Floored

by Sara Barnard

  UKB.

  United Kingdom Broadcasting – one of the most respected television broadcasters in the entire world.

  ‘Of course,’ she says, consulting the calendar on the fridge. ‘How exciting!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll see anyone famous?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe.’

  To be honest though, it’s not the prospect of gawping at celebrities that excites me. My plans are much grander than that.

  From the back seat of the bus, Tyler Matheson and his mates are leading everyone in a chant of ‘Everywhere We Go!’ They’re on at least their fifteenth round, their curiously proud yells of coming from ‘mighty, mighty Skiddington’ showing little sign of dying out any time soon.

  If I didn’t value my life so highly, I’d ask Tyler to specify exactly what makes Skiddington so ‘mighty’ in the first place? Skiddington’s single claim to fame is as home to Champion Biscuits (‘The Nation’s Favourite’), its mammoth concrete factory employing over a third of the town’s residents. Both my dad and Craig work there on the production line. Mum used to as well until she was made redundant last year. Apart from that though, my hometown is entirely unremarkable in every way.

  The singing is getting louder. I’ve forgotten my headphones, so the best I can do is ball up some tissues and shove them in my ears. I take out my phone and send a text to my best friend, Ivy.

  Kill me now.

  When St Thomas Moore School went into special measures last year, Ivy’s mum pulled her out and started home-schooling her. When I asked Mum if I could be home-schooled too, she looked at me like I’d just grown an extra head.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘What on earth could I teach you? I didn’t even pass my eleven-plus.’

  I still see Ivy after school and at weekends, but it’s not the same. Without her, the school days feel painfully long, the minutes and seconds stretching out like pizza dough.

  Tyler and his idiot mates are still singing when we pull into the UKB car park an hour and a half later.

  Shut up and show some respect, I want to hiss at them as I reluctantly remove the tissue paper from my ears. You’re at the UKB, for goodness sake – a national institution, not a football match. I’d be wasting my breath though. People like Tyler don’t listen to people like me, i.e. ‘swots’. In Tyler’s world ‘ambition’ is a dirty word.

  We pile out of the coach and follow Miss Harley towards the entrance in a messy line. I wish we had a smarter school uniform: a blazer perhaps; a tie at the very least. As it is, in our cheap polyester trousers and navy sweatshirts, the school’s emblem emblazoned across our chests like a warning, we’re the very opposite of smart. I try to make up for it by wearing nice shoes and carrying my things in a polished vintage leather satchel I got on eBay, but the overall effect is still far from ideal.

  In front of me, Tallulah Roberts and Marzina Khan are going on about how excited they are to see the Strictly Come Dancing ballroom.

  ‘Wrong television broadcaster,’ I say.

  They turn around, identical frowns on their faces.

  ‘What did you say?’ Tallulah growls.

  I clear my throat. ‘Wrong broadcaster,’ I repeat. ‘And anyway, Strictly is recorded in London . . .’

  ‘You’re joking?’ Marzina says.

  She looks like she might cry.

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘Then why exactly are we even here?’ Tallulah demands. ‘I only signed up for this cos I thought I was going to meet Pasha.’

  I wince as they spread the word down the line.

  When we finally get inside, the foyer is buzzing with people our age. We’re the only ones in uniform though. And the only ones behaving like a herd of escaped zoo animals. Miss Harley shoos us into a corner and ambitiously tells us to ‘wait sensibly’.

  ‘Miss Harley from St Thomas Moore School,’ she announces apologetically to the sleek-looking receptionist. ‘We’re here for a studio tour.’

  The receptionist glances over at us with unimpressed eyes and picks up her phone.

  I take a large sidestep away from my classmates and allow myself to take in the surroundings. The foyer is bright and airy, full of hope and possibility, sunlight pouring in through the glass. Just the sight of the massive UKB logo above the reception desk sends a shiver of excitement up my spine.

