Floored

by Sara Barnard

  I don’t get it. My parents have never been in debt. They’ve always prided themselves on it. Then it dawns on me. It was always Mum who took care of the accounts, who paid the bills and balanced the cheque book and budgeted for Christmas and birthdays and holidays. All Mum. Plus now, we don’t have Dad’s salary coming in. He gets a carer’s allowance, but it’s only about sixty quid a week, and he won’t start collecting his pension until next year.

  My hands trembling, I open the rest of the envelopes, sorting them into piles. By the time I’m finished, I’ve worked out we’re £1,500 overdrawn, owe £650 in unpaid bills, and another £7,000 on credit cards I didn’t even know existed. I knew we were struggling, but I didn’t think we were in actual trouble. The realization Dad has been dealing with all of this on top of looking after Mum makes my stomach turn somersaults.

  Some adult I am. I didn’t even notice.

  I gather up the paperwork and take it to my room, then go downstairs and set Mum up at the kitchen table with some colouring in. She’s reluctant at first, but after a while she settles into it, working on a picture of a tropical fish.

  I go into the hallway, shut the door behind me, and sit down on the bottom step.

  There’s no point in waiting. Sasha and the others will only try to talk me out of it. An hour ago, they might have succeeded, but now I know I have no choice. It’s time to step up, to stop daydreaming and be the adult Mum and Dad actually need me to be.

  Catrina answers the phone after one ring.

  I clear my throat.

  ‘Hi, Catrina. It’s Joe Lindsay here.’

  ‘Joe! I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow.’

  ‘I guess I made my mind up quicker than I thought.’

  There’s a pause. I close my eyes.

  ‘And?’

  I keep them closed.

  ‘And I’d like to accept.’

  ‘Oh, that’s brilliant news,’ Catrina says. ‘As I said earlier, you’re one of the strongest management trainee candidates we’ve had in a while.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say faintly.

  We talk for a bit longer, at least Catrina does, about start dates and contracts.

  ‘I’d better let you go,’ Catrina says eventually. ‘I expect you’ll be wanting to celebrate.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  She laughs. ‘Well, whatever you get up to, have a brilliant night. Oh, and welcome to Champion Biscuits, Joe. We’re lucky to have you.’

  KAITLYN

  All he has to do is pick up. All he sodding has to bloody fucking do is pick up.

  And he doesn’t. He doesn’t pick up.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Avani asks pointedly. Pointed because I’m not paying her the attention she’s owed. Pointed because I’m meant to be hanging out with my supposed best friend, and I’ve just been making pointless calls the whole time. Pointed because . . . Oh shit, her girlfriend just arrived at the pub, and I hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘Hi!’ I say, flooded with guilt, leaping up and knocking my knee into the table leg. ‘OK – ow. Sorry. Hi.’

  ‘No worries,’ the girlfriend says cheerfully.

  Amber – I remember just in time. She has a half-shaved pixie cut and a line of piercings up one ear, just like Avani had described.

  ‘You looked pretty intense about that call.’

  I attempt a relaxed shrug. ‘I’m waiting to hear about a job, so yeah.’ She doesn’t need to know I’m just another girl waiting for her boyfriend to call. Prick. ‘I had an interview this morning.’

  ‘Did you?’ Avani asks, surprised.

  Which is fair enough, considering I came to meet her straight after and didn’t even mention it. I’m already regretting bringing it up; it went terribly, as usual, and I know I haven’t got the job. But I don’t want to tell her that, to watch her face go all sympathetic, so I cross my fingers at her with exaggerated hope rather than reply, and she smiles.

  I turn deliberately to Amber. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too, Kait,’ Amber says. She has a big, cheerful smile on her face. ‘Vani’s told me so much about you.’ She drops suddenly to her knees. ‘And you!’ she coos, her whole voice instantly bubbly. ‘Hello, Remy. Hello, Remy-dog.’

  I look at Avani, and she beams at me. Remy, my guide dog, shifts against my feet.

  ‘Um,’ I say. ‘He’s kind of a working dog, so . . .’ So don’t talk to him like he’s a baby. ‘Do you mind, like . . . pretending he’s not there?’

