Swipe Right

by Stephie Chapman

There is no such anonymity at work, and Maxine swit-swoos from the mezzanine as I swish through the office. Sinjin and Mickey are already in: he’s wearing a tux, complete with a bow tie, and has his hair slicked back, and she’s in a black and gold jumpsuit. Carlina’s monitor is off and there’s no sign of her bag, so I assume her grand entrance – and if I know Carlina at all, there will be a grand entrance – is yet to happen. Ollie, entirely John Bender from The Breakfast Club in a checked shirt over a long-sleeved t-shirt, fingerless gloves, and a red scarf tied around his ankle, wheels his chair over.

  ‘Looking fly,’ he says, leaning back in the seat and crossing boot-clad ankles on the edge of my desk. ‘I have a feeling I know what you’ve all come as.’

  ‘I have a feeling you do, too,’ I say, taking off my jacket and hoiking my dress up a little. It’s a bit big, but floor-length gold lamé dresses are hard to come by and beggars can’t be choosers. I’ve had to pin it to keep decent. Ollie, mercifully, looks away.

  ‘You look very… cool. Not a massive stretch for you, though.’

  ‘Are you telling me I’m cool, Fran?’

  ‘I just meant…’ I wave my hands in the vague direction of his head. ‘You know. All that. Similar hair.’

  ‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t,’ he says. ‘Hey, have you worked anywhere that goes all out like this before?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. Have you?’

  ‘No. Lou couldn’t wrap her head around it. She was helping me get my costume sorted and she thought it was mad that we do this.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I guess she’s right…’ I trail off. I never have much to say about her. It’s like I lose the power of speech whenever she’s mentioned. ‘Anyway. Did you bring in sweets for trick or treat? How do you think that’s going to work?’

  ‘I dunno, I’m going to wait it out and observe what everyone else does.’

  I take a packet of caramel chews out of my bag and toss them on my desk. ‘Oh my god, Fran, I love those,’ he says. ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘My flatmate brought them back from France,’ I shrug, and tear open the packet. ‘Have one.’

  ‘We went to France a couple of times when I was a kid,’ he says, unwrapping the sweet and balling the paper up between his fingers. ‘And picked up a couple of packets of these from the supermarket.’

  ‘Sounds nice,’ I say. ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Just me and Mum. It’s always just been us.’

  ‘Ah,’ I nod, and feel like it isn’t enough. But what else is there? He hasn’t shared any more details and he doesn’t seem bothered. I don’t get the feeling there’s a tale of broken homes and woe there.

  ‘Bet you come from a properly nuclear family, don’t you?’ he asks, grinning through a mouthful of caramel. ‘Parents who are still together. A brother. A dog. Probably a Labrador or something similar. You know, a proper dog. One that yomps around the park and collects sticks and likes a game of fetch.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘It’s just the way you come across,’ he says, and shakes his head like he’s shaking off a thought.

  ‘Yeah, well, you’re dead wrong about that,’ I say, and bob my head. My bright red curls bounce around my face and I push some of them back behind my ear. ‘It was just me and my dad from when I was eleven. I don’t have a brother. Or a sister, in fact. And Dad’s allergic to dogs, so no dice there either. Mum got bored of us and went through a slew of crap men until finally, when I was twenty, she fucked off to Scotland with one of them. She stopped replying to my texts about five years ago now.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he says.

  ‘I found her on Facebook once. There’s no mention of me; it’s like I don’t exist to her, so she can piss right off. I never told my dad. He’d be heartbroken.’ I push my chair back and it knocks into Ollie’s. He removes his feet from my desk. ‘I’m getting a coffee,’ I announce, changing the subject. ‘Want one?’

  ‘Er, yeah, sure,’ he says, and follows me into the kitchen. Neither of us say anything whilst I fill the reservoir with fresh water from the water cooler. Or whilst I press the button to grind the coffee beans. Or even whilst I take two mugs from the cupboard and put them on the side. ‘Look, Fran, I didn’t mean anything by it,’ he says, finally. He’s hovering by the door looking shifty.

  ‘By what?’ I turn around and lean back against the unit and cross my arms over my chest. It appears abrupt and standoffish, but really it’s to keep my dress up.

  ‘That was a shitty assumption to make and I feel like an arsehole.’