  When I was little, I never wanted to be a footballer or astronaut or vet, or any of the other things kids usually come up with when asked what they want to be when they grow up. No, since I was about six years old, I’ve wanted to work in television. Not as an actor, or a presenter, or anything like that – but behind the scenes, as a producer . . . the one at the very top making everything happen. It sounds a bit dramatic perhaps, but television is probably the only thing in my life (apart from Ivy) that keeps me sane. It’s also pretty much the only thing I have in common with the rest of my family. We may have no idea how to talk about emotional stuff, but we can spend hours debating who made the best Doctor (Me: David Tennant; Dad: Jon Pertwee; Mum: Tom Baker), or quoting lines from Alan Partridge at each other, or reminiscing about the first series of Sherlock. Our family life revolves around the programmes circled with red biro in our weekly copy of the Radio Times; television the glue that keeps us together. Which is precisely why I want to be the one who makes it one day.

  A man wearing a UKB lanyard and a wide grin strides across the foyer towards us. He introduces himself as Toby, our guide for the day, and distributes ID badges for us all to wear.

  ‘It’s not usually this busy,’ he explains to Miss Harley as I attach my badge to my trouser pocket. ‘But we’ve got our work-experience programme starting today.’

  My head snaps up.

  Work experience?

  I throw my hand in the air.

  ‘What is it, Joseph?’ Miss Harley asks, sighing slightly.

  ‘Yeah, what is it, Josephine?’ Tyler mimics in a high voice. Cue sniggers from my imbecilic classmates.

  ‘Did you say work experience?’ I ask Toby, trying to ignore them.

  ‘That’s right,’ he says, motioning at the growing crowd behind us. ‘Today’s their induction. Don’t worry though. It won’t interfere with the tour; they’ll be tucked away on the ninth floor all morning.’

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

  At the beginning of the year, I asked about the possibility of doing my work-experience week at the UKB, and Mrs Kirk, the careers adviser, pretty much laughed in my face.

  ‘Whatever next?’ she’d said, chortling away as she shuffled bits of paper. ‘Work experience at Disneyland?’

  I ended up spending my week wearing a hairnet at Champion Biscuits, alongside half my year group.

  I should have known not to trust Mrs Kirk. She’s the one who ignores me every time I say I want to work in television, banging on about the management training scheme at Champion instead (‘Bright boy like you – you could make it all the way to supervisor!’).

  I look over my shoulder at the work-experience kids. They’re all talking and laughing and wearing nice normal clothes – the sort of clothes I wear when I’m not sporting flammable trousers and the sweatshirt of shame. I want to be one of them so badly, my entire body aches.

  Tallulah has her hand up.

  ‘Yes?’ Toby says.

  ‘Is it true the Strictly ballroom is in London?’ Tallulah asks, throwing me an accusing look.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Toby replies, the pained smile on his face suggesting this isn’t the first time he’s been asked the question. ‘We make lots of exciting television programmes here though . . .’

  He goes on to name half a dozen amazing shows. Not that this impresses Tallulah.

  She doesn’t even bother to hide her disgust, folding her arms and screwing up her face like she’s just smelt something rotten.

  Which is great. Because now Toby will assume we’re all complete idiots who know nothing about television and tailor the to
ur accordingly.

  ‘Any more questions before we kick off?’ he asks with over-the-top brightness.

  There aren’t.

  ‘In that case, if you’d all like to come with me. There’s rather a lot of you, so we’re going to take the stairs . . .’

  He sets off.

  I take another glance behind me at the work-experience lot. As far as I can tell, there’s no distinction between the ID badges they’re wearing and the one I’ve been given.

  Interesting.

  My classmates troop off after Toby, hollering and squealing and shoving.

  I don’t follow them.

  The second everyone has disappeared through a set of double doors, I turn in the opposite direction and walk briskly towards the sign marked ‘Toilets’.

  I duck into the men’s and remove my sweatshirt, balling it up and shoving it in my satchel. My white shirt and black trousers look a bit ‘waiter’, but there’s nothing much I can do about that. I fold up the sleeves of my shirt in the effort to look a bit more casual and grip on to the edge of the sink.

  ‘What are you doing, Joe?’ I ask my reflection.

