Love, and Other Things to Live For

by Louise Leverett

  Yep, I’ll sort it, will pay it in cash by the end of the day

  I looked again at my bank statement: I had no other choice but to sell my soul to the devil. I put the stereo on to block out my internal wailing and opened the doors to my wardrobe, pulling out two small boxes of handbags: two Fendi, one Chanel, and a couple of Marc Jacobs’ bowlers. As I ran my hands over the high-quality leather I felt like a fraud. This was the wardrobe of someone successful, someone who had her life intact, and as I was neither of these people, something had to give.

  I ran a quick search through Google for second-hand designer shops. Although it was painful, I wasn’t naïve enough to ignore the fact that having a roof over my head would be far greater than any memories I was still holding onto. A small shop popped up in Islington with a purple catchphrase written in violet across the website: ‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.’ I shook my head in disbelief.

  Twenty minutes later, I exited the tube, my hands clutching a plastic bin liner full of possessions like a prisoner on his last day serving time. A small bell rang out as I walked through the rickety shop door. The smallest woman I had ever seen, with a halo of orange hair, pulled a curtain back from behind the till.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said. She reminded me of my grandma.

  ‘Hello,’ I replied. By now the bag was weighing heavily in my arms and the decision to actually sell off our history was weighing heavily in my heart too.

  She took several minute steps over to me. ‘What’s that you have there, sweetheart? Are you looking to sell?’

  I nodded and placed the plastic bag on the counter. Without a minute to spare, she had ripped it open with frail fingers that were stronger than they looked and tipped the contents over the glass worktop, meticulously sorting through them with an experienced hand.

  ‘Time to get rid?’ she said, fingering the stitching.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘From a certain gentleman?’

  I nodded again, exhaling.

  ‘Well they’re good stuff: real quality pieces.’

  ‘So how much do you think?’ I said, focusing on the reason I was here. The facts. The financials.

  ‘Well, I can give you £500 for the Chanel, £350 apiece for the Fendis and £300 for the Marc Jacobs.’

  I looked down at the bags and took a deep breath.

  ‘How does that sound?’ she said.

  ‘Sounds great,’ I replied, knowing it would cover one and a half month’s rent and a few weeks’ worth of food if I ate like a borrower.

  As she counted out £1,500 in cash I began to peruse the shop.

  ‘This place is really lovely,’ I said, running my fingers through the silk scarves hanging down.

  ‘We opened in 1981. Can you believe that? I bet you weren’t even born!’ she said, stuffing the large wad of cash into an envelope.

  ‘My name’s Jess,’ I said, not knowing why I felt the need to introduce myself.

  ‘Rita,’ she smiled.

  ‘You know,’ I continued, ‘those bags, they were a gift from someone – I feel a bit guilty selling them. I just don’t have a choice. I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a rut financially and these are all I own of any real value. Sad really, isn’t it.’

  I ran my fingers over the worn leather.

  ‘This is literally all I was worth to him.’

  She smiled. She could see my face turn red as I fought to hide my embarrassment.

  ‘You just did what you have to do,’ she said, simply. ‘There’ll be others…’

  ‘Bags or men?’ I asked, my lips creeping into a smile.

  ‘Both,’ she said handing me the envelope.

  I pulled the rickety door behind me and gave her a short wave through the window. I looked down at the envelope poking through my bag. Unless I was willing to sell every possession I owned, it was the motivation to find a money-paying job.

  I lay down on the living-room carpet, my legs stretched out behind me, surrounded by lists of all the magazines that I had sent my photography portfolio to. I decided to take matters into my own hands and try to speak to somebody about a possible placement. I could feel the butterflies of nerves in my stomach as the tone rang out. I sat there, crossed-legged, picturing the office I was calling. Picturing the person who may answer the phone. After four, possibly five rings, a stern-sounding lady picked up.

  ‘You’re through to Redsky magazine, how may I help you?’

  ‘Hi, I was wondering if you could put me through to your creative director, Laura. I sent through a portfolio of photographs for her perusal and I was wondering if it had been received?’

  ‘Is she expecting your call?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I can’t put that call through. Can I help you with anything else today?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Thank you, have a lovely day. Goodbye.’

  It was a ten-second phone call then the line went dead. I drew a red line through Redsky magazine. I moved on to the next one.

  After several awkward exchanges with receptionists, operators and refusals to connect I had reached the last name on my list. A warm sensation rose in my stomach and I knew that it was time to take a different approach. I dialled the final number.

  ‘Good afternoon, Inside Style magazine.’

  ‘Hello, I was wondering if I could be put through to Matt, your creative director? I sent through a portfolio for his perusal and I was wondering if it had been received?’

  ‘Is he expecting your call?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  ‘One moment, please…’

  I could hear the line connecting, as I waited with bated breath to see if my tactic had worked.

  ‘Matt Baker.’ His voice was low and serious.

  ‘Hi, Matt, it’s Jess here. I sent through a portfolio for you to have a look at. I’m interested in a photography position and just wanted to check if you’d received it?’

  ‘Hi, Jess. You know it’s not exactly ideal to ring someone up in the middle of the day, unannounced.’

