‘Well, I think what you’re doing is great.’ Of course he does, he’s always optimistic. ‘I don’t know if you know this, but should you ever want help, or even a sounding board, there are people who would love to help you. It can’t be easy working away on your own. I would definitely go nuts if I only had myself to run ideas by.’
I squirm. ‘I’m fine. It’s all fine. After all, they’re just silly cards.’ Silly cards that I’m not going to do anything with.
‘“Just silly cards.” Bea, you’re building a business. No matter what the product is, that is impressive – don’t sell yourself short. I couldn’t do it. Some day you might actually have to admit that you’re braver than you give yourself credit for. And also, to make sure it’s on the record, I would like to offer my services.’ He bows dramatically, or at least as dramatically as he can in the tight space. ‘Two heads are always better than one, and I love this stuff. Besides, “silly cards” are so much more exciting than the kind of companies I normally have to look at.’ And he’s not lying. He does love this stuff, so much that he’s made a career out of telling people how to run their businesses. ‘We’ve actually started a community outreach side project, helping small companies get going, sharing knowledge across a whole bunch of areas. I can take a look to see if there’s anything that I think might be helpful for you?’
This sounds like a lot of very important information that I really should want, but would probably have no idea what to do with.
‘Thanks. I’ll think about it.’ And I do mean it. Even if I have no intention of actually taking him up on it.
Peter pays the bill with a credit card that he pulls out of a Velcro wallet. He doesn’t even blink at the amount, simply picks up the tray of drinks and heads back to the group.
The Elderflower Fizz is delicious. I offer it to him and he surreptitiously takes a sip before we reach the circle. He gives me an almost imperceptible wink in return, but from then on I resume the role of the quiet friend.
Once the fizz has fizzled out, I decide to take the plunge and head over to Mia. I should have said hello when I first got here, but she was busy and I was unsure. I don’t want to make things worse between us, and I do genuinely want to wish her a happy birthday, so I take a deep breath in and walk towards her.
‘Mia! Happy birthday!’ I give her a hug, but it’s unusually stiff, not at all like the ones we usually share. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to get over here. It’s so busy!’
‘I know, right! I saw you talking to Peter and Alice. She is so beautiful!’
She is beautiful. I wonder if anyone has ever used that adjective as a principal description of me. I would guess not.
‘Yeah, they wanted details on the hen do, but don’t worry, our stories are safe.’ I’m trying to be jokey and kind, but it feels forced. I feel so stupid talking about a hen do when we have much more important things to talk about. Like whether or not we’re ever going to be best friends again.
I think Mia might be about to say something more, but as she starts to say my name, her attention is grabbed by one of her more forceful, more trendy friends, who claims to be an environmental activist but refuses to take public transport, always opting for a taxi instead. It’s too loud to hear their conversation from where I’m standing, so I remain on the sidelines. When it’s clear I’m not going to be subbed in, I decide to leave at the next opportunity. Mia is having a good time, and even if I knew what to say, now is not the right moment. So I make a swift French exit and leave her birthday card on a nearby table.
Now outside, the fresh air is a relief on my face, but it’s not enough to distract me from thinking about Mia. I don’t know what to do. She was the one who said some not very nice things, but part of me still wants to apologize. For what, I don’t know, but I miss her.
CHAPTER 15
The next day I find it really hard to get out of bed, and not because I’m hungover. My mind is going round and round asking too many questions that I don’t have the answers to. It is extremely irritating. I am extremely irritated.
My mum’s now usual good morning message pings in. For the first time, I don’t reply. I’m swimming in a sea of questions and anxiety.
Do I actually like anything about my job? Do I like living alone? Would it be healthier to live with other people? Should I quit my job and travel the world with my (very limited/non-existent) savings? Could I be the kind of person who goes travelling without a day-by-day itinerary? Should I go back to school and learn how to build websites or write code? Should I get a new haircut? Or a tragus piercing? Should I go on a diet? Should I take up trampolining? Should I stop working on the cards, and spend that time trying to get promoted in my actual job? Do I care enough about vitamins to work there at all? Should I get a house rabbit in place of getting a dog? Can I be bothered to wash my hair this morning, or could I tie a fashionable scarf around it to hide the grease?
I decide not to wash my hair.
And I’m in luck, because despite being a full hour late to work, nobody says a thing, nobody bugs me as I catch up on the ‘news’, and my boss is absent. It’s glorious.
All in all, an OK day to decide to come in. And a great day to come in late with a latte.
As usual, despite a long list of tedious tasks that require my attention, I end up prioritizing personal admin. Today’s task? Looking for something to hang above my bed.
I’ve narrowed it down to five different options across three different sites when an office newbie, probably called Emily, comes over.
‘Hiiiii.’ I hope she can’t tell that I’m unsure about her name. ‘How can I help?’
‘Hi, Bea.’
She’s a chirpy one.
‘This is a silly question, but I’m still quite new here and Penny said that you would be the perfect person to ask, ’cause you know all the history and have dealt with her before.’ Oh God. I know who she’s going to ask about. ‘I need to send some feedback to Cathy Armstrong on her latest ad, and I heard that she can be kinda, well, prickly. Joan isn’t in today, so can you read over what I’ve written before I send it?’
