by Lucy Diamond
‘Er . . .’ She definitely wasn’t about to tell him she had basically begged for it. (All in all, there was quite a lot she wasn’t telling her boyfriend about this new career path, she thought guiltily.) ‘Well, I just phoned up and pitched some ideas, she asked me in for a chat and then gave me the commission, basically.’ She jokingly flexed her bicep. ‘Georgie power!’
He was looking at her with what could only be described as respect. Respect and – yes, she was certain of it – admiration, too. Overall, the combination was a powerful one, leaving her more than a little giddy to be basking in such approval. It had been some time since he’d looked at her like that, as if she was worth anything. ‘Cool,’ he said again. ‘What magazine is it? Anything I’d have heard of?’
‘It’s this local one – Brighton Rocks,’ she replied, bubbling over with pride at her own success. ‘It’s really good: funny, irreverent, contemporary . . .’
But somehow she had lost him. ‘Oh, right,’ he said, and just like that, the respect and admiration seemed to be dimming. ‘What, one of the freebies? I thought you meant . . .’
She felt herself flush. He thought she meant a proper magazine, in other words. A big fat glossy one sold in train stations and WH Smith. ‘Well, yeah, it is one of the freebies,’ she admitted, ‘but it’s still good. It still counts!’
‘Sure,’ he said appeasingly, although she could tell his interest had waned, and he was no longer so impressed. Oh God, he was even looking a bit sorrowful, a bit patronizing, as if she was an idiot for being pleased. ‘And they’re actually paying you, are they?’
‘Yes!’ She glared at him. Why did he have to be such a wanker about it? This was what she’d been dreading: him being half-hearted in his congratulations, dismissive, even. As if she’d dare ask if his employers were paying him properly. ‘Look, do you want to go out or not? Because any second now, I’m going to withdraw my offer and you’ll have to fend for yourself.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d love to go for dinner. And I am pleased for you, of course I am. That’s brilliant news.’
Yeah, she thought, her buoyant mood souring as she went to put on some lipstick and perfume. Well, it had been brilliant news in her mind, anyway – right until she told him about it, that was. And now she felt as if he had written her off, not taken her seriously. Her hackles rose as she blotted her lipstick and she realized she was scowling at her own reflection. Well, she’d show him, she thought crossly. She’d show him when she was nominated for some prestigious writing award and accidentally-on-purpose forgot to thank him in her winner’s speech. Ha!
Hey Em,
I’ve got this terrible problem. I . . .
Sitting cross-legged on the bed the next morning, Georgie got straight to work. That had been her intention anyway, but having read through the letters from Viv three times now, she didn’t feel inspired. They were all too daunting, too out-there for her to know how best to reply. Still, she was not one to be easily defeated, no way, and so she had taken the executive decision to make up a letter of her own, one she thought she could actually answer. With a bit of luck, Viv wouldn’t spot it wasn’t genuine, especially if she came up with something absolutely brilliant.
Now all she had to do was come up with said piece of brilliance. Unfortunately this appeared to be the downside of the plan. Shit. She read through the existing eight words she’d typed so far – three hundred and ninety-two to go! – and bit her lip, fingers hovering over the laptop as she waited for further inspiration to strike. Hmm.
She drank the last of her coffee, wincing at how pokey it was. She’d made herself a really strong one, hoping it would blast away the remnants of her hangover but so far it was only making her jittery. God knows how Simon was managing at work when he’d been even more rat-arsed than her last night.
Sighing, she fell backwards against the pillows, pulling ugly faces at the ceiling. Ugh! It was hugely unfair, feeling so morning-after-ish when she hadn’t even enjoyed a very good evening out. They’d gone to Mexica, this fancy restaurant on the seafront – fancy but not cheap – and she’d nearly had a coronary when the bill arrived at the end. Yes, all right, so she had said ‘Money’s no object!’ in a grand sort of a way as they sat down, but he could have chipped in a bit, couldn’t he, when he had ordered the steak, the most expensive thing on the menu? He could at least have slipped in a tenner for the tip rather than leaving her to ferret around for the last coins in her purse, feeling stressed about the fact that she might just have bankrupted herself in a single vain act of showing off. That would teach her.
