I got away with writing my lists for about three months, and I thought I was being subtle, but eventually my colleagues noticed that something was going on. A girl called Aimee who sat at the next desk watched my every move. She was always trying to lure me to after-work drinks, pursuing me passive-aggressively with endless post-its and gifted soy lattes. I had renamed her ‘the Itch’ because of the psoriasis on her elbows, which tarnished her otherwise tanned arms. Other than that, there was nothing noteworthy about her, nothing much that registered as human. She had no sense of humour. She wasn’t attractive, not even for the quick fuck she’d made clear she was very much available for. Perhaps fucking Aimee was exactly what I needed to do to stave off my obsession with the girl. Thing was, I didn’t want to stave off my obsession and perhaps that was part of the problem.
I had been getting worse. Writing the lists had become frustrating, because her shopping never changed. And I couldn’t think of any other way to get close to her. Reaching out in a conventional way was out of the question. It was too dangerous. I had been so tense for so long without being able to find a release. I was already way too involved. I worried I wouldn’t be able to control myself if I stopped the girl in the street. The thought of just touching her arm to draw her attention made my heart throb painfully in my chest. I wanted to run out as she passed, grab her face in my hands and plant a kiss on her little plum of a mouth. Bite down on it. This feeling was alarming, yet it was the best part of my day. When she wasn’t around I was so depressed that I could barely function. Often, while on the phone, I let the line go slack and only realized when I heard the continuous buzzing tone that the person on the other end had hung up on me. It was only a matter of time before the big boss called me in for a disciplinary meeting.
Mrs Hewlett was the agency manager. She was always well dressed, with a flair for polka-dot dresses. She had a mahogany-coloured bob and a flamboyant manicure that changed colour every week. She wasn’t averse to giving employees, girls and boys alike, a friendly ruffle on the head when business was good. She and the decent pay were the main reasons I’d stayed in the job.
Mrs Hewlett spent most of her day buried in the back office. It was an uncanny sort of through-the-looking-glass realm, where everything about the agency was inverted: order into mess, friendly composure into complicit friendliness, frosted glass into moth-eaten upholstery scattered with biscuit crumbs. The first time I’d been in there, for my interview, I’d discovered a furry boiled sweet in the lining of the armchair.
I’d barely been in the office since, so imagine my surprise when, out of the blue, I received a call on the internal phone and had to weasel my way between the towers of Colourful Cruises and Wah-Wah-Waikiki, to sit down in front of Mrs Hewlett’s desk. She suggested she’d called me in because she was concerned. I immediately fell for it, which goes to show, I suppose, how effective her strategy was. She asked me if I’d been OK lately.
She said, ‘Neil, you got us so used to such great customer service, this agency really wouldn’t be the same without you, and your enthusiasm, and charm, and warmth –’ blah blah blah ‘– but you see, lately, Neil, I couldn’t help but notice how your head seems to be somewhere else, and you’ve been acting somewhat out of character, and I’m worried, really worried that something might be up with you. Is everything OK at home? What’s up, Neil? You know we’re here for you, anything you need just talk to us. I know you love this job.’
Her kindness poured over me like molasses and I was quickly smothered by it. I couldn’t open my mouth to say anything. I panicked. I didn’t want to lose this job. But how could I explain to Mrs Hewlett that she couldn’t fire me, because – and it was the only convincing reason I could summon, with an urgency that horrified me – ‘How would I be able to see my girl?’
‘I’m perfectly fine,’ I blurted. I had to say something, anything to switch the subject, to make her like me again, to make sure she would never consider getting rid of me. But what? ‘I’ve been thinking … of taking you up on the European ushering job,’ I said. ‘I guess I needed some time to turn the idea over in my head. I didn’t want to accept the job unless I knew I wasn’t going to let you down.’
Mrs Hewlett gave me one of her wide smiles, her cheeks contracting, filling the sides of her mouth with flesh.
‘Oh, but how delightful! Letting me down? Don’t be silly! I’ll get your name on the list.’ And just like that I was off the hook.
The European Ushering Partnership was a new scheme that the agency had devised to boost sales. The idea was simple: we contacted universities across Europe and checked for summer vacancies in their student halls and residences. We then rented out the rooms in blocks and sublet them to our own travelling students for a higher fee, which still worked out cheaper by the week than most hostels. Everyone was happy: the universities were able to make revenue on rooms that would otherwise be unoccupied. The students got safe, serviced lodgings in a central location for a very reasonable price. And of course, we crammed up to three or four students in a single occupancy room on bunk beds that were easily removed at the end of the summer period and made the best profit.