  ‘Of course, sorry,’ she says. To her credit, she stands immediately before sliding on to the stool next to Avani. ‘I just really love dogs. And guide dogs are so amazing. It’s like, if you looked at all the people in the world, a single guide dog would be better than all of them, you know?’

  I reach my hand under the table and touch the top of Remy’s sweet, soft head. Just doing that calms me, just a little. ‘Yeah,’ I say, even though what she said doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. ‘He definitely beats everyone I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Even me?’ Avani asks, lifting her J20 and taking a sip. She’s been teetotal since last August, when she got so drunk she vomited down her then-girlfriend’s cleavage and got herself royally dumped. I wonder if she’s told Amber that story. Probably, knowing her.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I say, pretending to think about it, and she laughs. Which is lucky, because it means I don’t actually have to answer.

  ‘How long have you had him now?’ Amber asks. ‘Vani was saying that you were, like, training with him for a while?’

  ‘We’re still officially training together,’ I say. ‘It’s a bit of learning curve. For me, I mean. He’s great, obviously.’

  ‘But he lives with you and stuff?’

  I nod. ‘Oh yeah. We’re a team. He’s my bud.’ Understatement of the century. Remy is the solid point of golden light in the crappy year I’ve had. In my whole crappy life. I didn’t think I liked dogs once.

  Actually, a lot of things I used to think turned out to be wrong. Like that if something good happened, it would last.

  ‘How’s the FemSoc stuff going?’ I ask, and they both light up.

  The Feminist Society at their university is where they met, so I know I’m on safe ground. They talk happily for a while, telling me about a protest they helped organize against the opening of a Hooters in the city centre, and I nod and smile as if I care.

  It’s not like I don’t want to care. I really do. I want to care about this life Avani’s living, and the things she cares about. But I just feel . . . blank. Some friend I am. No wonder we don’t really have anything to say to each other any more.

  ‘Our friend Cammi had this Ann Summers party, and it was so heteronormative . . .’

  Do all friendships just fade out this way? It feels like we’ve been drifting apart since . . . well, since Dawson, maybe? Since the lift? Or earlier, since my diagnosis, when it was so painfully clear that our lives were going to be different in a way that was once unimaginable?

  ‘. . . And then Amber put a rainbow-coloured dildo on her head to make a unicorn horn and it got stuck . . .’

  The thing is, I didn’t even mind that much before, because I had Dawson. Not even as a boyfriend, but as my friend. My best mate. And then there was kissing, and then sex, and then love – all of it like the slow climb up a mountain for the best view ever. And what’s the natural end to that analogy? Everything going downhill, far too fast. Falling in love with Dawson was like this brilliant bonus on top of him being my friend, but if the relationship bit doesn’t work out, do I lose both?

  ‘Why aren’t you laughing, Kait? The dildo got stuck on her forehead.’

  Maybe I’m worrying too much. All relationships have ebbs and flows, right? Maybe this is just a really long, really shitty ebb. And – wait, what? Why have they stopped talking?

  ‘Huh?’

  I can tell by Avani’s voice that she’s sullen and disappointed – a bad mix. ‘You’re not listening, are you?’

  ‘I a
m!’ I say. Shit, what were they talking about? Take a punt, Kait. ‘That’s hilarious!’ I try to laugh, which is a mistake, because it makes me sound like a hungover Santa Claus. Ho, ho, ho.

  ‘Listen,’ Avani says, and that’s when my phone bursts into life.

  I leap for it, far more energetically than I should, given that I should be apologizing right now, and I hear her let out one of those you’ve-just-confirmed-what-I-thought-of-you sighs. The leap is a waste of energy anyway, because I know almost instantly that it isn’t Dawson ringing. I have a different ringtone keyed in for everyone who matters, and his is that old Stevie Wonder song ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’. This ringtone is the anonymous drone of an unknown number. Great.

  I make a big show of rejecting the call. ‘Sorry,’ I say, a bit too loudly. ‘I’m not picking it up, OK?’

  ‘You might as well,’ Avani says, still in that same flat voice. ‘Unless you’re actually going to give us your attention, why bother?’