  ‘It’s fine. It’s not a secret. I’m not upset anymore. Like I said, she can do one. Did you ever know your dad?’

  ‘Nah,’ he shrugs. ‘I was the happy ending after a one night stand. Mum was only seventeen.’

  ‘Brave lady,’ I say, and he grins.

  ‘Thanks Fran,’ he says. ‘Not many people have that reaction.’

  I pass him his coffee and he opens the fridge for milk.

  ‘What reaction do people usually have?’

  ‘Pity, quite a lot of the time. Do you know how shit it feels to be the object of someone’s pity?’

  ‘Ollie. I just told you my mother abandoned me as a pre-teen and left my well-meaning, but slightly hapless father to raise me. I know pity, believe me.’ I put my mug under the machine and press the button again. It whirrs to life once more. Creamy black liquid pours out. ‘And yes, it is shit.’

  ‘You having milk in yours?’ he asks.

  ‘No, I like it black like my heart,’ I say.

  When we return to the main office, Carlina’s arrived and she whoops and dances over when she sees me.

  ‘The coven is complete!’ she squeals. She’s backcombed her hair and contoured her face to emphasise her cheek bones. She’s got a very slinky black dress on and she’s brandishing a bag of cherries and a voodoo doll, complete with pins. ‘Don’t worry, I bought sweets as well as fruit! These cherries cost an absolute fortune.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Ollie says, clutching his coffee behind me. ‘The Witches of Eastwick. Whose idea was this?’

  ‘Yours,’ I say, quietly. ‘You said it in the pub just after we started. But obviously we let Carlina believe it was hers.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Yeah. I remember everything, Fran,’ he says, and steps around me, and I wonder if he really means everything. ‘Oi, Carlina, don’t let Sinjin get hold of those cherries,’ he says. ‘Cherry stone puke is not the one.’

  ‘Bender!’ she yells and points at him. ‘Dun dunnnnn, hey hey hey heeeeey!’ And Ollie puts his fist in the air and marches back to his desk.

  * * *

  The jollity continues all day. There’s a Halloween-themed mix played on repeat until someone yells that they’ve had enough of hearing ‘Ghost Town’ by The Specials for a lifetime. We all have our photos taken in our respective teams, which are then uploaded to the website and shared across the internet. Every time we have to speak to a coworker we have to start off with trick or treat. Those who remember get sweets. Those who don’t get a trick. It’s surprising how many people forget. We have a family-style lunch all together in the chill-out area and someone puts on a dry ice machine and by mid afternoon the studio looks like a school disco. By four, we’re all down at The Whippet. Even Sinjin comes along, which is unusual for him, and Mickey comments that it could be something to do with the fact he’s had the three of us lounging all over him all day. She might be on to something. Earlier on, in a surprising show of affection, Carlina playfully ruffled his hair and kissed his cheek and he blushed.

  Like most weeks, we pretty much take over the pub, and we spread out across tables and in groups huddled outside or by the bar. I find Ollie waiting to be served after I’ve come in from having a smoke.

  ‘Back here again,’ he says, after the bartender has taken our drinks orders, and he leans his elbow on the bar. Back here again. He’s caught my eye in the reflection and he’s talking ab
out being back here again. That was no silent seizure. We were looking at each other through this mirror back in the summer, and we’re doing it again now.

  ‘You know what I think, Frances?’ Ollie says. He’s a little bit pissed. Afternoon beers at work will do that to a person.

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask, pleasantly.

  ‘I think we’re not so dissimilar, after all, are we?’ He looks pleased with himself, like he’s cracked some sort of code. Like he’s figured me out. Frances Tatlin: enigma no more. I’m wary of it, though. No good can come of talking to boys when they are pissed and you’re not. They all reckon they’re deep thinkers, but usually they’re just offensive.

  ‘Bit random. You’ve thought about this then?’

  ‘Yeah. I thought you were a bit…’

  ‘A bit what?’

  ‘Hard to talk to, sometimes. Like, you blow hot and cold with me, Fran. Sometimes I like you a lot but sometimes I think you’re a bit of a bitch. No, wait, fuck. I don’t think that.’

  There it is.

  ‘Wow. Yes you do. The truth comes out when you’re drunk. Thanks for that. You know what? The feeling’s mutual.’

