by Abigail Mann
Hey Ava. First of all, are you OK? Secondly, yes it did all come out in the wash, thanks for asking. Today was something else! More details soon. A bunch of us are heading out in Shoreditch. Buzz me if you want the location. Peace!
Is he having a laugh? Seems like I’m not the only one taking a break from reality tonight.
Chapter 7
My eyelids feel gritty as I wake up to the sound of bickering seagulls, an odd alarm call considering how far inland we are. I push myself up in bed, but my fingers get caught on the wire from my earphones. I fell asleep watching a webcam feed of Kilroch harbour, which explains the unusual alarm clock. Autumn has already swathed the east coast of Scotland, with dark mornings and pockmarked fishing boats pulled up onto the slipway, the industrial silhouette of an oil rig outlined by an inky black horizon.
Last night, I skimmed through dozens of web pages that refer to Kilroch: travel blogs; TripAdvisor entries for its one pub and two cafés; and endless Wikipedia pages on its history to the point where I’m now starting to understand references made in the shipping forecast. I’m not sure what else I was hoping to find. Perhaps an old photograph of a man pale enough to blame for my inability to tan, or a record of Mum’s activity that explains why nearly half my DNA comes from inside a tiny Scottish village. By the time I’d read a seven-page forum spat between two rival fishermen over who really did land the biggest herring haul of 2007, my research was at a dead end.
I pad past Mum’s room and brush my teeth with one hand, the other switching my phone off flight mode. There are many things I fall short on, but coping with a barrage of overwhelming feelings is something I’m really good at. It’s learned behaviour, as Mum exercises this method frequently. It’s like taking a holiday from your own emotions. One press of a button and you can filter who can contact you and when, thus – fuck.
I double-tap on an email from Duncan. This is it. This is when I get refused a reference and have to spend my days racing the clock to earn a toilet break in a distribution warehouse. My stomach drops like a Slinky down a mineshaft as I take my phone down to the kitchen and pull a half-eaten packet of Bourbons towards me, shoving two in my mouth and reaching for a third as I wait for the email to load through our ancient broadband.
I’d like you to come into the office ASAP re: DNA livestream. 8AM. Bring a pastry.
Duncan
Bring a bloody pastry? Am I supposed to organise the catering for my own dismissal? He knows I’m a meticulous filer of expenses; there’s no way this is coming out of my last paycheck.
I want to care about it. I should really care about it. I’ve plugged away at the Junior Editor role since I left Kings; the grey area between writing and reporting that every graduate is forced to compromise on, but I didn’t think I’d still be here years later. Although I have an excellent knack for matching amusing GIFs to listicles, it’s not where I thought I’d be at this stage of my career. I write well. I know my way around a metaphor and always deliver on time. But the skills I learned whilst training are barely applicable at Snooper. I offered to cover the student riots a couple of years ago and Duncan told me to ‘take the bomb-proof vest off, we don’t do that shit here,’ and so it was back to proofreading a piece on ‘12 YouTube Videos that Will Change the Way You Think About Make-Up’.
Pickles licks his sandpaper tongue across my toes. ‘Is that necessary?’ I say with feigned annoyance, pulling him onto my lap. I bury my face into his fur, which triggers a protest meow.
‘What are we going to do?’
I look down at him. He stares back, a globule of happy dribble dangling from his toothless mouth.
***
I tuck a paper bag of cheese twists and cinnamon swirls into my rucksack. This way, if the pastry comment was a joke, I don’t have to reveal my inability to read sarcasm in emails (and can scoff them at my one-person pity party on the way home). If it wasn’t, I’ll have appeased Duncan and might get some kind of sympathy bonus on my last payslip. I head past reception, but avoid walking past the notorious gossip that is Carl, as he’s in the corner of the auditorium shredding paper whilst video calling someone who gasps and tells him to ‘shut up’ every few seconds.
I’m early, so walk over to my desk and start peeling Post-it notes from my computer screen. Across the courtyard, Duncan paces in his office, gesticulating into the air with a mobile held up to his ear. He turns on his heel and is … laughing? Hmm. Odd. He catches my eye and gestures for me to join him.