  ‘Oh, Van,’ I say, expecting her to interrupt me. But she doesn’t, and the silence hangs between all three of us. I have no idea how to follow up those two words. Because she’s right, isn’t she? ‘Look, I’m sorry. This is just . . . God, it’s just not a great time.’

  ‘What, because you’re so busy?’ she shoots back, then gives this little gasp that I hear even from across the table. Because it’s mean, and Avani isn’t mean.

  Of course I’m not busy. I haven’t been busy for months, not since my brilliant, lovely boss, who’d made such grand plans to take me on full time in her florist’s when my apprenticeship ended, got cancer. Goddamn fucking cancer. And now there’s no shop. No job. Goodbye and good luck.

  You’d think the perk of being unemployed would be freedom, but that’s not how it is at all. I feel more trapped than I ever did. No employment means no money, and that means no shopping, no spontaneous trips to Thorpe Park, not even the train fare to visit my boyfriend in London. And the one time I did manage to scrape it together, it was a disaster.

  I’m trying my hardest to get another job, but it’s just not working. I’ve applied for floristry and non-floristry jobs, and no one wants me. I could blame my visual impairment and discriminatory employers, but to be honest I actually think it’s mostly about me. What if this is my lot from now on? What if no one ever wants me again?

  Dawson. Dawson wants me. Dawson. Just call me back, for God’s sake.

  I never wanted to be the kind of person whose happiness depended on a boy. But when that boy is pretty much the only spark of happy left, am I a bad person for wanting it even more? I want more than a spark, that’s the truth. I want flames again. I want the kind of passion that lights fires.

  It’s been a long time since we had fire. I know that. I do.

  ‘No need to be a bitch,’ I say. At my feet, Remy shifts his weight so he’s leaning a little against my shins. Sometimes I think Remy knows my actual heart. ‘Do you want me to play the unemployed-blind-girl card? Because I will.’

  ‘I thought we weren’t allowed to use the word “blind”,’ she says.

  ‘That’s not the point, Van!’ I snap. But what is the point? I can’t help wondering. That she’s at university, and I’m not? That she’s in the joyous, giddy part of a relationship, and I’m not? That she’s happy, and I’m not?

  ‘I just mean it’s impossible to keep up with you,’ she says. ‘Like, what’s even going on with you and Dawson anyway? Why’s it been so long since he visited?’

  ‘He’s working,’ I say defensively. I don’t even know which one of us I’m protecting. ‘In London, remember? He can’t just pop up here whenever he wants.’

  ‘I always loved Dawson Sharman,’ Amber pipes in at this point. I’m not sure whether she’s ballsy or just clueless. ‘And Dedman High. He was so great.’

  People talk like this about Dawson; always the past tense. Loved Dawson Sharman. Like he doesn’t exist in the present.

  ‘Is it true you met in a lift?’ Amber adds when I don’t say anything. ‘With, like, a dead guy?’

  I take a gulp of the vodka and Coke I’d been ignoring. ‘Yeah.’ I have a sudden, vivid memory of myself on the floor of the lift, the scratch of the industrial carpet against my knees, Steven’s slack face in front of me. Where was Dawson in that moment? Behind me? I try to remember.

  ‘Kait was never the same after that,’ Avani says, a little too brightly.

  ‘I guess death changes you,’ Amber says. She gives a sombre nod. ‘Seeing it up close like that.’

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Almost four,’ Avani says. ‘Why?’

  ‘Ah, I should probably go,’ I say, grimacing as if I’m sad about this. As if it’s not a total lie. ‘I’m meeting Dawson and the others soon.’ We’re actually not meeting until seven, but I can’t stay in this poky pub any longer. I drain my vodka and Coke and reach for the handle of Remy’s harness, saying in a softer voice, ‘Come on, mate.’

  The goodbyes are awkward. Avani’s disappointment has made her sulky, and Amber insists on hugging me, even though we hardly know each other and I’ve been pretty rude to her the whole time. I have a vague thought that I should message Avani later to apologize and suggest we try again soon; explain that I’m just unhappy right now; beg forgiveness. But it’s just a vague thought, and I know I won’t.

  Remy and I meander around the pub tables until we make it to the door, which is being held open for us by a silver-haired man. ‘Have a good day!’ he says as we pass. I pretend I haven’t heard.