Worse, Simon hadn’t been in a very good mood. He’d yawned a lot and checked his emails as they came in, and moaned on the whole time about all the problems they were facing at work, and how a group of protestors were threatening a sit-in at the hotel site. (‘But why?’ Georgie had asked, to which he grumbled, ‘Because they’re a bunch of sanctimonious twats with nothing better to do, that’s why.’) To be honest, it was kind of annoying after a while, especially as this was supposed to be a celebratory dinner. Georgie had almost been put off her very expensive food by how irritated she was becoming. ‘It’s not all about you, you know,’ she felt like saying. ‘Get over yourself!’
Heaving another deep sigh at the memory, she hauled herself upright again and focused back on her laptop screen. As for this, her exciting big break, it was turning out to be a bit pants as well, so far. When she really needed to pull something fabulous out of the bag to impress Viv, too! Deleting her opening sentence, she decided to just start typing, pouring out her heart and seeing how she got on. In the past, when she’d written the library newsletters, she had found that she always needed to warm up first; splurge a bit, then polish. Time to get splurging, she thought, putting her fingers back on the keyboard.
Hey Em, she typed,
Do you know what, my boyfriend is being a real arse. He’s got this hot-shot new job and now thinks he’s like this super-amazing professional. We’ve moved down all the way from Yorkshire so that he can indulge his wet dream, I mean, take up this wowzers job, and I feel a bit insignificant to him all of a sudden. I’m trying my best – I’ve gone out and found my own new job – but it’s like everything’s changed in our relationship. He acts like he’s the important one, while I’m just tagging along for the ride. Maybe I am just tagging along for the ride. Maybe I should get off the sodding ride and leave him to it!
She stopped typing, horrified at where her train of thought had taken her. Leave Simon? What was she saying? That was the last thing she wanted. The hangover had sent her mental, she thought, hands flying up from the keyboard as if she’d just touched something dirty. Leaving was not an option, not when she’d made such a big deal about moving in the first place, and especially not when she was still boasting to all her friends on social media about what a great time she was having down here!
Get a grip, love, she imagined Em saying, adjusting her beehive and touching up her smoky eyeliner. Have a frigging chill pill and take a look at yourself, willya?
Em was right. And actually, talking of social media, that might be just the place to seek inspiration, Georgie thought, clicking away from her own moany document and onto Facebook. What problems did her friends have right now? Maybe she could appropriate one for the newspaper. They’d never have to know. She scrolled down her timeline to see.
Amelia Noble: OMG, like NIGHTMARE!!! Trying to finalize guest list – somehow need to get it down to 200!!! – but Jason’s aunty isn’t speaking to his mum’s best friend and we don’t know whether to invite them and hope they’ve sorted things out by then, or just leave them both off the list. Heeeeeelp!
Georgie snorted. She loved her friend dearly but this Bridezilla act was starting to get right on her wick. Unlike her fictitious agony-aunt alter ego, she was not a person to go in for tough love, though. Nightmare! she typed sympathetically underneath instead. I prescribe wine!
She scrolled down to read what other friends were up to.
Jade Hamilton: Looking at honeymoons. Maldives or Bahamas?! Am I allowed to choose both?!!!!
Mel Batley: Did anyone pick up my coat on Sat night? Think I left it in the Greyhound??
Nora Taylor: Reggie enjoying a walk in the sunshine!
Christ, they were a boring lot, Georgie thought crossly, scrolling further down and seeing baby photos, lunch photos, new dress photos plus about twenty almost identical photos of Reggie poddling about in the Dales, his tongue hanging out in a doggy sort of grin. A boringly contented lot, at that, the selfish so-and-sos. This was no good for a foraging agony aunt. She needed more . . . well, agony, frankly.