There was one downside. One of us had to work on location at all times. We didn’t trust them out there on their own. We helped the kids to settle in and made sure that check-in and check-out duties were performed efficiently. To begin with, everyone was enthusiastic: the month abroad was a nice change of scene that came with a healthy extra-time salary bump. Soon, though, subscription rates started dropping: two years down the line Mrs Hewlett was nervous she wouldn’t find any takers. No one discussed their experiences, but the general vibe strongly indicated that the job wasn’t exactly all fun and no business. I kept a low profile when the subject came up, trying to give off a shy vibe, as if I was too inexperienced to take up such a responsibility. But I’d just volunteered.
Which meant I was going to spend a good chunk of my summer cleaning up freshers’ vomit somewhere on the continent and I only had myself to blame.
Except, of course, I’m the luckiest motherfucker of all. Six days later, on a Saturday morning, as I was sitting there, sourly contemplating my future, a small blonde student, sweetly buck-toothed, all curves and freckles, came into the agency. I recognized her, vaguely, as one of the students from across the road, though she bore no relation to my girl.
This girl came up to my desk, both because it was the only one free – everyone else was proficiently engaged in phone calls and talking to customers – and also, I suspected, because she was wanting to talk to me specifically. She made eye contact with me as she came through the door. I asked her name. She said Alanna and giggled for no apparent reason. Aimee turned to look at me, phone nestled between her ear and her shoulder. Already I found Alanna a bit irritating. I dislike women who attract a lot of attention. You know girls that age, they’re like rodents, they get excited about nothing. They have that franticness about them. They fall for people that don’t even exist. Little critters. Nothing like my girl. Nothing to link this strawberry-blonde girl to my girl at all. This one was so common, so cheery, so eager to please. She opened her clean pink mouth and said, ‘I’m looking to book a student deal for a double room in Rome, two people, two weeks.’
You know when you just know? I just knew. Easy to say so now, knowing what happened later, but I really did know. I felt it in my bones. This happens to me sometimes – I’m quite perceptive. Maybe it was because she said it was for two people, and there was no one with her, or maybe it was that she kept repeating the number two (two weeks two people two weeks two people two weeks two people). And so I said, in a professional tone, that yes, there were some rooms still available in Rome, although not many, not many at all, better book sooner rather than later as they were going fast, and guess what, she was very lucky (I winked at her) to have yours truly as a travel guide.
Which I didn’t know for sure. I hadn’t been assigned a location yet. But when I saw her chipmunk face light up I sure as
hell knew I’d square up to Mrs Hewlett if she tried to stop me from going. I’d fucking kill her to go. And: all roads lead to Rome. And: veni vidi vici. That made me laugh. I was so witty.
‘Who are you sharing your room with, a friend or your partner?’ I asked, which wasn’t strictly necessary and actually quite inappropriate, but the girl didn’t know that. I asked because I was allowed to: I could do anything then, I was in charge. It was my fucking office!
‘A friend,’ she said, and I knew, I just knew, I was sure of it.
And I was right because the next Monday my girl is sat at my desk filling in the relevant forms as her friend Alanna chews my fucking ear off about how her friend Tammy or Franny, whatever, had been to Rome before and took a photo with the centurions in front of the Colosseum and my heart is stuck right in my throat because all I want to do is to look at her, finally, watch my girl, up close, all the little things about her finally in perfect focus – her hands and her eyelashes and the pores on her nose – but instead I focus on projecting my best reliable smile because I didn’t want to spoil it and I watch as my girl is quiet and her hands shake slightly as she writes out her name on the dotted line all in capital letters:
R-U-T-H-B-E-A-D-L-E
I sign my name on the line right below.
DEO
Fourteen Years Earlier
says:
beadle?
says:
who’s beadle?
says:
ruth beadle
says:
which ruth is this?
says:
there’s like 3 ruths in our year
says:
do u kno who she is trace?
says:
the skinny one with the eyes
says:
the eyes?
says:
i don’t really know her
says:
ya
says:
u know who i mean alanna?
says:
fck I dont think I do
says:
yea man her eyes are fucking creepy
says:
girl is a certified freak imho
says:
who’s this ruth with the eyes tho?????
