‘Hello?’
It’s my mum. ‘Are you awake, love?’
‘By virtue of me speaking to—’
‘Yes, yes, yes; why is your mobile off?’ She cuts me off. She hates it when I give smart answers. ‘I’ve been trying to ring you on your mobile, but a weird tone comes up.’
‘My mobile? I turned it off last night, remember, and took out the battery, because I didn’t feel like dealing with anyone,’ I remind her.
‘Okay, well, fine. Actually, I think that was very wise. But turn it on again now, will you, so we can track you if you go out.’
‘In what way do you want to track me?’
‘You know perfectly well what I mean – so we know where you are, so you don’t go and do anything silly.’
‘Mum, I’m fine. I just want to relax and take a break from everything, be by myself for a bit.’
The phone goes quiet. It sounds like she’s clapped her hand over the receiver and is whispering to someone; I can hear a deep, gravelly, hushed voice in the background.
Mum comes back on the line. ‘Surround yourself with people,’ she says.
‘Huh?’
‘Surround yourself with people. That’s a good piece of advice, don’t you think?’
‘No, and no. No, I won’t be doing that, and no, I don’t think it’s a good piece of advice. I think it’s a patronising and ill-informed piece of advice. I don’t want to see even one person, never mind throw myself into some kind of pseudo-social crowd surf because one of your clients watches Oprah and now thinks she can counsel me on what’s best. What would really, really be best for me right now is some decent coffee, and some food, and some heating, and for you to stop discussing my prob … my current status with people who think feminism means shoplifting tampons.’
Silence. I feel a chill on the back of my neck. I know she means well, but I’m just not in the mood. Still silence, like the line has gone dead.
‘Hello? Mum?’ I say.
There is a very deep cough at the other end of the line. ‘Poppy, Roberta here. I ’preciate you’re having a hard time. You sound highly strung, but I have some news for you and I don’t care if Angela is your mother. She’s also my mate, has been for a very long time. So hear me when I say that if you dare speak to her like that again, I promise you I’ll tear your legs off and stuff them in your ears so hard you’ll need one of your brain doctor friends to get them out. Do you understand me?’
I squeeze out a very warbly, high-pitched sound that is understood as a yes. I hear shuffling, the receiver changing hands and the sound of heavy steps walking away.
My mum comes back on the line. ‘Right, there’s fifty pounds in my jewellery box. Go out and get some bits from the shop. I’ll be back by four. And make sure you turn your phone on. Today is the first day of the rest of your life, sweetheart, so embrace it. Seize the day!’
‘I will. I will definitely embrace it. Sorry for what I said earlier – just a bit out of sorts – but I’m seizing the day right now, okay? I promise!’ I speak slowly and clearly and in the most upbeat singsong voice I can muster. Then I wait for my mum to hang up first. And then I wait for the tone to go dead. Absolutely dead. Then I wait some more just in case Roberta might still be around ready to pounce on me with some final violent words of encouragement.
I do exactly as Mum says straight away, as if there is a hidden camera planted and I’m being live-streamed into the salon and her tough-nut girl gang are watching me Big Brother style. I reassemble my phone, plug it in and make myself a strong cup of coffee. Mum is right about one thing: it was surprisingly wise of me to turn off my phone last night; uncharacteristically wise, since I have never, ever turned it off before. Actually, I hope it comes back on again; it is looking very dark and lifeless right now, so fingers crossed. It lights up, its little smartphone chest spluttering a hopeful screen breath, and then erupts machine-gun-like with beeps, firing notifications of new messages, missed calls and voicemails. I take a large gulp of coffee; it looks like I’m going to need something to get through this backlog.
Forty-two missed calls.
Eleven texts.
Three voicemails.
All the voicemails are from my ex-dad. There’s one text from Gregory, and everything else is from Harriet. At least they love me. At least they care about what’s happened to me. At least I’ve got a best friend and a boyfriend who give a shit about whether I’ve been sectioned or not.