About to close the laptop, she was unable to resist a tiny bit of boasting before she left. So, guess who’s been asked to start work as agony aunt on a local magazine?? she typed as her status update and added a row of beaming faces. That would impress them all. Librarian Georgie and her dazzling new career trajectory. Yeah! Even if the word ‘career’ was pushing it a bit, they didn’t have to know that, did they?
Logging off, she got to her feet, stomach rumbling as she brushed her hair and put on some mascara. She’d take the laptop to the café down the road and try again over some food, she thought, and maybe – idea! – she could eavesdrop on other people there, tune in on somebody who was having a whinge and use that as the basis of her problem. Genius!
Spirits already lifted, she set off. Now to hope for some loud-voiced miserable people out there. Mission Whingers was go.
The nearest café to Dukes Square was called Sea Blue Sky and Georgie had been in a couple of times already, mostly as a break from the flat whenever cabin fever became too stifling. There was a big terrace at the front where smokers and dog walkers tended to congregate, and inside it was all dark wood and dove-grey walls, with a hissing monster of a coffee machine and a brunchy kind of menu chalked up on a blackboard behind the counter.
Having ordered poached eggs on toast, an espresso and a full-fat Coke – that should see off the hangover – Georgie cast her eye around for the table with the best eavesdropping potential. There was a group of students in one corner – the perfect demographic for the magazine, she reckoned, but unfortunately they were all laughing and seemed far too happy to have any problems. There were two older women at a table near the back who looked promisingly gossipy, leaning over conspiratorially as they talked. Some young mums too, each with grizzling babies in their arms and pallid expressions. They looked fed-up, admittedly, but as Georgie wandered slowly past, they appeared to be discussing the colour of their babies’ poo. Maybe not.
The older ladies it was, decision made, Georgie thought, plonking herself down within earshot. Then she opened her laptop which brought up her document from earlier. Start again.
Hey Em, she typed then sipped her Coke, tuned in and waited.
Eavesdropping was fun! Way better than listening to her own boring thoughts. Savouring her food, she listened avidly as Older Lady 1 (green fleece) let rip about her son-in-law’s useless ways (with particular uselessness around child-rearing apparently) and then Older Lady 2 (lavender cardigan) confided, amid snorts of laughter, a story about Him at number 23, ‘you know, the one I told you about, with all the tattoos’, who had been taken to A and E the night before because – ‘and I’m not lying, this is what Barbara told me, and she knows everything’ – he’d got a champagne cork stuck up his bum.
It was all Georgie could do not to join in as both women started cackling. Green Fleece and Lavender Cardi were ace, she thought, quite wishing she could be a member of their little gang. Then she remembered the point of her being there and stared at her laptop, which had put itself on standby through lack of attention. Hmm. Entertaining as Green Fleece and Lavender Cardi had turned out to be, unfortunately she wasn’t sure a Hey-Em letter about a useless son-in-law – or even a useless son-in-law with a champagne cork up his jacksie – was the exact problem she was looking for. And what would waspish Em have to say about such a situation, anyway?
For Christ’s sake, have you never heard of lube? Don’t waste NHS resources on your sexual incompetence, darling! And, for the love of God, read your daughter a bedtime story once in a while, will you? Or are you illiterate as well as stupid?
She choked back a laugh – better not – just as the guy who seemed to run the place came over and cleared away her empty plate and cutlery. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
He had such an open friendly face, Georgie couldn’t help smiling back up at him. ‘Lovely, thanks. Top poached eggs.’
‘Great, cheers, I’ll tell our chef.’ Then he raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that a Yorkshire accent I hear, by the way?’
‘It certainly is,’ Georgie replied in delight. ‘Excellent observation skills. Is that where you’re from too?’
‘Not me, but my mum’s from Bradford,’ he said. ‘That’s how I guessed. Not that I’m saying you’re anything like my mum.’ Bless him, he was actually blushing.
‘Er, good?’ said Georgie, raising an eyebrow. ‘No offence to your mum, obviously.’