I pick my bag up and wheel my chair in, but the legs bump against something soft and doughy. A snuffling sound, like a pig with a bad cold, comes from under the desk.
‘Morning, sunshine,’ slurs Max, who squints at me from under his Canada Goose jacket.
‘Max! What the fuck! Why are you sleeping under my desk?’
‘Went out last night after work and didn’t make it home. Turned into a big one, actually. Haven’t had that much powder since New Year’s Eve.’ Max stretches slowly and runs his tongue along his gums. ‘I did text you, didn’t I?’ he says, holding out a hand for me to grab. Pff. As if I’m going to help him up. Max rubs his palm against his jeans.
‘I’ve washed it, promise,’ he says. ‘Although I should be asking you that question …’ he says, grimacing at my hands.
‘Oh, here we go,’ I say, rolling my eyes. I should have known he’d prepare stand-up material for our next run-in.
Max gives me a lazy grin and staggers to his feet. He looks like he’s stepped out of a Tim Burton film, all insect limbs and hollow eyes. ‘You missed a good night out.’
‘Yeah, I was a bit preoccupied,’ I say tersely, looking in the other direction. Max doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he swings an arm around me and rubs his knuckles against my head, which is infuriating, although somewhat satisfying considering how bruised my scalp feels after yesterday’s hair trauma. I duck under his elbow and sit on the corner of my desk where I can scowl at him more obviously.
‘Are you pissed off because I knew about the sister thing and didn’t tell you? Moira, isn’t it?’ he says, rubbing the joints in his fingers. I feel like I’m going to spew again, but this time it’ll be a tirade of profanities rather than actual vomit, which is marginally better.
‘There are two things about this situation that are grossly unfair,’ I say, launching into the speech that I’d mentally rehearsed on the train. ‘One: that I’ve lived my whole life not knowing that Moira exists and then you find out about her first,’ I say, adding an accusatory finger in his direction. I didn’t consider hand gestures before now, but it feels right, so I’m working with it. ‘Two: that you thought the perfect time to reveal that teensy piece of information was on air in front of 35,000 people.’
Max swallows his smile and a deep furrow appears between his eyebrows. ‘Look, I didn’t think you’d react like that. I genuinely thought it would be a nice discovery for you. I knew about your dad not being …’
‘Alive?’
‘Yeah. And, well … you’ve got that lone wolf thing going on, so I thought it’d be a nice surprise.’
‘It was,’ I spit, my jaw clenched.
‘Are you sure? Because this,’ he says, circling his face, ‘isn’t screaming joy …’
‘I am happy! It’s just … it’s not as simple as “Wahoo! Ava has a sister! Let’s start planning a Christmas sleepover!” It doesn’t just involve me, does it? I literally grew up in a household where the motto was “Don’t look back, look forward” and I know that’s largely because of my dad, even though Mum can’t bring herself to talk about him. Is it cool I have a sister? Yes. Could this have been timed better? Absolutely. Is this going to upset my mum? Probably, and that’s why my brain feels like scrambled egg.’
‘Why? Was she the sexy other woman?’ says Max, his chin tipped back.
‘It’s astounding that you can be pervy about someone who isn’t even here. Especially my mum.’
Max pulls me into a reluctant side-hug, squeezing my arms flat again
st my side.
‘There’s one tiny detail amiss,’ he says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It wasn’t 35,000. If you count replays, yesterday we tipped into six figures.’
‘Oh, God. Shit. Are you serious?’
‘Yeah …’ says Max, somehow managing to look proud and sheepish at the same time.
‘Even the sick bit?’
‘Especially the sick bit.’
‘Ah, no. No, no, no,’ I chant, squatting to the floor. I tuck my head between my knees and breathe deeply.
He pulls me to my feet, his voice without the slick of bravado that he often uses at work. ‘I know yesterday might have felt like a very bad day in the office –’
‘That’s a total fucking understatement.’
‘– but trust me, it really kicked things up a notch or two around here,’ says Max.
