‘No. That’s the twelve-step plan. My plan has only THREE steps to get me back to where I belong, back home to the low lights and darkened corners of academic sanctuary. So when I say that this is only temporary, I really, really mean it, okay?’
Markus is studying the ragged cuticle of his thumbnail. ‘National Insurance number?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bank account number? Sort code?’
‘I don’t know. My mum usually deals with all this stuff. I haven’t a clue.’
Markus looks over the rim of his glasses.
‘Passport number?’ He mouths, ‘I don’t know’ along with me.
‘Qualifications in …?’
Okay, I’m back in the game. I take a deep breath and resume Mastermind posture. ‘Psychology – clinical research and analysis. Doctorate.’
He nods and punches in some more letters with his one stiffened typing finger. He looks at my application form, back to the screen, stabs the keyboard again, squinting back over to my application. I can’t see the screen from where I’m sitting, but I can see the flummoxed look on his flat, asymmetrical face.
‘Okay, I’m going to give it to you straight, Poppy. We haven’t got a huge amount in your line.’ He prints out two pages. ‘We’ve got a vacancy here as a site manager, but minimum three years’ experience is required, so we may put that to one side for now.’ He balls it up and throws it into the bin beside my chair. ‘Second and final vacancy that the Genie has presented us with today is … “Sign language interpreter. Freelance, competitive hourly rates.” What do you think about that?’
Hmmmmm. I count to ten in my head and think about where the hell that came from.
‘Markus, I think there’s been an input error.’ I grab a pen from his desk and scribble down the word PSYCHOLOGIST in capital letters. ‘Ask the Genie to search with this spelling, please.’
He looks doubtful. ‘Worth a try, I suppose. Let’s see what he can do with this then.’
The computer bleeps compliance and Markus pouts with surprise and leans in to read the screen.
‘Bingo! “Specialty doctor in adult psychiatry. South-east London. Immediate start. Excellent remuneration for the right candidate.”’ He passes the printout to me across the desk. ‘Looks like the Job Genie has done it again.’ He slaps his hands down onto one of his thighs and closes his eyes with such release and satisfaction that he looks like he’s weeing himself.
Without needing to read the job description I know this is wrong, that Markus simply has no clue about psychology, or psychiatry, or spelling.
‘Sorry, but I’m not qualified to do this,’ I tell him.
‘But you told me to search for it.’ An angry Markus snaps back up in his chair.
‘Yes, but I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. You need to be a doctor to practise as a psychiatrist,’ I try to explain.
‘But you told me you were a doctor. Right at the start I said, “Are you Poppy?” and you said, “Actually I am Dr Poppy”.’ He wrinkles up his forehead and juts out his chin at me.
‘I’ve got a PhD. A doctorate.’
He throws his hands in the air. ‘Okay. Where are you a doctor at? At the hospital? At a surgery? You’ve got to help me out here, Poppy. I’m struggling to understand why you are throwing up so many obstacles. I’m beginning think you don’t want a job at all. That you are purposely sabotaging the Genie’s efforts to secure you gainful employment.’ Judging by the vein in Markus’s neck, which is kind of purple and protruding, I think he should get his blood pressure checked, but I refrain from telling him in case it confuses him further about the doctor business.
‘Doctorate means …’ I lose the will. ‘Basically it means that I’m not a medical doctor, so not a real doctor in the sense that you mean.’
He takes a moment to stare at the desk, and then starts nodding, a smile breaking out on his lips.
‘A-ha,’ he says, rubbing his chin. ‘So you are like Queen Latifah. Or Captain Birdseye.’
Markus is making me want to take heroin.
He cracks his knuckles and puts his hands behind his head. ‘I get it. Very smooth, Poppy, very smooth indeed. I’ve got to say, I did not see that one coming. But I see what you’ve done. It’s like if Captain Birdseye came in here to the job centre, he might be embarrassed to tell us that he’s just a fish-finger maker, so of course, like you, he’s going to want to dress it up a little, add the Captain bit and make a bigger impact. He probably can’t even drive a boat or whatever, but fair play, it’s up to him at the end of the day. I expect he got the idea from Colonel Sanders at KFC; they looked around and saw that they were getting no respect so they militarised themselves and boom! World domination. Just like that. Professor Green. Dr Dre. Dr Poppy. Why not, right? I get it.’