Oh Gregory, maybe you’ve already realised that actually it doesn’t matter that I haven’t got the fellowship, because you have! We can still move into Ivy Court. We can still have the Egyptian cotton sheets and crystal glassware, and I can be the one who brings you cups of tea while you lose yourself in fascinating new research. I could pick up some teaching or casual administration; maybe I could even be your assistant!
I wait for my phone to charge and look fondly at Harriet’s missed calls. Oh how I miss her already. She is my right-hand woman! And although I’m actually left-handed, I still use my right hand for all sorts of things, every single day. Life with no Harriet by my side … well, I’m already suffering from this amputation. I’ll invite her here to stay. That’ll count as surrounding myself with a person, which is close to what Mum wants, and I know I’ll feel a trillion times better once she’s here. Yes. Plans are hatching. I’d high-five myself if I could.
I delete all the voicemails from my ex-dad because I know what they are going to be about and I’m just not willing to go there right now. I open the first text, which was sent yesterday at around the time I bundled myself into my mum’s car.
Harriet, 13.42: ‘Are you okay? What’s happening? Confused. Tell me where you are.’
Harriet, 13.59: ‘Where are you? Am looking everywhere but can’t see you.’
Harriet, 14.20: ‘Am in the Fox and Hound. You are not here Poppy. Wtf?’
Harriet, 15.00: ‘This isn’t funny. Why don’t you pick up your phone?’
Harriet, 16.10: ‘Still trying to reach you. I have something to tell you …’
Harriet, 16.30: ‘Tried ringing again. No answer. I have been allocated Ivy Court. Wanted to tell you in person. Call me, Poppy. Worried about you.’
Harriet, 17.47: ‘Everyone is getting shitfaced. You should just come back. Honestly, nobody would care now. Jägerbomb time.’
Harriet, 18.55: ‘Gregory just asked me where you are. Come down here!’
Gregory, 19.00: ‘Dear Poppy, this is not the way I’d planned to do this, but I have been all over looking for you and it looks like you are not coming back. I think you know what’s coming. Although I really enjoy your company and I think you’re cheeky and funny in your own way, we both know that our time is up and I really want us to start new chapters after Banbridge with a clean break. I have wanted to have this discussion with you for a while, but with exams looming and living in such close proximity, I thought it best to wait until today; until we were ready to go our separate ways in every sense. Best regards, G.’
Harriet, 21.56: ‘Gregory actually very sweet, so funny.’
Harriet, 04.12: ‘House party at Gregory’s.’
Harriet, 10.30: ‘Just woken up. Feel like shit. Don’t know how to say this. Last night Gregory and I, well, you can prob guess. He told me you two were finished. My head is all over the place – I am so so sorry. Need to go. Sick as dog. Call me.’
No more new messages. Oh my God. OH MY GOD. Gregory has finished with me and Harriet has slept with Gregory! Harriet has had actual naked, skin-to-skin sex with GREGORY. God, I cannot take it in. I feel sick. Do you hear that, Harriet, I’m the one who is as sick as a dog. Gregory wanted to break up with me for a while? The fucking cheek! I know things weren’t perfect, but we were in the middle of exams! Nobody looks or acts their best when they’ve been squirrelled away in the library for six months, living off cheese and sugar and caffeine; no time to sleep or socialise or relax. What did he expect?
I smack my hand against the kitchen table. I
honestly cannot believe that this is happening. The person I love the most with the other person I love the most and who doesn’t love me back.
I grab my phone and go straight to my contacts. I then block and delete the number of every single person I met during my ten years at Banbridge. Except Dr Burley. He can stay. He, at least, tried to help me. Why? Because I’m livid at Harriet and Gregory for waiting until I was out of the picture to doubly betray me. Well done Harriet, nicely played. Congratu-fucking-lations on Gregory and Ivy Court and the fellowship and basically taking over everything that I’ve been living for. If this is friendship, then I’d rather go solo. Four numbers have survived my contact massacre. My mum, Frank, Burley and (by the skin of his teeth) my ex-dad. So that’s it. I am as on my own as I’ve ever been.
My phone vibrates as if outraged. It’s a text from Mum: ‘Roberta suggests you go down and register at the job centre straight away. She says the paperwork can take forever so get down there PRONTO.’
