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‘And what do you think?’
‘And what did you mean about the phone, also?’ Petra continues, ignoring my question. She’s just got back from a meeting about next year’s Wimbledon. Flye broadcast it most years, and everyone, for a short while, loses themselves to temporary insanity. Strawberry and cream queues are discussed like natural disasters that simply must be stopped, and tennis players are spoken of like Christ’s disciples. There are three types of people who work here, I’ve come to realise. Those who are utterly fanatical about sports, those who are fanatical about making TV (and often talk about it with the sort of affectionate jaded irritation you do about a younger, annoying sibling) and those who simply .?.?. work here. And I fit into that category like a glove. I started here as a temp, and I’ve been hoping, deep down, I might start to slowly merge into one of the other categories, by osmosis, or something. That I’d somehow see what they see – people like Owen. Thatmeaningthey find in it. That fire and excitement I’ve always been a bit jealous of. (I’m still waiting, although I do know by now, at exactly which point to tut, or sigh, or say, ‘What a fantastic serve, that was, eh?’)
‘Oh, yes, my new phone,’ I say.
‘I was confused,’ Petra frowns. ‘A Nokia? As in, you’ve changed phones permanently?’
‘That’s right,’ I reply. ‘I wanted a break from having an entire world in my handbag. You know, on account of everything terrible that’s happened.’
‘Has anything else happened, then?’
The reception desk phone rings and I answer, transfer a call to the accounts department (one for Bigot Prue, who is still pretending I do not exist) as Petra watches me, drinking more of her coffee like she hasn’t had anything to drink in several weeks.
‘Does anything elseneedto happen?’ I ask, hanging the phone up. ‘The last time I checked, everything had already happened.’
‘Yes but .?.?. getting rid of your phone? And nominating your free time for .?.?.’ She lowers her husky voice. ‘This place.’
‘I’m just trying to lift the curse,’ I tell her.
‘Millie. There is no curse.’
‘I’m afraid there is a bit of a curse, Petra,’ I say. ‘But I’m determined to fight it,’ and Petra sighs, giving me a resigned look that says, ‘I love you, but fuck right off.’ I have loved Petra Kairys for almost the entire time I’ve worked here. She was who hired me at Flye TV, way back when I came here as a temp, and she has acted, ever since, like I’m the best deal she ever got. As if she put an ad out for a receptionist but got some sort of oblivious genius who should be out somewhere, saving the world instead of packing up and returning faulty boomer mics. I’d been delighted though – I wanted something more than waitressing at the pub, and a temporary, no-pressure contract, especially at a cool-seeming TV broadcasting company seemed perfect at the time.
‘Are you sure?’ Petra had asked when I accepted the job, and I’d found it the strangest question. But now I see, it was just a very Petra Kairys question. Petra is a cynic and a sceptic, with a ‘well, it’s too late for me, but it’s not for you, so run while you can’ air about her that would be more suited to a woman of one hundred and six than a thirty-five-year-old like her. She is also quietly selfless. She loves hard (but only if you’re lucky enough), which is why when she’d found that text on her ex Maria’s phone, it blindsided her worse than it would most. But Kira – her girlfriend now – has breathed life back into her; warmth and colour. They are the sweetest, loveliest couple I’ve ever known. Petra often jokes Kira must’ve been made in a factory. ‘She’s just too lovely, too unproblematic to be human.’
‘And the cakes went down well, I see,’ Petra says now, smilingly. ‘They’re almost all gone.’
‘And what about the gluten-free cookies? Michael Waterstreet’s gluten-free, isn’t he?’
‘My love.’ Petra is Lithuanian and her accent makes everything (especially ‘my love’) sound extra romantic. ‘Do you need Michael Waterstreet to like your cookies? To like you?’
‘Well .?.?.’
‘Please think about this for a second, Millie,’ she says. ‘Howdarkthat question really is.’
I groan into my hands and slowly, like something deflating, lie flat with my forehead on the desk. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Depressingly, in the absence of a time machine, Petra, I do need Michael Waterstreet to like me. I needeveryoneto like me and for them to know I am not a bad person and that I want to keep my job. Because I have debt and bills to pay. Oh, and I need to live and eat, et cetera, and what else am I exactly going to do if I don’t try and keep this job because I don’t really have much of a plan for anything else right now and I’m not sure I have the energy for an existential crisis on top of everything else?’
‘OK, love,breathe,’ Petra says, warmly. ‘And you are not a bad person. Plus, you have a job. It’s not gone anywhere.’
‘Until people complain. Then shit might get real-er. So .?.?.’
‘Give them cake?’
‘Yes. Exactly. Cake.’ I lift my head back up and look at her, my mess of waves dangling over my eyes, like a living mop. ‘Thank you.’ I give her a smile. ‘For not judging me.’
‘Obviously.’
‘And can you get me on broadcasts? Helping on game days?’ It’s what the ‘good’ people here do. They volunteer their free time, nominate themselves to assist at events, such as football games or cricket matches, because there are never enough pairs of hands, or crew members. (Even if those hands are inexperienced and fumbling, like mine.)
‘Mhm.’ Petra nods, setting down her coffee and peeling a brown hair tie from her wrist.‘I’ve already emailed Jack about it.’ She scoops back a plume of caramel curls with her hand. ‘Shurlock?’
And the tiniest of sparks kindles inside of me, because Petra says his name as if I need reminding. As if Jack didn’t kindly cover for me, get shut in an office with me (and broken Gary Lineker) and pull me to standing with one of his tanned, hard-to-not-notice muscular forearms. ‘And look,’ Petra continues, ‘I am never going to say no to you helping out, because I’m selfish and I love working with you, but .?.?. are you sure?’
I shrug. ‘I mean, it seems like the sensible thing to do. Show willing, demonstrate to management that I’m not some trouble-maker—’
‘Yes, I know, but .?.?. is it what you want to do?You.’
I give a firm, ask-no-more-questions nod. ‘Yes.’