I am speechless. This whole scene feels like a You’ve Been Framed set-up. Some toothy Saturday-night presenter is going to run in at any minute and reveal the whole hilarious prank. But it is not some sick wind-up. It’s real. My new reality is that Markus is demented, yet Markus is the one with a job and I am not. And he’s made me crave KFC.
I hate Markus.
‘So, “Dr Poppy”.’ He has posed his fingers in inverted commas like twerking bunny ears. ‘It appears that the Genie has been unable to grant you your wish of gainful employment at this current period of time, therefore you qualify for a weekly job seekers’ allowance of £73.10. This is a state benefit that will ensure you have the means to transport yourself to interviews and buy any basics such as stationery, clean attire, etc. that will give you the best chance possible of entering the world of work. Personally, I suggest that you buy yourself some professional-looking clothes, get your hair fixed up; a bit of make-up always helps, paint your nails – all these things send the right message to employers, show effort.’
I nod, biting the inside of my mouth, and place my hands on either side of my chair to signal a close. I can’t take Markus any more. The computer bleeps. I take this as my cue to gather my bag and go.
‘Hold your horses there, Poppy, something just in. And I think this one has your name written all over it.’ He presses print and hands me the details.
‘“Psychic, clairvoyant. Work from home”,’ I read flatly. ‘Not something I can see myself doing.’
He shakes his head and tuts at me. ‘Do you really think that’s a sensible idea in your position? Is it wise to turn down a perfectly decent income without a second thought?’ He points to the paper in my hand. ‘Especially if everything is just temporary.’
I tighten my jaw and smile my murderous gratitude.
‘Indeed. Thank you, Markus, I’ll give it a shot. Who knows, clairvoyance might be the future.’
He looks satisfied. ‘Check your inbox regularly. We’ll send you opportunities as and when they become available.’
I shake his hand, gather my stuff, and exit the grey maze of the job centre. I never want to set foot in here again.
Outside, I slump down on the kerb. I can’t even get a job at the job centre. What am I going to do? I can’t stay still and I can’t move forward. I take out my phone and type ‘graduate jobs’ into the search engine. I scroll through pages and pages of jobs that a) require skills I don’t have, or b) require a supplementary income I don’t have. I key in simply ‘jobs’ and find that this makes little difference. Waitressing, bar work, retail salesperson, hotel receptionist: everyone wants experience.
When I look up, I spot Trackie Man number 632 standing across the road, licking an ice cream and staring at me through the Poundland window. I scratch my scalp and try to think of something, anything I can do …
I try Burley one more time. This is an emergency. It rings out again and again, and just as I’m about to hang up, he answers. ‘Hello? Hello?’
‘Dr Burley! Oh, thank God!’
‘Poppy! Are you okay? Excuse the bad line, I’m on the train. How are you?’
‘Great! I mean, great now that I’ve caught you, but other
than that … really not great. Not great AT ALL.’
He sighs. ‘I am so sorry, Poppy. There were never any guarantees, remember, but still, it all seems very improper; such a wonderful record, such a high score, a great student and a delightful person. So I wanted you to know that you’ve been in my thoughts, and however bleak things may seem, I have every confidence that it will all work out for you. Just keep your options open.’
‘I do appreciate that, Dr Burley. I’ve been doing nothing BUT thinking about my options, in fact.’
‘Well good for you. Can’t keep a good girl down, as they say! That’s the spirit, Poppy. Now do stay in touch – you’ve got my number – and I wish you all the very best with your future plans …’ The rattle of a passing train breaks up our connection.
‘No! Wait! Don’t go! I have to see you! Dr Burley, please! I can’t just let it all go, not like this! There might still be another way. Margot is retiring soon, right? I could be your assistant. I could work for free … well, nearly for free … for a small wage and accommodation.’