  The city is busy and loud, but I like it. It’s just Remy and me that matter now. His soft, confident paws carving a path for the two of us through the crowd. When I first met Remy, just under a year ago now, he’d come bounding up to me, all energy and light, pressing his nose against my knees. Until that moment, I’d still been uncertain about even getting a guide dog. I’d never been a dog person, for one thing. And for another, I didn’t want to need one.

  But then there was Remy, my golden boy. Learning how to navigate the world together has been tough – tougher than even I’d thought it would be – but, God, is it worth it. Even if I really do lose Dawson, even if I can’t get a job, I have Remy. That’s more than a lot of people have.

  We pause at a bench outside a Superdry, and I pull out my phone. I will call Dawson one last time; I’ll give him one more chance to come through for me. I start the call and touch Remy’s ears with my free hand.

  The phone rings. It rings again.

  DAWSON

  The prelude to being with someone has always been my favourite part of a relationship. When you like them, and you’re sure they like you too, but you haven’t done anything about it yet. You catch them staring, and they don’t look away, but hold your gaze for a beat too long. They stand really close – so close, you can feel their body heat through your clothes – and you’re sure it’s doing to them what it’s doing to you. You replay everything they say, late at night, once you’ve finally stopped messaging each other. It’s the sweetest kind of agony, knowing it’s only a matter of time. It’s pure, unlimited potential. The world is a little brighter when you’re falling for someone. You’re a little brighter, a little kinder.

  Except to your actual girlfriend.

  For the fifth time in an hour, my phone lights up with Kait’s name. I know I need to answer it. I know she needs to know if I’m going to get a cab to hers before the dinner, or if I’m meeting her there. All I have to do is tell her I’ll be there at seven, or not. That’s it.

  I turn my phone over, face down.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Jasper Montagu-Khan asks.

  Don’t look up, I tell myself. Do not look at him.

  I look at him.

  ‘Yeah.’ It takes an inhuman amount of effort to tear my eyes from his dark ones, and look back at the script we’re working on. I’m way too old for this. I’m way too in a relationship for this.

  He leans back and raises his hands over his head, his T-shirt risi
ng up. I follow its journey as it reveals a golden band of skin above his waistband, and I forget about the need to oxygenate my body. Every day with this guy is an agonizing game of fanfic cliché bingo, and every day I get a full house.

  ‘Fancy a tea?’ he says.

  I fancy you.

  ‘Sure.’ Is what I actually say.

  He leans over to pick up my cup, and I hold my breath, like the big fat Mary Sue I am. He hovers, looking down at what I’m working on, and I try to focus on something else. So naturally, I stare at his hand, resting way too close to mine. There’s a callus on the inside of his middle finger, because he likes to work on pen and paper instead of on his Mac when he’s drafting. If it was anyone else, I’d think they were pretentious. But because it’s Jasper, I’m fine with it. In fact, I want to kiss it.

  ‘I like that bit,’ he says, and I hear the smile in his voice. ‘The bit about the dog. That’s funny.’

  If I turn . . . If I just turned . . .

  ‘Thanks.’

  He waits another moment, and then pulls back, taking my cup with him.

  And I can breathe again.

  In the first script I ever worked on with him, back in September last year, there was a whole section where the main female character, a sixteen-year-old on the run from the government, talked about the smell of her future love interest. It was going to be a voice-over: her saying she felt comforted by his scent – the woody, spicy scent of it. I rewrote it because, honestly, what kind of sixteen-year-old describes someone as smelling spicy, or woody? I replaced it with her talking about how aware she is of him. That without looking around, her body knew where he was, how far from her, how many steps it would take to close the gap and be in his arms.

  Because I know, without looking around, the exact moment when Jasper comes back into the room, carrying two cups of tea, a packet of Party Rings clutched in his beautiful teeth. I feel him walking up behind me. I know the exact moment when, if I reached back, my hand would skim his thigh. I know.

  He puts my cup down, and his next to it, and my entire body feels like it’s twisting into a pretzel as he drags his chair over, sitting close enough for his arm to brush mine. He rips open the packet of biscuits and places them between our cups, like a little barrier. And the minute I think that, my mood plummets.