by Jo Watson
“I thought about having Botox once.” Scarlett rubs an invisible line on her forehead. “And what are those lip filler things called?” She pouts her lips like a fish.
“Collagen,” Liam supplies. “But you don’t want to get into that. Girls have these procedures done way too young these days.”
“She looks good, though, doesn’t she? Maybe you’ll see Megan—” Scarlett stops abruptly as Nora strides back into the office with Helen behind her.
If there’s one thing I have to thank my boss for, it’s her timely entrances.
Liam immediately heads back over to Nora’s computer. Maybe it’s not just us in the HR department who are a little bit scared of Nora Hastings.
* * *
By the time I get home, I’m mentally exhausted. Scarlett took it upon herself to inform Helen of my supposed crush on Liam, and the two of them repeatedly questioned me about it until I gave in and let Scarlett program his number into my phone.
I’ve promised them that I’m going to call him, but I’ve promised myself that I’m definitely not going to do that. Not even after I open a bottle of wine to share with Zara and end up drinking the whole thing myself. (In retrospect, this was my fault. I should have remembered that Zara was going to be out working late again.)
Going out with Liam seems like a much more realistic option after I’ve consumed this amount of alcohol. I’m not even thinking about what I’d say to him or how I’d explain my acquisition of his number.
I’m starting to think he might actually like me, too. I mean, I know I don’t look anything like Scarlett, whose hair seems repellent to frizz, but I’m not ugly, either.
Sod it. I’ll just call him.
It takes a while to locate my mobile, since a massive hole has appeared at the bottom of my handbag and eaten half of my belongings (obviously a sign that a shopping trip is needed). When I do find it, I see I’ve got seven missed calls from my mother and two unnecessary voicemails asking me to phone her back.
Being the good daughter that I am, I would, under normal circumstances, give her a ring straight away. But this is different. I’ve already talked myself into ringing Liam, and I can’t back out of that decision now in favour of a chat with Mum about the scandal of Denise from across the road leaving her husband to move in with Tadd, the twenty-two-year-old tattoo artist.
I’m searching my contacts list for Liam’s number when Mum tries to phone me again. I always think she’ll know if I reject her call. Like instead of going straight to voicemail, it’ll give her some machine-voiced message telling her I don’t want to speak to her.
So I answer it. It can’t be that bad, can it? She might not even mention the Hudson family.
“Megan, darling,” my mother says when I answer. “Phil and I are very worried about you.”
“I only saw you on Friday.” Of course. Friday. That’s what she’s been worrying about.
“Are you all right, sweetheart?”
“Of course I am,” I answer. “Why shouldn’t I be?” I’m starting to question whether something beyond the limits of my memory may have happened.
“Bryony is quite upset,” says Mum.
Bryony’s upset? Did nobody notice that it was me she accused of stealing her ring? Wrongly accused, I might add.
“Yes. Well I’m quite upset, too, if you must know.”
“Oh, Meggy, it was all a silly misunderstanding.”
“She thought I’d stolen her ring. And worse than that, she thinks I’m jealous. Of her!”
“Don’t be unreasonable, darling. Bryony is under an awful lot of stress at the moment..”
“She’s stressed?” I screech. “About what? She’s not even planning her own bloody engagement party, since you were so quick to help her.”
“I see,” Mum says after a pause. “That’s what it’s about, is it? Megan, of course I’m still going to be here to organise your wedding plans.”
“But Bryony got there first, didn’t she?” I yell, realising I do sound jealous and irrational, and it’s all because of that bottle of wine. I’m never going to open a bottle by myself again.
“Sweetheart,” my mum says soothingly, “I’m a tiny bit concerned. Auntie Wendy was saying some very odd things about you.”
“Did she tell you not to invite me?” I ask, sounding even more pathetic than I already did.
Mum gasps. “No. Of course not. But she said something about Tim and how he’s all depressed and doesn’t want to go back to London because of something you said to him.”
Now I’m even getting blamed for Tim’s mental breakdown.
“Look, Mum, I’ve got to go.” I lift my phone up about an inch so that I’ll sound really distant and busy. “Talk to you later.”
Mum’s still chirping on when I end the call and toss the phone onto the sofa beside me.
Now there doesn’t seem any point in calling Liam. The conversation with my mother seems to have sobered me up a little, and every time I think about Liam, I just know that I’ll slip up and call him Michael or say something embarrassing about his nightmare mother.
And those are things that definitely won’t win me any confidence points as far as Olivia Bright is concerned.
Chapter Seven
On my Tuesday morning bus ride to work, I’m devising a speech. A sort of script as to what I’ll tell Scarlett and Helen about my failure to call Liam.
Since they’re both women who don’t understand social awkwardness, I need to come up with a really good excuse. Preferably something so brilliant it prevents them from ever bringing up the subject again. I could tell them I had a family crisis, which isn’t exactly a lie considering my conversation with Mum. But that won’t stop them from suggesting I try to call him again.
Or I could pretend I did give him a ring and that I did ask him out, but he turned me down. But that won’t stop Scarlett from asking him about it and finding out that it never happened.