No dignity, but I can’t help it. Without Burley, I am truly at sea, with very limited water-treading skills and a strong current of reality gaining momentum beneath me. If he doesn’t sweep me back to shore now, I’ll have drifted too far. I’ll be out of sight and then … then I believe I will simply give up hope, stop trying to fight the inevitability of the tide and give myself up to be mercilessly tossed between the crashing waves until fate decides how I drown and when I’ll be washed up.
I swallow hard. ‘I need your help, Doc. Please, please. I can’t lie. I’m desperate. Help me?’
‘Oh Poppy, I really don’t know how I possibly can. Dr Winters’ decision is final, and she is under no obligation to justify her selection.’
‘Please, Doc, I need this. I don’t know what else to do; I don’t fit anywhere else. Banbridge was my world … is my world. Please, anything.’
Another deep sigh. ‘Leave it with me, okay? I’ll make some enquiries, do what I can. As it happens, I’m meeting Dr Winters at a conference, so I’ll see if I can gain some insight informally. If anything useful turns up, I’ll be in touch. But what’s important, Poppy, is that you keep your head high, remember all you’ve achieved and believe in your own abilities; I’ve watched you face and overcome bigger obstacles than this in your life, and you can do it again.’
‘Thanks Dr Burley, this means so much to me. Whatever you can manage, I’ll be eternally grateful.’
‘Well, it’s the least I can do for you. Ah, you know what would be worthwhile …’
‘Yes?’ I gasp, desperate for a final lifebuoy, for the driftwood of hope.
‘You should ask Gregory to make some enquiries on your behalf. He is quite the golden boy at the moment; certainly in a very influential position to help you along.’
‘Yes, that is certainly worth remembering.’
And I’m not even joking. Because if Gregory is going to have any say over my future, I’d better start calculating how much change I’ll have out of £73.10 after I buy myself a KFC family bucket and a crystal ball.
I wipe my hands down my thighs and blow out my cheeks. What is going on? Not even a week ago, I was planning to spend the rest of my professional life less than five metres from Dr Burley’s desk. I thought we were partners, a team; I thought we were friends. Sure, I know we were officially student and tutor, but surely, after more than ten years working closely with someone, with such pressure, such intensity, something more grows? A stronger bond? A deeper connection? I thought we were academic soulmates; that Dr Burley got me. He understood my thinking, and used to nod excitedly and tug at his beard when I made a particularly satisfying breakthrough. He was my mentor, my hero. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was just another student who would inevitably drift in and out of his care, soon to be replaced by a younger, fresher, brighter protégé just as hungry to achieve, just as grateful to be acknowledged.
‘Out of sight, out of mind.’ That was what my dad used to say after he split from his band. Once you’ve served your purpose and your time has passed, you’re done.
Like Christmas decorations in January.
Like last year’s X Factor winner.
Like an overqualified, underemployed postgraduate crouched on the pavement outside the job centre with a painful sense of rejection, betrayal and hopelessness.
I pick myself up off the kerb, zip up my coat and start making my way through the crisp autumn air towards the high street
Everything will be fine. This is just temporary. This too will pass.
Right?
Chapter Four
It’s three o’clock now, so I’ve got an hour to pick up some shopping and be back home by the time my mum gets in from work. As an apprentice psychic, I can already foretell that this will be a fairly painful conversation, involving lots of How did it go? And then what happened? And then what did he say? And then what did you say? Were you fidgeting? Are you sure? Well, you’re fidgeting now. If you don’t realise that you fidget, then you probably weren’t aware that you were fidgeting right in his face. Fidgeting is not something a potential employer wants to see, is it?’
Then she’ll sigh and say, Never mind, I’m sure it will all be fine as she rubs her eyes and scratches her nose, which are universally accepted body-language cues that mean Nothing will be fine AT ALL. And then she’ll give me ‘the face’; lowered chin and pinched smile.
It’s not a nice face.