I answer straight away; such is my terror at Roberta’s wrath: ‘Will do it today! And be sure to thank her for all this great advice.’
Day one of the rest of my life looks like this: no friends, no boyfriend, cold house, relentless torrent of invasive questions, deep dread of speaking with ex-dad and all other enquiring humans; and just in case that wasn’t bad enough, now I’ve committed to a trip to the job centre.
And if day one of being a grown-up means stubbing your toe really badly when you kick the fridge barefoot and subsequently howl profanities through the double glazing at the neighbours’ dog, then yeah, I’m all over it.
Chapter Three
As I brush my teeth, I conjure up a three-step plan.
Step one: appeal the decision not to offer me the fellowship. Stalk Banbridge postgraduate vacancies and apply for anything that even sniffs of my qualification. Or just apply for everything: groundskeeper, librarian, landlady at the Fox and Hound, living specimen for medical students. Anything and everything. I need to get back there. I call Dr Burley but get no answer. I leave a message for him to call me back URGENTLY.
Step two: getting aforementioned job will enable me to move out and resume a life that merits getting dressed in the mornings.
Step three: regain dignity. Fall in love with someone gorgeous and rich and clever so I can montage my beautiful ‘Best Thing I Never Had’ life on social media for Harriet and Gregory to see. Get ripped and toned and serene and Zen-like. Be able to just let stuff go and not carry inwardly corrosive grudges; be all ‘I wish you well, meagre hater’. I’m going to be the Xena: Warrior Princess of shit-togetherness.
This is good. This is going to work. It shouldn’t even be that difficult, because if I manage to get a job back in Banbridge, then all the other stuff will just naturally follow.
I shower, pull on my jeans and jumper and do what most graduates do the day after they leave uni: go down to the job centre.
I sit in the waiting area with a ticker-tape number that makes me feel like I’m holding my own barcode. There’s a very fat man wearing stained grey tracksuit bottoms, the dribble on his stubble looking weirdly like dew glistening on a black lawn. I smile at him when he makes eye contact, causing him to immediately dart his eyes away, like he’s afraid I’m flirting with him. I take out my phone and play Candy Crush. It’s a lesser hell.
The sign flashes 632 and shifty ‘don’t make eyes at me’ man waddles forward. This means I’m up next, so it’s time for me to start putting my career head on. I reread the application form I’ve filled in. I think it’s pretty impressive, actually. I’ve got my CV up to date and the qualifications look great – first-class honours in my bachelor’s degree, my MSc and my PhD. The second referee box is blank as I can’t use Dr Winters any more and I’m not sure who to stick down in her place just yet. Employment history is also a teensy bit blank, but I can’t do anything about that. I’ve been in education all my life and that’s kind of the way I’d hoped to continue. I need to stay positive. Remember that this is only temporary. I’m just here until I can find my way back to Banbridge.
‘A bend in the road is not the end of the road,’ I mutter to myself. Oh lordy, what am I saying? I am channelling my mother in one of her more cringeworthy Mama Cliché moments. This fridge-magnet wisdom is infectious. As in, likely to gnaw away at your bruised intellect until you succumb to moistening your bleeding gums with ice-cold, numbing placebos. I run my tongue over my teeth. I’ve had an existential battering; I’m too weak to fight folly with conventional reason. Let’s hope I make it to lunchtime without counting my chickens or crying over spilt milk.
A lady in a dark green headdress joins us, manoeuvring her pink double buggy in between the fixed plastic chairs. I want to congratulate her on having utterly silent kids until I catch a glimpse of four cats climbing in and over the padded seating. I decide just to leave it be and stare at my application form in my lap. I’ve got to make this work. When I get in there, I will make it crystal clear that I am open to any reasonable vacancy and that I’ll work anywhere, though nowhere cold or with a poor human rights record or on the Northern Line. Perfect. I smooth down my jeans, tighten my topknot and give my lips a quick lick of gloss. Number 633 is ready.