  I don’t have a decent reply. All I know is that I’ve got to at least try to get myself on this work-experience programme. Even if it means gatecrashing. Even if it means totally embarrassing myself. Even if they suss me out straight away and chuck me out on my ear and Miss Harley goes mad. Even if I have no game plan beyond getting myself to the ninth floor. It’s not like I’ve got anything to lose – quite the opposite, in fact.

  Still, my body is trembling all over, and my forehead is shimmering with sweat. I soak up the moisture with a scratchy green paper towel and take a deep breath.

  If you’re going to be a hotshot producer some day, you’re going to need to have proper balls. Might as well grow a pair now.

  I exhale, give my reflection a determined nod, and leave the toilets. Without breaking rhythm, I stride towards the lift, where the doors are starting to close. Before I can change my mind, I squeeze through the narrowing gap just in time, smiling what I hope resembles an enigmatic smile at the five other people who are already inside.

  You got this, Joe. You got this.

  So here we have them: the swot, the fraud, the dutiful daughter, the child star, the fangirl and the asshole. The six of them assembled in an awkward circle, trying not to stand too close to one another in the small lift, and failing. Dawson, in particular, is trying not to stand too close to Kaitlyn in case she takes it as an invitation to ask him what he’s been doing since Dedman High – but she’s still pissed off that he lied to her, so won’t even look at him.

  Opposite them is Velvet, who is trying to rub away the creamy smudge of foundation from her skirt so she looks less of a disaster, while Joe undoes the top button of his shirt so he looks less like a waiter. Sasha doesn’t care what she looks like, but she does care about letting her father down, and she clutches the package so carefully, she may as well be holding a newborn baby. Finally, there’s Hugo, back straight, shoulders back, a smug smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he sizes up the three girls: the other two aren’t bad – solid sevens, even the fat one – but his initial instinct was right. He takes a step closer to Velvet.

  They aren’t alone for long. The lift stops on the first floor, and a woman with hair the colour of Irn-Bru gets in. She’s holding a purple coffee cup, and Velvet can’t help but gaze longingly at it. It’s been hours since she had breakfast, and it’s all she can do not to lean down and lick away the puff of froth that has escaped through the hole in the plastic lid. The woman looks straight at her, as if she knows, and Velvet stiffens.

  ‘Don’t judge.’ The woman presses the button for the second floor. ‘I know it’s only one floor, but I can’t face the stairs,’ she adds with a smile, nodding at Velvet’s feet. ‘You get it, right? You’re in heels as well.’ She stops to take a sip of coffee, then licks her lips. ‘Are yours new too?’

  Velvet nods and the woman chuckles gently.

  ‘Why do we do it to ourselves, eh?’

  Dawson hears her laugh and his chest tightens. What did she say? He didn’t hear – too concerned with keeping a safe distance from Hugo, who’s just taken his phone out of his coat pocket. Dawson’s been like that since he got in the lift, his gaze darting furiously from face to face, sure that each of them is staring at him. Was she laughing at him? The woman with the orange hair. Was she laughing at him?

  You know who that is, right?

  Cue: gushing laughter.

  When the lift doors open on the second floor, Dawson can’t look at her, terrified that she’ll turn back and wink at him. He listens to her heels clack as she strides out into the brightly lit corridor. Glad she’s gone.

  One less person to worry about.

  There’s a moment of movement as they shuffle away from each other and back into an awkward circle. It’s funny how these things work out, isn’t it? There they all were, distracted by their own petty problems, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen. A minute or two either way, and their paths would never have crossed. Later, Joe will ask himself why he did it, why he did something so unlike him, so reckless. If Toby hadn’t mentioned the work-experience programme, Joe would have gone on the studio tour and been nowhere near that lift. And if Hugo had not made the cab driver wait outside Salford train station while he got that bottle of coconut water, he would have been on time and in his mother’s office by then.

  Speaking of coconut water, if Dawson hadn’t been caught perving, he probably would have still been in the queue at the canteen, not in the lift. That’s something Velvet will wonder about as well – what would have happened if she’d told Ms Parsons to shove it and stayed in Bridlington with Chelsea. Or if Kaitlyn had done her work experience in her Aunt Nina’s salon, like she’d wanted to. And what if Sasha’s father had delivered that package instead of her? Would he have known what to do?