‘Can you just tell me where I can find a cardboard box? I want to take my succulents home and I don’t want to do it whilst everyone’s here gawping.’
‘Ava – stop. Just go and see Duncan. Please.’
I try very hard to swallow my pride, but it feels like a gobstopper stuck in my throat.
‘Fine,’ I say, hitching my backpack higher on my shoulders. Max ruffles his hair, steers me towards the corridor, and holds open the door with mock chivalry.
‘Do you know what’s really unfair?’ I say, turning back to face him. ‘That you can rock up after an all-nighter and still look like you’re shooting a Rolling Stone cover. Is there no justice?’
Max winks. ‘Laters, treacle,’ he says, saluting me as the doors ping closed.
***
My stomach rumbles.
‘You hungry?’
‘I am a bit, yeah.’
‘Why don’t you crack those pastries open?’ says Duncan, leaning back in his chair. He crosses his feet at the ankles and props them on the corner of his desk, arms folded over an ugly knitted tank top.
I try and read his expression. Is he being nice, to soften the blow? Or is he just hungry and time poor?
I pull out the paper bag and slide it across the table towards Duncan, who peers inside like he’s a police detective inspecting particularly gruesome evidence.
‘No pain au raisin?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘Shame.’
He pulls out a cinnamon swirl, rips off a chunk, and dunks it in his tea.
‘Here’s the thing,’ he says, his words muffled as he sprays pastry flakes across the table. ‘You know as well as I do what the problem is here. I get it,’ he says, raising his hands in admission, ‘it’s a generational thing isn’t it? You lot grew up with tick box exams, participation prizes, toys in cereal boxes, all that “follow your dreams” rhetoric. I have to dangle carrots to get writers your age to take risks. Don’t take it personally, you can’t help it.’
I open my mouth to say something, but hold back because I’m so confused about the direction this is going in.
‘Point being—’ He takes another bite and sucks his fingers clean. ‘You’ve got my attention now.’
Duncan sits back in his chair and starts tapping on his phone. He places it down on my side of the table and swivels the screen to face me.
‘Site traffic for the past twenty-four hours. Have a guess at the precise moment you blanked. Oh, and vomited on camera. Can’t forget that. Go on.’ This feels like the time I got pushed off a twenty-five-foot diving board at the leisure centre. The free fall was horrific but knowing that all that water was rapidly coming up to smack me in the arse was worse.
A graph unsubtly tracks a huge peak in web traffic at midday that only briefly dipped in the early hours of this morning. I knew the live stream was a total bloody car crash, but the scale of the pile up has only just hit me.
‘Umm, I can explain,’ I say, my neck hot.
‘Can you explain how every single area of the website saw the biggest jump in click-through traffic since last year?’
‘Because I spewed like a Catherine wheel? But in my defence—’
‘And that’s where I’m gonna stop you. Max said you’d try and deflect, but—’
‘With all due respect, Duncan, if I’m getting fired, can it just happen already? The past twenty-four hours have been … a total nightmare. I know Max is a far better presenter than me, but considering the circumstances, I was hardly going to outperform him. I was bait for the piece, wasn’t I? I like working here, but it’s felt like Groundhog Day for the past couple of years. In short, I can’t write any more variations of “23 Jack Russells That Look Like Leonardo DiCaprio” or I’m going to be sick,’ I say, immediately regretting my choice of words.
‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’
‘If I can’t work here anymore, can you tell me straight? Because then I can start emailing out the dozens of pieces you’ve rejected over the years so that someone, somewhere, can pay me for them.’
‘God, I should have switched to coffee before this,’ says Duncan, wincing as he rubs the back of his neck. He looks exceptionally like a basset hound today, right down to the rheumy eyes.
‘We’ve had more advertising revenue come in overnight than we have done in the whole of the last quarter. Two major lifestyle brands want to run homepage campaigns and, collectively, we’ve gained …’ He picks up his phone and scrolls for a moment, the white light from the screen illuminating the unshaved salt and pepper bristles on his chin. ‘Nineteen thousand subscribers to our live stream, and three times that across all our social media platforms.’