  I nodded silently. ‘I know,’ I said out loud. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just…’

  ‘Listen, give me two seconds,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘I’m searching my emails, what was your full name?’

  ‘Jessica,’ I said, quickly, making sure as not to waste any more of his time. ‘Wood.’

  ‘Here we are. Okay, I’m looking at your CV… hmmmm… okay… to be honest, you have very little experience for a full-time position. I mean, you haven’t even taken a degree course at this level.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I studied law and then…’

  ‘My advice would be to get some formal training behind you and if I’m honest,’ he continued, ‘perhaps even a job assisting first. But in this climate, that’s pretty competitive too.’

  The sound of silence at the end of the line signalled our conversation was over.

  ‘Well, thank you for your time,’ I said.

  ‘And don’t call people in the middle of the day, it’s annoying.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I had no other choice.’

  ‘Listen Jess, I can tell you want this from the outrageous way you chose to get my attention. You’ve got balls. Maybe when you get a little further down the line, and take the steps I suggested, then send it back through. There are always projects coming up.’

  ‘Thanks, Matt.’

  I hung up the phone and sat amidst the numbers. I needed experience to get a job and a job to gain experience. My head hurt with the confusion. Using the fabric from the arm of the sofa I pulled myself up and tidied away my paperwork.

  The first to arrive for dinner was Amber. Well, she didn’t exactly arrive as just came home from work like any other evening. She made her way to the toilet while talking quietly on her phone, giving me a slight wave on the way through. Moments later Sean knocked on the door, bringing with him a full Chinese and two bottles of wine under his arm.

 
‘I can give you some cash for that now,’ I said, wrestling for the bottle opener that was somehow caught between a wooden spoon and a spatula at the back of the drawer.

  ‘How?’ he said.

  ‘I sold some stuff.’

  ‘Like what – a kidney?’

  At that point Amber strolled in. ‘Looks tasty,’ she said, peeling off one of the plastic lids.

  ‘Who was on the phone?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, no one,’ she said, pulling out four wine glasses from the cupboard.

  The buzzer sounded from downstairs and I ran over to let Marlowe in.

  ‘Sorry, I’m late,’ she said, shaking out her umbrella and making her way up the communal stairs to our front door. ‘George’s flight got delayed so I had to stay with Elsa but he’s back now so I’m free – that rain came out of nowhere!’

  She poured herself a glass of wine and lit a cigarette while sitting next to the open window. I loved how she used our flat to indulge in all the guilty pleasures that she couldn’t enjoy at home. She was perched on the windowsill like a girl guide round the back of a tree at camp.

  ‘So what’s happening with the job situation?’ she said, taking a drag.

  ‘Well, put it this way, if nothing’s come up in the next month I might have to look into selling that kidney.’

  ‘You could get a job in a café?’ Sean said.

  ‘Thanks but I’d rather kill myself.’

  ‘It must be cold perched up on that pedestal…’ he replied.

  I looked at him blankly.

  Marlowe winked at me in support from her window seat while Amber was leaning against the kitchen counter, once again glued to her phone.

  ‘Amber, are you okay?’ Sean said as she continued to type. ‘Back away from the phone, you’re not at work now,’ he said, prising it out of her hands.

  ‘Stop it!’ she shouted. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ She wrestled it free as the whole room fell silent. ‘I’m sorry, all right – I’ve just had a bad day.’

  I watched as she went into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘Is she okay?’ Sean said. ‘What did I miss?’

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ Marlowe said, looking like she knew something we didn’t. ‘So tell me more about this Harry bloke.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘There’s not much to say. He’s… nice.’

  ‘Ah, nice…’ Sean said. ‘That’ll get the girls queuing up.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘not like that. He’s really lovely. I like him. I think.’

  At that point, Amber emerged wearing a pair of oversized pyjamas, giving off the overall feel that she was slightly calmer.

  Marlowe smiled at her. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ she whispered, although the look on her face contradicted her.

  ‘Sit down,’ Sean said. ‘I’ll dish out the egg fried rice.’

  Amber sat down at the table, the sleeves of her dressing gown covering her hands as she held her phone tightly.

  ‘It’s been a couple of weeks and we’ve been back and forth and now I just don’t know what to do,’ she said, looking to us for answers.

  That was always what happened with Amber. She would tell you eventually – it just had to be on her terms.

  ‘About what?’ I said, leaning forwards in my chair.

  ‘Well, a couple of weeks ago, I was working on this new proposal for promotion. I’ve been developing a new business growth plan, completely in my own time, in the hope that one day my boss might look at it and see me in a more, I don’t know, competent light. I’d shown it to Marlowe and it was good.’

  ‘Really good,’ Marlowe said, now seated with us at the table.

  ‘Okay…’ Sean said, knowing there had to be more to the story.

  ‘Well, there is a woman at work, Linda. She’s senior to me and literally questions everything I do. I can’t win. But if I got the promotion I wouldn’t need to answer to her. I would just be working directly under my boss.’

  ‘Amber, just get the point, what happened?’ I said.