‘Joan is your manager?’
She nods.
‘And she left you to do this by yourself?’
She nods again.
To say Cathy ‘can be kinda, well, prickly’ is the understatement of the century; she once set someone’s tie on fire after he suggested changing the tone of red used in the background. She is a Creative, and sees herself as an Artist.
This poor girl is in for a world of pain. ‘Of course I’ll look at it for you.’ I sigh and minimize my wall art. I wouldn’t have actually bought anything anyway.
I’m partly touched that I have seemingly become something of an email-wording mentor for the young Emilys of the world, but also partly saddened that my pathetic contribution to the workplace can now include proofreading.
Emily visibly relaxes.
‘Thanks so much. I sent it over before I came, so it should be in your inbox.’
And lo and behold, there it is.
Over the years I have learnt that there is an art to a good email, and this is not a good email. However, having finally reached the end, I can confirm that her name is indeed Emily.
I wonder how best to play this out. I could rewrite it for her, which would basically entail using far fewer words, swapping out the ones that make it sound like poor Emily is extremely stuck up her own arse, and fix the spelling and grammar errors. How is it that some people still can’t use the right their/they’re/there? But if I’m going to take my job as an email-writing mentor seriously, I’ll choose a different tack. In my mind I think about that fishing philosophy, the one that tells you it is better to teach someone how to fish rather than simply handing them the salmon, and decide to give her some vague, but helpful, pointers, tell her to try again and come back.
It takes Emily and me an hour and a half to write the perfect email, another hour to cleanse the feedback itself (removing any language
that might result in a fire), plus a further twenty minutes to triple-check the email addresses on the distribution list, but I’m there when she eventually hits send. Being a mentor is so time-consuming and distracting.
So distracting that I almost forgot about Mia’s opinion of me and the fact we have stopped really talking to each other. I haven’t had a message from her in eight days.
‘Well done. It’s just an email, but it’s an important email. Joan shouldn’t have made you do that, but you did it well.’
‘Thanks. And really, thank you for the help.’
I shake my head. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘No, seriously, thank you. Since I joined, nobody has taken the time to help me or explain things to me. I feel like I’ve learnt more over the last two hours than in my last two weeks. I really appreciate it.’
I can tell from the look on her face that she’s being sincere. For the first time in a long time I’m happy that I came into work.
We then do something really awkward, and we have a hug. I’m not too sure who went in first, and I don’t think either of us really meant to go in for a hug, but somehow we both got confused about what our arms were doing, and then weirdly and silently egged each other on until we found ourselves in this position. This sounds like a very poorly conceived sexual harassment defence, but I think we both enjoyed it.
CHAPTER 16
In need of escape and comfort, I’ve been home so often over recent weeks (I think this is my third weekend home on the trot) that my mum’s dog Hugo and I have now built up a lovely friendship. Up until now, he and I have had a fairly competitive relationship. Mainly because as soon as Hugo entered our lives, it was obvious that my mum loved him more than she loved me or my brother. My mum never remarried after my dad died, and although she seemed perfectly happy by herself, she’s much happier with Hugo. Truthfully, a large part of me doesn’t blame her for preferring the dog over her own children. He’s never in a bad mood, he loves her cooking, and he doesn’t bark or bite.
He’s also a great therapist. I’ve never been much of a walker, but the spinning questions in my head spin a little less manically after a dog walk.
Today’s route is a safe one. I am not emotionally stable enough to take him somewhere new, somewhere I could potentially lose him, so instead we are doing a loop through the hay field, and will then cut through the playground before heading back home.
Luckily, he seems to have a good time wherever he is, and we are both getting something out of it. Hugo has been intensely sniffing leaves that only appear to be inconsequential, and I’m giving off the air of being a successful dog owner. If only these stupid flies would leave me alone, I could think without any distraction. I’m trying not to be offended that they’re finding my personal scent more appealing than the cow shit in the neighbouring field, but it’s hard.
And I really am in need of a think. I can’t get Mia’s words out of my head.
The thing with Mia is that she and I have always thought very differently, but we tend to end up in the same place. It’s just that I usually choose a slightly more scenic, one might say meandering, route. Take the way we became friends. We both studied History, and even had a couple of the same classes, but we lived in different halls, and only became friends once we bonded over our mutual appreciation of the south-west corner of the university library. She liked it because it was quiet and well positioned next to a lot of her required reading. I liked it because you could get a great view of Rupert MacDonald, who had fantastic shoulders. I’m pretty sure she initially found my presence quite aggravating (after all, I wasn’t really there to study the books), but soon enough she became used to me, and then one day even began to actively look for me.
Eventually we ended up spending a lot of time together, getting into the types of mischief you can only get away with at uni, the types of mischief your fresh air and natural-light-starved brain thinks is OK. And University Mia was a great Mia. She was a Mia that used to go to children’s playgrounds on the way home from a night out and spend hours on the wobbly horse thing, yelling to everybody and nobody that she was a princess and we should bow down to her. She was a Mia that didn’t mind being a drunken kleptomaniac, making me help her haul home an actual human-sized martini glass – the ones dancers sit in during the risqué nightclub scene in movies. We couldn’t get it through the front door, no matter what angles we tried, so we left it in the middle of a roundabout. But my fondest memories are of the random conversations we would have on the stairs. We would have stopped for a short hello, but two hours would pass without a goodbye. The more awkward the location, the longer the catch-up.