He grinned. ‘Can I get you anything else?’ he asked. ‘Another coffee? A second round of eggs?’
She eyed her laptop and then glanced around. The café was starting to thin out now and her gossipy neighbours were getting to their feet. Eavesdropping time was over. ‘No, thanks, I’d better shoot off. But . . .’ She hesitated, not wanting to leave the café without a single juicy problem for her column. ‘Erm, I know this might sound weird, but humour me, will you?’ she blurted out. ‘I was just wondering, if you were going to write a letter to a problem page, what might it be about?’ He looked at her, confused, and she felt she had to explain further. ‘I’m an agony aunt,’ she said. ‘Or rather, an agony aunt in training. Without any actual problems to write about yet.’
‘Ahh, I see.’ He twisted his mouth while he thought. ‘I’m not sure my problems would be all that interesting for anyone else, seeing as they basically revolve around trying to pay the bills and take care of my kids,’ he said, ‘but I can send over Shamira, if you want, one of our waitresses. I happen to know she’s got some drama going on in her life right now.’
‘Really? And you think she wouldn’t mind?’ Georgie could see the woman he was pointing out, a waitress with brown spiral curls and freckles, and a tiny cobalt blue nose stud.
The man rolled his eyes. ‘Between you and me, she talks about nothing else,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘She’s been bending our ears non-stop.’ He called over. ‘Shamira? Could you come here a second?’ Then he winked at Georgie. ‘All the best with it.’
Hey Em, she typed once she was back home,
My sister was with this guy – let’s call him John – for six years and the two of them seemed really happy together. I always thought John was the bee’s knees. He’s gorgeous, sexy, funny . . . and seemed madly in love with her too. I even quite envied her for a while – and joked to her that I wished I could find someone so lovely myself.
The problem is, they’ve just split up and then two days ago he turned up at my door telling me that he thought he was in love with me. I must confess, I felt flattered at first – I mean, this was perfect John, after all! – but confused too. What do I say to my sister? She would be devastated if anything happened between us – it wasn’t so long ago she thought she and John were going to be married with babies, together forever sort of thing.
I don’t know what to do. If I go for it with John, my sister would never forgive me. But if I turn John down then I might be giving up the best guy I’ve ever met.
Help!
Freckles
Georgie had all but run home in order to type up the waitress’s problem. She had hardly been able to believe it when this complete stranger had provided her with such a humdinger of a juicy real-life dilemma. ‘Bloody hell,’ she’d said at the end of it. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I dunno,’ the waitress had replied, pulling a face. ‘Because I love my sister, but . . . you know. What
if he’s The One?’
‘God,’ said Georgie, feeling her agony. She was a big believer in The One, after all. Everyone had their one true love, didn’t they? ‘Well, good luck,’ she said eventually, squeezing the waitress’s hand. ‘It’s a big decision. I hope it all turns out okay.’
Back at the flat, letter typed, Georgie shut her eyes and put aside the real her, the her that squeezed strangers’ hands, and believed in true love, and didn’t want anyone to be upset. Instead, in accordance with Viv’s instructions, she did her best to channel the fictitious Em: big hair, big lipstick and big opinions – got it. Em wouldn’t mince her words about this situation, no way.
Dear Freckles, she typed,
Stop right there. Are you seriously telling me, hand on your heart, that you don’t know what you should do? Listen to yourself, darling. You say in your own words that your sister will be ‘devastated’, that she’ll ‘never forgive’ you. Er . . . hello? Why are you even considering letting these things happen? This is your own flesh and blood we’re talking about, Freckles – family. You go on about this John being ‘perfect’ and ‘thoughtful’ but – newsflash! – he’s hardly been either of those things to your poor sister recently. He sounds a total chancer if you ask me. As for you saying he ‘thinks’ he’s in love with you . . . Is that the sound of somebody hedging their bets, by any chance?
Sorry, Freckles, but you know what you should do. We all know what you should do. Bin John for the sake of the sisterhood. There are plenty of other guys out there – and you and your sister both deserve way better than this creep.