What else can I do? I can’t tell Scarlett the truth about why I really bought the new underwear, and why I’m volunteering at Oxfam.
I can’t tell her that I’m too scared to ask Liam out because that step doesn’t even appear until the end of Olivia Bright’s list, after I’ve done all the other confidence-enriching things first.
And I certainly can’t tell her that part of my apprehension about talking to Liam is not because of any social awkwardness or because I think he’s way out of my league. It’s because I’m still calling him Bublé-Face in my head, and I know that I’m going to end up calling him the stupid nickname to his pretty-boy face if I ever speak to him again.
That might be a little bit of an overreaction. Never speaking to him may be difficult if I don’t figure out what my dream job is and I’m stuck working at Window Shine forever.
My bus pulls in the city-centre station, and I realise that I haven’t come up with anything that’s going to help.
When I get to the office, Helen and Scarlett are both already sitting at their desks—our boss nowhere to be seen as usual.
I dump my stuff and head off to make a cup of tea before either of them can say anything. That way, when they do start interrogating me, at least I’ll have a brew to calm me down.
Standing in the little kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, it occurs to me that I do have another option here. It’s possible I could get away with telling Scarlett that the number she gave me for Liam didn’t work.
I could act really nonchalant about it and say something like, “Oh, it’s no big deal. He’s probably changed his number.”
And then everyone would forget about it. Even Scarlett might not bother saying anything to him about why he’d changed his number without telling her. They only went on one date.
But then I think about what she said yesterday. What if they’re really close and Scarlett didn’t tell me because she didn’t want me to feel threatened by their relationship?
There’s no escape, is there? I mean, apart from throwing myself out the emergency exi
t and legging it down the stairwell, never to be heard from again.
Actually that might not be such a bad idea…
Oh, God. I can’t believe I’m considering this.
I stir my tea and take a deep breath before carrying it back to my desk.
The two women are deep in conversation about a new quick-drying nail polish. Hopefully that will keep them distracted long enough for me to think of something to say. Or maybe they’ve forgotten entirely?
I switch on my computer and check my email, then sneak a glimpse at my daily online horoscope. When I eventually get to the pile of papers in my in-tray, the office has fallen silent.
Maybe I can revive the nail polish conversation. What were they just saying? Oh, no. It’s too late.
“I saw Liam this morning,” Scarlett says.
Okay. Breathe. I can still bluff my way through this.
“Oh?” I barely lift my eyes from the paperwork I’m not reading.
“He says you didn’t call him last night.”
“What?” I fix my stare on her. “You told him I was going to call?”
She stares back at me blankly. “Well that’s why I gave you his number, isn’t it?”
“Jesus, Scar. Don’t you think I deserve a bit of privacy?” I snap.
“Scarlett’s the one who got the number for you in the first place.” Helen turns her chair to face me. “You could act a little bit grateful about it.”
I let out a deep sigh and rub my temples. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you want to go out with him?” asks Scarlett.
“I…I don’t know,” I admit. “When I bought that stuff, it wasn’t because of a man.”
“It wasn’t?” She glances at Helen with wide eyes.
“So what was it about?” Helen leans back and folds her arms across her chest.
I’m going to have to tell them something, aren’t I? And I’ve got about five seconds to think of a story that sounds as convincing as the truth.
My eyes fall on my handbag sitting underneath my desk. Inside it are the pages torn from the magazine. The ones with Olivia Bright’s step-by-step guide printed on them.
It was stupid of me to think I could hide this from them. They’re only going to find out anyway. I might as well tell them and deal with the humiliation swiftly.
It probably won’t be that bad. Maybe my colleagues will think it’s a good thing that I’m embracing my inner confident chick. I bet they’ll be really supportive and give me some good advice, too. Both being women of a naturally confident nature, Helen and Scarlett probably know loads of things about it. Maybe more than Olivia Bright.
Having convinced myself that they’re going to take this seriously, I slide the two pages out of my bag and place them on my desk.
“What’s that?” Scarlett cranes her neck to see.
“It’s just a stupid article.” I pass it over to her. “I kind of thought I’d give it a try. I mean, why not?” I try to give a causal laugh, but it sticks in my throat and comes off sounding forced and nervous.
“Have you read this stuff?” Scarlett runs a finger down the list before passing it to Helen.
“What’s a new bra going to do?” mocks Helen.
That isn’t what she was supposed to say. They’re acting just like Zara. And now they’re going to think I’m a complete idiot for even mentioning it.
“You’re right,” I agree. “It was a silly idea.”
“Have you been doing these things, then?” Helen asks. “Is that why you took that position at the charity shop?”
“Voluntary work is something I’ve always thought about,” I lie.
“And what about number three? Good luck getting a pay rise!” Helen hands me back the pages, and I instantly screw them into one big paper ball that I don’t have to think about anymore.
I chuck the ball into the bottom drawer of my desk.
That’s it. Done.
Now I can get on with doing my work.
Except I don’t.
