than me. Come on, Elissa. You’ve got this.
‘Okay, chaps. You all know what this is about, so let’s just cut to the cock and bollocks of it all, shall we?’ Mitchell theatrically taps the screen, but nothing happens. ‘For fuck’s sake, Rodney! £43 an hour and we can’t work a flat screen? Give me your iPad. Give it to me. The iPad, Rodney!’ Mitchell cricks his neck from one side to the other and flares his nostrils as Rodney inputs the passcode with floppy fingers, eventually mirroring the presentation onto the screen.
Mitchell nods as we look at the images displayed in gargantuan HD, then turns to me and winks. In the corner, under the title ‘Community X Lovr’ is a picture of me that I recognise from my ID badge. In it, I’m wide-eyed and so shiny I look like I’ve had an accident with a vat of chip oil. Wonderful. A murmur of acknowledgment drifts around the room, made worse when Mitchell starts to clap. Adam points double-handed finger guns at me and the others look decidedly relieved that they’re not the ones who are now responsible for the app’s success.
‘Now, Elissa,’ Mitchell says as the noise of clapping diminishes. ‘No pressure, darlin’, but myself and Rhea over here –’ he squeezes her shoulder and she flashes a smile down at the table ‘– have been working all weekend putting in the final details of a campaign inspired by your pitch.’ Rhea clears her throat and Suki kicks me under the table with the toe of her giant boots. I wince in pain and feign surprise. Mitchell slides his glasses on top of his bald head and adopts a pose of intense speculation, fingers interlocked under his chin.
‘A little birdy told me that our lovely Els here is single. That right, sweetheart?’ Mitchell raises his eyebrows and looks around the room. Oh God. This is so much worse than I imagined. It’s one thing to ‘own the campaign’, but I didn’t sign up for a budget Cilla Black experience. Does he actually want me to answer?
‘Well …’
‘She’s keeping her cards close to her chest,’ Mitchell says, grinning. Thankfully, everyone else is starting to feel as uncomfortable as I am, because eyes are going in all directions, except towards me. ‘If Elissa chooses to accept, which I hope she does, as you lot won’t be paying your bills otherwise …’ Mitchell coughs out a laugh then flicks all expression from his face ‘… seriously though, we think you’re right, Els. About the whole “community dating” thing. It’s the best idea we’ve got.’
I take a moment to ignore the fact that I’m in Mitchell’s unenviable Short Name Club and instead mentally log the compliment. My idea was the best one. I should probably say something at this point instead of blinking into the middle distance.
‘Um, thanks. I mean, it’s got some holes in it. I didn’t spend a huge amount of time working on –’ I bite my lip. I’m doing it again. Why am I giving reasons for why I don’t deserve this? Think of Annie, Elissa, think of Annie. ‘– the pitch, I guess. But I honestly believe that this has potential, you know? And before you ask, I’ll do it. I’ll be your poster girl, I’ll face the new campaign, whatever. I came up with it, so I should see it through, shouldn’t I?’ My breathing is shallow and beside me Suki leans away to cast an appraising look over my (slightly clammy) frame.
‘Right. Well, this meeting is going to be significantly shorter than I thought. Els, I like your enthusiasm. Feisty. Just what we need to promote. Rhea, you making notes?’ Rhea nods as her lacquered fingernails clack on a propped-up tablet.
‘Everyone got their listening ears on? Sitting comfortably?’ says Mitchell, eyeing us all around the room. A few sit a little taller and shuffle in their seats. Rodney pinches his earlobes, as though he’s taken Mitchell’s request literally. ‘Okay, so we’ll begin.’ Mitchell clasps his hands and pouts over his index fingers. It’s astounding how quickly he can switch from patronising to pensive. ‘Experiences. That’s what we’re in the game of, here. I won’t parrot what Elissa told us all last week, but in a nutshell, youngsters – and I do still class myself within that bracket – don’t want a “shag and see how it goes” type situation. That’s the measure of it, right, Elissa?’ It’s absolutely not the bloody measure of it.
‘Um, well, yes, and no, I mean—’
‘London is thriving,’ says Mitchell, cutting me off. ‘It’s full of people from everywhere in the world, but we’re all too caught up in our own heads and our own screens and then, BOOM! We realise how fucking selfish we are and all of a sudden, we’ve got a generation that could empathise with a blood-starved gnat. So, rather than book ours
elves an orphanage tour of Southeast Asia, we can get them doing wellness workshops and community work here.’ At this, Rhea bridles. I’ve seen her pictures on social media: bikini-clad, giving out fizzy sweets to children with mucky clothes and swollen bellies. She called it a ‘philanthropic cultural exchange’. I call it exploitation, especially when the next picture is her in neon body paint drinking from a bucket of cheap cocktail and ketamine at a Full Moon Party.
‘We’ve got six weeks. Each week, we’re going to curate a unique date for Elissa to go on with a bloke.’ My stomach lurches. I haven’t dated since Tom and I first got together. Back then it was Netflix, takeaway pizza, and sex in a cold flat with the duvet pulled up to our ears. The thought of Mitchell having a hand in my breakout dates makes life in a convent sound incredibly appealing. ‘It is blokes, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, yeah it is.’
‘And that date can be anything from a craft workshop, to a one-off yoga session in a skyscraper, to a charity day getting rid of needles on the Hackney towpath … I don’t know. I’ve got some contacts to pull in, and Big Man over here –’ Mitchell motions to Adam, who casually salutes the room ‘– is gonna be on the blower to connect us with agencies and events. Rhea?’
Rhea cranes her neck as she types. ‘Oh, right. Bear with me.’ It’s clear that half of what Mitchell says is too inappropriate for the official minutes. She finishes her sentence with a flourishing tap of the keyboard and flicks her ponytail over her shoulder, folding her arms. ‘So, Elissa, our social media guru, will go on these “experience dates” each week.’ Her voice is a tone higher than usual and ripples with sarcasm. Maybe I’m imagining it? Oh, no, she’s just done air quotes. She clearly isn’t happy about something. ‘Suki’s team will be developing an algorithm, but for now I’ll manually match Elissa from our database, which is still active, although not operating with optimum user levels. Okay?’