says:
I cant believe ive missed out on a certified freak :’’’’’’’((((((((((
says:
i mean i wouldn’t say
says:
if she aint a freak then idk who is
says:
genuinely gives me the creeps
says:
you noticed this T dont lie
says:
okay 1 sec
says:
lets get this straight
says:
who ⋆is⋆ this girl
says:
what does she look like
says:
is she in the d&d club like
says:
does she have terrible BO?
says:
does she have a glass eye and a walking stick
says:
XD XD
says:
she’s like
says:
seriously non-descript lan
says:
doesnt surprise me u dont remember
says:
yeah super insignificant
says:
makes sense for moobs
says:
but how
says:
⋆how⋆ is she a certified freak?
says:
lets not jump the gun thank u v much girls
says:
u have to tick a few boxes to earn that status u kno? :P
says:
ya
says:
u kno sum people just look at you in a creepy way
says:
ya
says:
proper sociopath vibe
says:
I agree
says:
jesus
says:
freaks me out like
says:
like she’s always thinking
says:
or something
says:
watchin u
says:
like she knows something you don’t
says:
or something
says:
eugh
says:
⋆plans ur murder⋆
says:
XD XD XD XD
says:
so moobs lets her sit out all the time
says:
5 weeks in a row now
says:
wtffff seriously????????
says:
that’s not like mr alpin?
says:
maybe shes srsly sick or something
says:
dont u think??
says:
its not like moobs lets you off if it isnt something serious
says:
never worked for me in the past did it
says:
ya remember that time u asked to sit out bc u were going to the movies with alfie
says:
omg trace don’t even
says:
that was an evening of absolute disaster
says:
dude
says:
unfair to blame it on moobs for chambers floppy willy
says:
imho
says:
ya well maybe if i hadnt turned up stinking of lynx safari
says:
from french showering the fuck out of my clothes after PE
says:
his willy wouldn’t have been so floppy
says:
guess its one of those mysteries we will never have an answer for
says:
tho i maintain no amount of macho bodyspray will turn a real man off the smell of pussy
says:
franki ur real fucking gross u kno :D
says:
maybe baby
says:
but dont u kno I speak the truth
says:
what i want to know is why mr alpin is suddenly making exceptions
says:
its not fair
says:
ya not fair!!
says:
i had to play in the volleyball tournament that time
says:
i kept saying I wasn’t okay and then the next day i came down with mumps
says:
remember that?
says:
u did!
says:
u looked like such an adorable little bunny
says:
it was awful
says:
me and charlie couldn’t see each other for three whole weeks
says:
that cos u bought that shit about him having to get his balls chopped off if he caught it
says:
it’s true though
says:
mumps can affect fertility in a man
says:
god forbid you may one day …
says:
. . . . . . . .
says:
whenever you’re finally READY of course
says:
XDDDDD
says:
fuck off franki
says:
yeah franki
says:
too much is too much
says:
yeah all right
says:
sorry dude
says:
u know I love u
says:
i have a lot of respect for my elders
says:
franki
says:
u and charlie remind me of my mum and dad
says:
married
says:
no sex
says:
i wonder if charlie has a lover too
&nbs
p; [ IS OFFLINE]
says:
fucking hell that girl can’t take a joke
says:
lan?
says:
so this girl
says:
ruth beadle
says:
she ⋆stares⋆
says:
u kno?
[ IS OFFLINE]
says:
seriously???
says:
girls??????
says:
SERIOUSLY
says:
jesus
COTTON WOOL
Ruth
Now
Alanna is leaning over the reception desk like a kitten ready to pounce. She hasn’t changed into her uniform yet and her skinny buttocks jiggle in American Apparel jeggings. In front of her is a complicated house of greeting cards.
If you’d asked me, ten years ago – say eleven – who were the people I couldn’t imagine living without, I’d have had trouble answering. Before I met Neil, nobody seemed destined to stick. I had always known that my school years wouldn’t be the happiest of my life. Even as a young girl it seemed obvious to me that I wasn’t destined to meet my real friends there. Girls who sat together on the first day of school stuck together throughout, despite the changing geography of the classroom and separations by teachers desperate to curb the giggling. I listened to Beth Wellbelove breathe heavily over her trigonometry exercises for five years. I told myself I was holding out for college, though I wasn’t sure at that point if I was even going to college.
In a sense, my intuition was right: Neil and I met in the summer of my first year at nursing school, right after I’d finished my exams, though he had nothing to do with nursing school; he’d left school ten years earlier. After I met him I stopped worrying so much about making real friends. Perhaps I just wasn’t built for friendship.
Shelf Life Page 5