Bublé-Face comes into the kitchen as I’m leaving after making my lunchtime cuppa. He gives me an odd look but doesn’t say anything, and I’m left wondering what exactly Scarlett told him.
If I ask her, it’ll just bring it all back up again.
So I don’t.
I spend my day obsessing over the possibilities. Nothing is off-limits as far as Scarlett is concerned. Thank God she doesn’t know about the nickname.
She probably dropped it into the conversation that I have some desperate, pathetic crush on him, and he probably thinks I’m some sort of bunny boiler, and that means there’s no point.
At the end of the day, I’ve lost all faith in Olivia Bright and the shiny, glamorous image of confidence. All I can envision is me wearing Christian Louboutin heels and a jewelled frock, standing in front of a shattered mirror, the broken image of failure gleaming from every jagged edge.
This is just like when I got kicked out of uni. Or when Jack left.
“I’ve had enough,” I say to nobody in particular as soon as I’ve unlocked the door to my flat.
I don’t know if Zara’s in or not, but she appears in the kitchen doorway a moment later. “Had enough of what? Please don’t say pasta.” She glances back into the kitchen, where I can smell tomato sauce cooking.
“No.” I throw my bag onto the floor. “I’m fed up with being a confident woman.”
“You’ve finally given up, then?”
I look up at her. “I’ve never been very good at sticking things out, have I?”
Zara shrugs. “This is different, Meg. It’s not like it matters. It’s just a stupid magazine.”
“I only did the first two things on the list,” I wail as I sink into the sofa. “And I wasn’t very good at either of them.”
“Isn’t that proof enough that you’re better off not bothering? It’s obviously not working out.”
I bite my bottom lip. “Don’t you think I should just try one more thing? I don’t want to be a failure.”
“I can’t tell you what to do. But you know what I think about all this.” Zara disappears into the kitchen again.
If I’m honest with myself, the only reason I’m considering giving up is because the next step is the one I’m most afraid of. But if I avoid the things I’m scared of now, I’ll always be hopeless little Megan.
* * *
I’m at work early the next morning with the crumpled ball of paper lying as flat as I can get it on my desk.
The next step is the one I’m not looking forward to. The one that involves a difficult conversation with Nora that will either restore my faith in the article or shatter my confidence entirely.
Maybe Zara’s right. Maybe I’m wasting my time doing all this stuff. What if all I come off with is a red face and a dose of cynicism? My self-esteem will be even lower than it is now. I’ll be nothing but a huge disappointment all over again.
Nora struts into the office, takes one look at me sitting at my desk, and asks me if I know that the clocks don’t go forwards until spring.
“I was hoping that maybe I could have a word with you?” I say after a deep breath. “You know, while it’s quiet.”
“I don’t see why not. Is there something wrong?”
I spread my fingers. “Not exactly.”
How do I ask for a pay rise without sounding like a total bitch who thinks she’s worth more than everyone else? And how do I let her know that everything will still be normal if she turns me down?
Obviously I don’t mean completely normal because of the humiliation I will have suffered, but I’m not about to quit my job or go on strike.
“The thing is.” I pause and clear my throat. “The thing is I’ve been here for eight months now. I’m out of my trial period, and I feel like things haven’t…progressed.”
“Progressed?” Nora perches on the edge of my desk and folds her arms. “What do you mean by that?”
“Financially. My salary hasn’t progressed.”
Oh, my God. I am, aren’t I? I’m asking my ice maiden boss for more money. Of course she’s not going to say yes. Why should she pay me any more to do the same job I’ve done for minimum wage for the past eight months? It’s crazy!
“No.” I wave one hand in the air. “Forget I said anything.”
“Megan, if you aren’t asking for a pay rise, what on earth are you saying?”
“Well…okay. I suppose I was just enquiring about a pay rise,” I admit.
“Enquiring?” Nora quirks an eyebrow. “So what will you do if I say no?”
My head snaps up. “Nothing!”
Oh, no. She’s going to fire me, isn’t she? She’s going to say that there are plenty of people looking for work who can replace me. People who will work for minimum wage without a mention of a rise in their salary.
This is all Olivia Bright’s fault. If I hadn’t read that stupid magazine, I wouldn’t be in this situation now. Why didn’t I listen to Zara? Why didn’t I leave the article hidden away in my desk drawer after my colleagues laughed at it?
Nora leans back and studies my face for a moment. She’s wearing an odd sort of smirk that almost resembles a smile. Perhaps that is how she smiles. “Okay,” she says.
I stare at her. “Okay what?”
She unfolds her arms. “You can have your pay rise.”
“Really?” My eyes scan the empty office for any hints that this is a joke. I’m half expecting Helen and Scarlett to crawl out from under their desks ready to laugh at me, even more than they have already, for being so gullible.
“It’s what you’re told at the interview, isn’t it?” Nora explains. “It’s standard procedure these days to start at basic pay and be told that it will be reviewed at the end of your trial period.” She scratches her chin. “I can’t say anybody else has ever come forwards and asked for it, though.”
“Really?” I repeat.