It’s a mix of jaded sympathy and rising aggravation, a distinct and unconscious facial expression that is tempered with a little martyrdom and a lot of disappointment. The mere thought of it has been an enormously motivating image in my life. It’s her little way of saying I could love you more, but at the end of the day, you are your father’s daughter.
If my mum wrote a book on parenting, it’d be called Failure Within Failure Within Failure: a Russian doll approach to very conditional love.
I do know why I feel like this; it was uncovered by a therapist I did a placement with when I had to undergo a few psychotherapy sessions as part of a compulsory module to ‘identify with the client experience’, so it was my turn to get on the couch. I talked, the therapist listened. When I didn’t talk, she asked questions. When I clammed up, got angry, cried and broke down, she congratulated me and said that we were ‘getting places’. Thankfully, I also got a ruptured appendicitis at this point and received a medical exemption, having covered the minimum amount of hours to pass the module. She kindly sent me a report, however, recommending that further sessions could really help me, but I found the whole thing very difficult so I scanned through it and put in a folder somewhere, never to be reread. Ultimately I know that the cause of the enormous guilt I feel at failing my mum is the fact that I am my dad’s daughter – a constant link to and reminder of him – and this makes me feel very bad.
Of course, the therapist told me that it is irrational to feel this way; that nobody chooses who they are born to and there is absolutely no benefit to anyone in me carrying this burden around. And I understand that perfectly, in an academic, theoretical way, but truthfully, I can’t say I feel it any less. Especially when I fuck up royally, like moving back home with no job at twenty-nine years of age. Which means Mum is still the one stepping in to pick up the pieces of a one-time love affair nearly three decades ago. She must totally regret ever setting eyes on Ray Bloom, and the destructive domino effect he has had on so much of her life.
I feel guilty that she couldn’t have walked away and severed ties altogether; a clean break, a fresh start. And although she’s made a go of it and has a fantastic life with Frank, I always feel that she could have been even happier a) without having a child in tow and b) without this child growing up to frequently reflect the man she walked out on. My mum has this lasting attachment to him through me.
Is this an exaggeration? A paranoid projection? Is it even possible for me to tell what the truth is or what is just an occupational hazard of being
a psychologist? I guess listening to psychologists talk psychology day in, day out for a decade is enough to drive you mad.
I can’t break through the crowd of shoppers in front of me, so I swerve in to Sainsbury’s Local. I go straight to the wine section, then coffee, then bananas and pizza. This is a diet I know I can live on. Morning: drink, peel and eat. Rest of time: drink, peel and heat.
I take my basket and join the queue that snakes through the aisles of magazines and hand sanitisers. I throw some of these into my basket too; the perfect care package for my next appointment at the job centre. Oh God, I’m planning my next trip there! What if this is what my life is going to be like now permanently, and I’m deluding myself if I think I’m ever getting out? Heat spreads up my neck and I feel sick. I swallow and try to steady myself by holding on to a promotional biscuit shelf.
‘Poppy?’ I hear my name. Clearly hear it. But I dare not turn around. It can’t be real. Nobody knows me in here. It’s a trick of the mind. An aural hallucination. A distinct preliminary sign of madness. Holy shit, I’ve read about this in depth but never experienced it first-hand … never thought I ever would.
I hear it again. Louder this time, with a slight inflection. ‘Poppy! Poppy Bloom!’ The voice is getting closer, coming from behind me. I press my earphones deeper into my ears. I need to get out of here. Just as I am looking for a place to drop my basket and leg it home I feel a tap on my shoulder.
‘Poppy ‘Bonecrusher’ Bloom? I knew it was you!’
I turn around.
Oh thank you, Lord, this is a real person and NOT a stress-induced aural hallucination. A real person who is standing in front of me! False alarm. I have not lost my mind. I let go of the shelf and give my heart a chance to recover to a normal rhythm while I study the tanned, ponytailed, muscular, glossy goddess of a woman who stands before me, smiling at me from ear to ear. She looks like she’s been beamed in from the fitness channel. An apparition. A vision. I mentally scan across different sections of my acquaintance. Banbridge? Brixton? Netflix?
Don't Stop Me Now: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 4