  ‘I mean, this promotion would be an extra £7,000 a year and it would mean that my voice actually gets heard rather than working every hour God sends on someone else’s ideas.’

  ‘Yeah, but what actually happened, Amber?’ Sean said.

  ‘I was called into my boss’ office about two weeks ago and asked what progress I was making in this quarter. I discussed my development and what I hoped to achieve. He said I was ambitious and liked to see that in an employee. He made a joke or two. I laughed. And then he talked about how we should discuss my ideas further. He got up and put his hand on the back of my chair. The other hand went on my knee. I didn’t move.’

  We all sat staring at her phone, which was now in the middle of the table like a piece of evidence in a crime scene.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t have but I kept thinking about my position and how I didn’t want to offend him. So instead I just nodded. I could feel his eyes follow me as I left the office.’

  ‘But isn’t that sexual harassment?’ Sean said.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘Two days later he called me into his office again and told me he was giving me the job of project manager at the new e-commerce merger.’

  ‘What, just like that?’ I said, in cautious belief.

  ‘Yeah. Just like that,’ she continued, ‘but when I got to work on Wednesday he said that the position would mean that we should spend more time together and he invited me to lunch.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Is he married?’

  Amber sat in silence.

  ‘Just be careful…’ Marlowe said, answering for her.

  ‘It’s a work thing,’ Amber replied, dismissively.

  ‘Is he married?’ I repeated.

  ‘Yes.’ Amber looked at me with wide eyes. ‘So we went to lunch and to be honest it felt great: I was being heard, he was flirting and so what if I flirted back, it was totally harmless. But late this afternoon he called me into his office again.’

  ‘Smooth.’ Sean laughed.

  ‘Go on…’ I said.

  ‘He told me how much he valued and appreciated me, now that he’d got to know me better and how he had come to rely on my opinion. And then he tried to kiss me.’

  ‘What did you do?’ I asked.

  ‘I didn’t pull away.’

  ‘Amber, he’s married!’ I cried.

  ‘I know! But I was scared, he’s my boss and now I’m stuck in it. And I don’t know what to do.’

  At that point her phone pinged.

  ‘You’ve got to keep him sweet,’ Sean advised. ‘Don’t piss him off. You don’t know what he might do…’

  ‘But don’t have sex with him either!’ I shouted.

  ‘It’s a tricky one,’ Sean said as he leaned over to look at the phone. ‘He’s typing…’

  ‘What about my business proposal? I’ve worked for weeks on it and it’s really good. I don’t want to lose the opportunity.’

  ‘Babes, I don’t think he cares about your business proposal,’ Sean said, drily. ‘He’s still typing.’

  ‘Can we just change the subject?’ she said, pulling her phone off the table.

  After dinner, I stood in the kitchen by myself, clearing away the forks that we’d used to eat from the cartons.

  ‘The upside of eating takeaway…’ Amber said as she walked back into the kitchen. ‘No washing up!’

  Marlowe had left early to relieve the babysitter and Sean needed to be up early for a gym session. We were alone: just the two of us.

  ‘You can’t have an affair with your boss, Amber. He’s married. What about his wife? Did you even think about her?’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ she said, defensively. ‘I don’t know that I am.’

  ‘What if you piss him off? If he rewards you with a promotion, how does he punish you? It’s your job. Seriously, take it from me, life
without an actual career, at our age, well, it’s not ideal…’

  ‘I think you’re overreacting.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I know how hard you’ve worked to get here.’

  I switched off the lights throughout the flat and went to bed, leaving Amber still texting at the kitchen table.

  ‘Amber,’ I said quietly. ‘Trust me, it’s not worth the heartache.’

  I’d passed the piece of paper that was sellotaped in the window numerous times and wondered what loser would want to work in an off-road Italian restaurant. As it turned out, that loser was now me. After the equivalent of a car boot sale for the heart, I felt unshakeable and remembered the advert in the window, sandwiched between a children’s clothes shop and a pharmacist.

  I found myself in front of a small stone building that had been transported from the Italian coast. Terracotta pots hung from the windows and a small layer of condensation gave the windows a slightly blurred feel. I made my way through the door and could immediately smell homemade soup and strong coffee. Through the customers that were gathered around the counter, I saw a large man with a tidy, jet-black beard and, assuming he was the manager, made my way over.

  ‘I saw the advert in the window and was wondering if I could apply for the position?’

  ‘Which position? Chef or waitress?’ he replied.

  ‘Waitress,’ I said quickly, slightly thrown at the prospect of being hired as a chef.

  ‘Maria, can you bring in the large case of tiramisu?’ he called towards the back of the room.

  I noticed his dismissive attitude and tried to hold his attention. ‘I can bring in a CV if you’d like,’ I continued. ‘I live just around the corner…’

  ‘Not necessary,’ he cut me off. ‘Can you come back at midday to help with the lunchtime rush?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘Ask for Guido.’

  ‘Who’s Guido?’

  ‘Me,’ he said.

  I left hastily before he had time to reconsider and returned two hours later, after a quick sandwich and dressed in a white blouse and black trousers. I’d tied my hair into a high ponytail and put on some lipstick so that I felt a little perkier.