  ‘No,’ he says, and his eyes are darting around all over the place, settling everywhere but me now when just a minute earlier things were different. It’s funny, I think, what a few badly chosen words can do. Now he’s scanning the different bottles of spirits behind the bar. ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant that I don’t know what to say to you sometimes. But if we’re not dissimilar; it should just be like talking to ourselves.’

  And there’s the armchair philosophy.

  ‘I’m not sure in what way you think we’re similar,’ I say, coolly. ‘Unless you’re referring to the absent parent thing. And if you think I blow hot and cold with you, maybe you should think about how you talk to me sometimes. And how you can make me feel like shit without even knowing you’re doing it.’

  ‘What?’ he asks, and he looks genuinely confused. ‘What was that last thing you said?’

  The bartender returns with my drink and the card reader and I tap my card on it to pay. ‘Forget it. See you later,’ I say, curtly, picking up my drink.

  ‘Fran,’ he says, but I pretend I didn’t hear him.

  Back at the table, my phone buzzes. A text message. Suze can’t be bothered to trek in from Stratford, but she’s made enchiladas for dinner and she’ll save me some. Then another one. Lucas isn’t coming down either, which I’m not surprised by, but a little bummed out about all the same. Because now I feel a little vulnerable and I would like my boyfriend in my corner. And this feeling only intensifies when Lou struts in and does her usual hover-until-Ollie-sees-her routine, and whilst she does, I sit with Carlina, sipping my beer. He buys her a drink and they look for somewhere to sit, but unfortunately, the only available seats are opposite me and Carlina and I could really do without that. They are the last two people I want to sit with.

  ‘Hi, Lou,’ Carlina says, as she slips into the vacant seat directly opposite us.

  ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘What have you two come as?’

  Ollie throws a couple of packets of crisps down on the table. One ready salted, one sweet chilli.

  ‘I got these if anyone’s peckish,’ he says.

  ‘The Witches of Eastwick,’ I say.

  He tears into the crisps and opens out the packet so it’s flat on the table between us all.

  ‘Oh, how fun! And you two have certainly done a good job at looking witchy,’ Lou says, and then wiggles her fingers at us and expels a tinkly little laugh. Under the table, Carlina nudges my thigh.

  ‘What have you come as?’ she asks. She takes a crisp, and puts the whole thing in her mouth. Lou purses her lips.

  ‘I’m not in fancy dress,’ she says.

  ‘Right.’ Carlina sips her drink and takes her tobacco out of her bag. She rolls us both a cigarette. ‘For later,’ she says, passing mine over.

  ‘Where’s your boyfriend tonight?’ Lou says, turning her attention to me. ‘Lucas, is it? He hasn’t come out in, well, ages actually.’

  ‘He didn’t feel like coming tonight,’ I say. It feels like too much effort to say he couldn’t make it. I’ve used that excuse more than is strictly true.

  ‘Such a shame,’ she says, and looks forlorn, and I wonder why she cares. They’ve only ever said hello in passing.

  ‘Well anyway, the four of them together look amazing, Lou,’ Ollie says, and I can hardly contain my astonishment, especially after our exchange at the bar. ‘Mickey and Sinjin are just up the other end of the table.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ Lou says and changes the subject. ‘Ollie says your little video series is going well.’

  ‘It is, thanks,’ I say. ‘The reception’s been incredible. Far, far better than I think either of us had hoped for. Have you seen any of them?’

  ‘I’ve watched a couple,’ she says, nonchalantly. ‘But not all of them. Ollie asked me to share them, so I put them on my Facebook.’ And even though that’s nice, my immediate thought is that it’s strange that he had to ask her. Why wouldn’t she want to share something he’d made? Even Lucas managed that, and he threw in a comment about how proud he was of me. I’m sort of fascinated by them.

  The conversation becomes increasingly one-sided and eventually tails off as Ollie chats to Ben. Lexi comes over and Lou perks up again. She’s lovely to Lexi. Suddenly she’s interested in the video. Suddenly she’s all smiles and warmth and complimentary about her presenting.

  ‘Fuck this, let’s have that ciggie,’ Carlina mutters, and I grab my stuff and head outside. Lexi slides into my seat and Lily budges up and the three of them look like they’ve been friends forever.