‘Oh, Jesus. This is because I made a total tit of myself on camera, isn’t it?’
‘It’s safe to say that you made an impression.’
I concentrate on jiggling my foot up and down because I can’t bear the thought of shedding even one single tear in front of Duncan in what is so far the longest conversation we’ve had in the six years I’ve worked here.
‘Have you looked at the comments?’
‘God, no. I’m completely mortified, Duncan.’
‘I’ll give you a flavour of what we’ve had,’ he says, clicking through pages on his iMac until a thumbnail of Max and me appears on the screen. My stomach swoops like I’ve been pushed off a swing.
Duncan clears his throat. ‘“Where have you been hiding her? She’s HILARIOUS!” That last bit is typed in capitals, by the way,’ Duncan adds, breaking the high-pitched voice he’s adopted to characterise them. ‘“This reveal was a ride! Where the hell is Kilroch and why isn’t she on her way there to find her sister?!” There are a few that focus on the vomiting, but objectively it was funny, even if the studio smells like a bad coach trip.’ Duncan rocks forward in his chair, grinning. He puts the tablet down, leaving the comments hanging in the air between us.
‘I know you’ve got some issues with how we set this up, but the results speak for themselves,’ he says, gesturing to the screen. ‘I don’t know how much of that you planned, but frankly I don’t care. You did a good job.’ Duncan smiles, despite the concertina of frown lines on his forehead. ‘Ava, I’m giving you a compliment, so write it down or something because they’re not handed out often.’
I bite my thumbnail, the skin around it already pink and sore. ‘Thanks, but, um … I’m not sure this is the reputation I want.’
‘Look, I know this isn’t conventional. It’s not like you’re a bad writer. But what we do here is find a different source, a different perspective, and then present it with a fresh kick. I couldn’t pick out something you’ve written from any of the other kids that come in here knowing how to use a semi-colon, which, by the way, is far less important than having a bit of grit. That live stream, though? Internet gold. Your script was good. You’re funny, whether intentionally or not. It’s the direction we need to be going in.’
I look out of the window and watch two pigeons jostle for space on a window sill, chests puffed out, toe-tapping along the ledge.
‘If you never thought I was a good journalist, why hav
e you kept me in editorial for so long?’ I say.
‘It’s because I think you’re good that I’m asking you to leave.’
‘What?’ I say, my voice small. Jesus. I didn’t know it was going to be quite this brutal. I thought I’d at least be able to collect my mug from the kitchenette before handing my staff pass back.
‘Not like that,’ he says, waving a hand in the air. ‘Sorry. The husband and I have been watching a lot of Swedish crime recently. I can’t seem to stop making everything sound like a homicide plot. Where was I? Right. The way I see it, you’ve got a choice to make.’
Duncan holds his hand up, ready to tick points from his fingers.
‘DNA tourism is on the up. You’ve got a personal angle and an audience waiting for more content. If you want to pursue this story, it’s there. If you don’t want to do it, I’ll understand. It’s not my family on the table, so ultimately, it’s not my call.’
I jiggle my knee. Ever since I found out about Moira, I’ve been fixed on the idea that if only the timing had been better, if only I’d found out more gently, I’d have more clarity about what to do. But that’s not true, is it? There’s no such thing as good timing, not with something like this. If I go up to Kilroch, I can look into my father’s side without having to broach the subject with Mum, thus avoiding the likelihood of her shutting down like an angry clam. If I find Moira, it’ll have been worth it. If I don’t find her, things can go back to normal. At the very least, I’ll know something more about the place my parents met.
I tap the front of my teeth and take a deep breath. I’ve never travelled alone, let alone the far end of Scotland. If Mum knew where I was going, she’d ask too many awkward questions, which isn’t unreasonable when you consider that we’ve only holidayed apart once, and even then it was a Centre Parcs forty-five minutes out of London. I’ll have to say I’m going to Edinburgh for a work trip, otherwise her suspicion levels will be off the chart.
‘I’ve not left the country before,’ I say.
Duncan grins, his joy undisguised.