  Probably.

  We’ll never know, will we? But what we do know is this: for whatever reason, the six of them ended up in the same lift at the same time. Call it destiny or fate or good old dumb luck, but there they are.

  Just as the doors are about to close on the second floor, a man in a navy blue tracksuit appears, pushing a trolley with a pile of cardboard boxes on it. He must have run for the lift, Dawson thinks, noting his flushed cheeks and the pearls of sweat that have suddenly bubbled up across his forehead. ‘Thanks,’ he mutters, and sucks in a shallow breath that doesn’t seem to help at all as the six of them shuffle apart again to let him in, Velvet and Hugo on one side, and Joe, Dawson, Kaitlyn and Sasha on the other.

  Dawson must be staring, because the man turns to look at him, the pale skin between his heavy eyebrows creasing so deeply it sends a bead of sweat rolling between them and down his nose. Dawson is definitely staring now, holding his breath as he watches the glassy drop reach the tip of his nose. It’s about to fall when the man catches it, wiping it, and then the rest of his forehead, with his sleeve. He’s still panting short, shallow breaths that make his Adam’s apple bounce up and down in his throat. He hasn’t pressed a floor, Dawson realizes, his own brow pinching. They can’t all be going to the ninth, surely? His gaze wanders away from the lift buttons and back to the man to find that he’s staring at him – staring right at him – and Dawson holds his breath again as he waits for it, for the flicker of recognition.

  There it is.

  When Dawson summons the courage to look him in the eye, the man looks away, his cheeks even redder. They always do, always try not to stare. Either that or they laugh and whip out their phone to take a photo, like he’s a funny piece of graffiti smeared on the side of a bus shelter. He probably thinks he’s being polite, but Dawson sees his face soften before he looks away, and that hurts more than the laughter.

  The pity.

  Kaitlyn pities him. Especially because he lied to her. She’s thinking how pathetic it is that he’d rather she thought he was a random runner than
who he actually is. But she’s not looking at him, rather straight ahead, staring at the charity fundraising poster Velvet and Hugo are standing in front of, hoping that the text will come back into focus. Hugo doesn’t give enough of a shit to pity Dawson. He’s scrolling through his camera roll from the night before, the corners of his mouth lifting for a moment as he looks at one of Saskia, then deletes it.

  When Sasha checks her phone, Dawson thinks that’s about him as well, but she’s just wondering how Hugo has reception in the lift when she doesn’t. Dawson doesn’t know that though, or that the only reason Sasha keeps checking her phone is because she’s waiting for a Where are you?!!!! text from her father, with four exclamation points this time.

  Five more floors, thinks Sasha, as she watches the digital panel above the doors change from three to four. If the lift doesn’t stop again, she’ll be there in less than a minute, maybe back at her father’s car in five . . . if A. Sharman doesn’t muck her around, that is. Joe, on the other hand, doesn’t want the lift to stop. Tyler Matheson and his mates will have done a good job of distracting Miss Harley, but she must have noticed that he’s gone by now. She probably did a head count before they went in the studio and has told Toby to sound the alarm. So he wills the lift to slow its ascent, sure that when the doors open on the ninth floor, a red light will be flashing and someone will be calling his name on a tannoy, like he’s a lost child in a shopping centre.

  Like Sasha, Hugo is desperate to get out of the lift. Actually, he’s desperate for the panting, sweaty man with the trolley to get out of the lift. He looks like he’s about to chunder, and Hugo is wearing his suede Tom Fords. Sasha isn’t concerned about her shoes, but she is concerned that the man with the trolley is ready to keel over.

  ‘You OK?’ she asks softly, her gaze falling to his hands.

  His knuckles are milk white from holding on so tightly to the trolley that she has to resist the urge to clench her own fists. He tries to smile and fails, but at least manages a nod, clearly incapable of much more. But before Sasha can ask if he’s sure, his eyelids stutter shut, and that’s it. The trolley slips from his grip and he slumps forward, striking them like a bowling ball that scatters the six of them like pins. There’s a series of gasps as cardboard boxes tumble off one by one, landing on the floor in a succession of dull thuds as they each jump back to avoid them.