  ‘I think I’m going to go after this,’ I say, holding up my cigarette as Carlina extends her lighter for me, the flame flickering in the damp October breeze.

  ‘Oh really? But the night is so young.’

  ‘Ah, I’d like to just go home and chill. Hey, Lou’s funny, isn’t she? Like, I can’t work out if she’s being genuine with us or not.’

  ‘If you have to question it then I think you probably know the answer.’ Carlina shrugs. ‘Personally, I think she feels threatened.’

  ‘Well, let’s not even attempt to read between those lines,’ I say. ‘I’m tired and cold and want to get out of this ridiculous dress, and anyway, Suze has made dinner.’

  ‘Fair play,’ she says, nodding her head.

  But I can’t stop thinking about what happened at the bar tonight all the way home. I sit at the end of a row of seats and lean my head against the glass, my hair now flattened and wilted and a little bit crunchy from all the product. I try and compartmentalise the way Ollie makes me feel but whichever way I look at it I end up confused because the lines are so blurred it makes it impossible to fit into tidy little boxes.

  I didn’t think I blew hot and cold with him. I certainly don’t go into work every day with that intention. And if he feels like that then it’s purely reactionary and my earlier comment definitely stands. Maybe he should look for patterns in his own behaviour. Or not tell me, seemingly out of nowhere, that I’m sometimes a bitch to him, because I don’t deserve any of it.

  Suze’s enchiladas are delicious, and she sits with me whilst I eat them and apologises for not coming out.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I tell her. ‘There’ll be other occasions.’

  ‘Did you win?’ she asks.

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The IT lot. They went as Super Mario characters. It was genuinely excellent.’

  ‘I’m glad you had a nice day,’ she says. ‘But I’m off to bed.’

  * * *

  My phone buzzes a third time as I’m moisturising my face:

  Ollie

  Sorry about tonight.

  Chapter Eleven

  From: Maxine O’Leary

  To: Viral-Hive-LDN-all-Staff

  Subject: Secret Santa

  HO! HO! HO! It’s that time agai
n!

  (Yesssss I know we’ve only just had Halloween but it’s good to be organised)

  For those of you who have yet to experience a Viral Hive Christmas, Secret Santa is mandatory. Please sign up via the link below to the Secret Santa generator. It’s randomised and you’ll get an email to say who you’re buying a gift for. The budget is £10, be as creative as you can.

  Have a holly jolly Christmas!

  Maxine x

  Chapter Twelve

  December

  Christmas at Viral Hive lasts for weeks. People get right into it. We spent a morning in mid November decorating the office, and made a video to document it. We cut together a ten-second clip of Lily tossing a bauble through the door as if it’s a pinless grenade, and closing it, opening it again to a room that looked like Christmas threw up on it. The office has been transformed into some sort of grotto. There’s a giant tree covered in black and gold tinsel and baubles and twinkly lights. Cardboard elves with printed-out photos of our faces on. Paper chains. Fake snow sprayed into patterns on the glass walls of the meeting rooms and the windows. We share it all online and soon it’s been retweeted and viewed by hundreds of thousands of people the world over, and I love it. I love going to work every day feeling like I’m going to hang out with a bunch of friends. I’m not even bored of the short loop of Christmas songs we’ve had on repeat for ages. There was a collective groan as we all simultaneously lost Whamageddon, and since Ben was the day’s Spotify DJ, he had to send round an email apologising for it.

  Today is the day of our Christmas party and we’ve gone all out there, too. It’s an all-day event. They’ve laid on a properly catered dinner and hired a DJ. There’s karaoke throughout the day, an endless supply of snowballs, mulled wine and clementine martinis, and mid afternoon we gather together for Secret Santa. Maxine, dressed as an elf, distributes the gifts one at a time. She has sleigh bells sewn on to the toes of her shoes and they jingle as she walks. I got Martin, one of our community editors, to buy for, which I was initially worried about as in the four months I’ve been here we’ve barely exchanged a word, aside from a bit of small talk in the kitchen a few times. A little bit of digging around online, however, led me to a wealth of information that suggests Martin is heavily into Pokémon, and I found a gimmicky light in the shape of a Pokéball, complete with crystal Pikachu inside. He’s made up.