Number 632 must have left the building through some secret disposal chute, because within five minutes my number is flashing in red digits on the mounted screen. I turn the handle on the door labelled Interview Room to find a maze of grey partitioning. A very tall, very thin young man who looks no older than twelve years old leans over a desk stacked with handwritten forms that appear to be printed on recycled newspaper. His desk is a mess, the frames of his glasses are uneven, his tie is tugged to the side; even his teeth seem to be pulling in different directions. And he looks like he should be kicking a football in the car park with his school friends.
Stay positive, Poppy. This is only temporary.
I put on my best fake smile and this helps me relax enough to shake his hand and take the seat he has offered me.
‘I’m Markus, your career facilitator and transition mentor. A pleasure to meet you …’ he scans my application form, ‘Poppy! Have I got that right?’
‘Yes, Poppy Bloom, that’s me. Dr Poppy Bloom, actually.’
He dips his chin and raises his eyebrows as if to say ‘get you’, then holds my application form close to his face, trying, I imagine, to read very quickly while hiding behind his computer screen.
‘Right, the purpose of today is to establish your eligibility for full-time employment, identify your needs as a job seeker and try to answer any questions you may have regarding the process into permanent gainful employment. Sound okay with you?’ he says, and I nod my co-operation.
‘So, I’ll just set you up on our database and that will kick-start the process of finding a suitable vacancy for your skill set.’ He hasn’t made wonky eye contact with me since our handshake, and I suspect this patter is so scripted that he doesn’t even know what he’s saying any more; he just rattles it off meaninglessly, a little like the Scout promise.
The computer bleeps its acceptance of my details. He shuffles in his seat and cracks his neck.
‘And we are in! Welcome to your future, Poppy.’ He taps the side of his monitor. ‘In here is everything you could wish for in terms of your career. I like to call it the Job Genie. Get it?’ He runs his hand up and down the monitor. ‘Would you like to rub the Job Genie?’
I shuffle backwards into the seat of my chair, shaking my head.
‘No? Not willing to move outside your comfort zone? Well, that’s your call, Poppy. However, I have to admit it’s not a good start. Maybe it’s time to open your mind a little to possibilities you may not have previously considered? Do things you didn’t think you could do?’
Markus closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose. I think he has watched Matilda too many times and is trying to control my mind. Finally I reach out, quickly air-swiping my hand down the side of his monitor. He joins his palms together and
leers at me.
‘Good. Very, very good. Okay, now that we are on the same page, the Genie needs to ask you a few questions. He can help make your wishes come true and grant you the job of your dreams.’
‘Sounds great,’ I tell him. ‘Fire away.’ This sounds easier than I thought.
Markus licks his dry, cracked lips and begins his line of questioning with all the solemnity of a Mastermind presenter.
‘Do you drive?’
‘No,’ I tell him, and he types in my answer with one finger.
‘Do you own a car?’
‘Well, hardly … I don’t drive.’
He flashes me a look.
‘Sorry, the answer is no. No, I do not own a car.’
‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
He punches the same key again. No. No. No.
‘Any children or dependants under the age of sixteen?’
‘No.’
‘Homeowner?’
‘Nope.’ Bloody hell, Markus, kick a girl while she’s down, why don’t you?
‘Tenant?’
‘Yes! Yes! The answer is yes. I am a tenant. Yes, I am.’ Thank God, an affirmative answer.
Markus nods appreciatively. ‘Okay, so how much is your weekly rent, excluding bills and council tax?’
‘Oh, nothing. It’s free,’ I tell him. ‘I’m living with my parents at the moment.’
Markus sighs and punches the NO button, deleting my previous affirmative answer.
‘It’s only temporary,’ I say.
Markus winks at me. ‘Yeah. Temporary. We hear that a lot.’
‘But it is only temporary! I’m just here because I’m in between … opportunities at the moment. Make no mistake, Markus, I have no intention of sticking around at my parents’ house with nothing to do and no one to do it with. I intend to implement my three-step plan as a matter of urgency and then I’ll be on my way again very, very shortly.’
‘Three-step plan? Isn’t that for alcoholics?’
Don't Stop Me Now: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 3