And she is my biggest cheerleader. I guess this is why her words hurt so much. Her support was something I thought I could always count on, but now I’m not so sure.
And it hurts.
The one thing I keep replaying in my head, the one thing I can’t get away from, is how she said I never fight for anything.
And I keep having this niggling feeling that she is right.
I’m not too sure when it happened, but if I’m brutally honest with myself (which I’m often not, and instead tend to procrastinate when it comes to self-evaluation, probably out of fear of what I will see there), I find it easier to remove myself from any kind of area of competition rather than take what feels like constant defeat. Defeat in my work life, defeat in my love life, even defeat in my living situation. So instead I’ve given up.
Mia is right. I don’t fight. And I am hiding.
I hide behind a smile, I hide behind a joke, I hide behind my own front door.
But I shouldn’t. As mundane as the task was, helping Emily felt good. So maybe I shouldn’t feel bad that I’m not the star sales exec this year. Maybe instead I should feel good about the contributions I can and do make, at work and everywhere else. Everyone has a role, I just need to figure out what my role is and start to play it.
Maybe my pathetic outburst on New Year’s Eve, my resolution to date, was the right sentiment but the wrong action. I don’t need to date. I need to do things that make me happy.
‘Hugo, this is it!’ His head picks up from the bramble he’s sniffing, and he looks back at me with his big wide eyes and pure face, clearly picking up from the tone of my voice that something big is about to happen. ‘I’m gonna get off my arse and start doing shit.’ I do a mini fist-pump in the air, glad that nobody is around to see.
He comes running towards me, as if he’s excited too, even though I know he hasn’t understood a word I’ve said. I cave instantly and give him a biscuit.
‘I’m proud of us. You’ve been such a good boy on this walk and I’ve …’ What have I done? Hugo runs off, no longer interested now that the snacks are gone. ‘Well, I haven’t actually done anything yet, but I’m going to. And that’s a step in the right direction.’ I start walking again.
‘You gotta hold me accountable, OK, bud?’ I look at Hugo.
He’s gone oddly still.
‘Bud, you OK?’
I look around, searching for what he can see, and immediately regret letting my guard down and feeling confident in my dog-handling skills. I bet the little shit knew this was coming. I bet he used the whole walk to lull me into a false sense of security and confidence. Just for this moment. Right when I’m feeling all buoyant and self-assured.
There are three things that make Hugo crazy – his doggy kryptonite – and the sight before us, a girl’s teddy bear picnic-themed sixth birthday party, has all of them. In less than two seconds I can see a vast quantity of other dogs, food and large cuddly toys. In this case, by ‘toys’ I mean many, many teddy bears and a beautiful, white, ride-on unicorn, with the birthday bow still attached. I should not have walked into the playground. Going to the playground on a weekend is a terrible idea.
‘Oh shit.’ I fumble for the lead, nearly cutting off my airway in the process. I knew it was a mistake to drape the lead around my neck. ‘Hugo, sit.’
Hugo doesn’t sit
. I try to get out the bag of special, high-value snacks to be used only in emergency situations when Hugo is required to behave particularly well. A dry biscuit isn’t going to cut it this time.
Normally quite self-controlled, one might even say ‘a wuss’, he usually stays right by your side, so close you often knee him in the face. But not now. Not with the trifecta of doggo excitement.
He’s off and, as a result, so am I.
Scarred by my brother telling me I run like a penguin when I was ten years old, I haven’t run much since, and as such I’m pretty sure I now run more like a penguin than before, but even more slowly.
‘Hugooooooo! Stay! Hugo! Sit. Hugo! Hugo, no!’ The last shout comes out a lot quieter than intended – mainly because I’m struggling to breathe, run and shout at the same time.
And, with a speed and agility that he rarely shows, Hugo has herded the dogs into some kind of dog conga line, which proceeds to zoom straight through the (no longer) beautifully laid-out picnic, destroying any food they don’t manage to snaffle, through the pond via a deep quagmire of mud, and back out. Straight for the unicorn.
I try again. ‘Hugo! No!’
To an outsider looking in, it probably looks quite bad. Indeed, for an insider looking in, it looks quite bad.
And also, so quick. If I wasn’t so mortified, I would actually be quite proud of our Hugo. The other dogs put up absolutely no resistance, and were easily persuaded to join in the destruction. Hugo is a leader of dogs! Hugo could go into politics!
Hugo has just torn off the unicorn’s horn.
I always thought that dogs were meant to be intuitive to the feelings and emotions of those around them, but as we all scramble to get hold of our respective beasts, I can’t help but think that Hugo looks extremely proud of himself, which is totally at odds with the inconsolable wailing of the nearby children and the extremely angry and flustered faces of the parents.
Just Friends Page 8