After Molly was born, I fully intended to go back to work full-time, even though the thought of going back toThe Postfor any length of time filled me with utter dread. However, after looking into the horrendous cost of private nursery, we decided that I’d go back part-time and look after her on my days off. Oliver did offer to go part-time instead of me but he earns more than I do and actually enjoys his job. So now I work Monday, Tuesday and Thursday while Molly splits her time between the council-run nursery and childminder extraordinaire Maggie Wilcox.
Despite having a new position as Entertainments sales rep atThe Postand cutting my hours down to three days a week, I still hate selling advertising space and I’m still angry at myself for being here. Actually, I’m more angry at myself for being thirty-nine this year and still not feeling satisfied with my work life. How do these smug ‘I love my job’ fuckers do it?
Lucy has the right idea. She’s completely nonchalant about her job. She found the least taxing, best paid job she could find and doesn’t give it another thought when the clock strikes 5.30 p.m. We’ve worked together in the same office for seven years but she views it with amusement rather than the contempt I feel. She can afford to be indifferent though – her outgoings are minimal given that she’s child free and rent free (she owns her granny’s old house outright). All my granny left me was a purple cloth bag which contained some dress jewellery and what looked like an adult human tooth wrapped in a hanky.
I waved over to her as I entered the office, throwing my bag under my desk with a soft thud. I hadn’t spoken to her since New Year’s Eve, when she called me from Loch Fyne, so pissed I could smell tequila fumes down the other end of the phone.
‘I think I found Nessie!’ she yelled over what sounded like a mariachi band. ‘Fucking Nessie! I mean, it’s dark outside but there’s something going on in that . . . underwater . . .’
‘That’s nice,’ I replied, feeling a little jealous that I wasn’t there in person to tell her that Nessie lives in Loch Ness and also that she’s a maniac. ‘Where’s Kyle?’
‘Who?’
‘Your boyfriend.’ I laughed. ‘Remember him? Tree surgeon. Dark hair. Does occasional weird poetry. Pretty sure he drove you up there.’
‘Oh yeah, him. He’s lovely, right? Oh. Wait . . . here, fishy fishy . . .’
‘Lucy, where are you? Have you wandered off?’ I asked, feeling anxious that she was about to Jacques Cousteau herself into the loch, towards whatever the hell she thought she was seeing under the water. ‘Go and find Kyle, please,’ I insisted.
‘He’s here,Mum,’ she snickered. ‘Stop panicking. I can see him walking. He might be drunk. He has new glasses, you know – black rimmed. Like Huddy Bolly.’
The rest of the sentence was just a drunken slur but I heard Kyle’s voice so was able to hang up knowing that she wasn’t on her own. Unless he was equally pissed . . . and they both end up in the loch . . . ugh, Iamsuch a mum. When did I become the intoxication police? Ten years ago I’d have been police-cautioned before the bells chimed midnight. Oh dear God, please don’t let Molly grow up to be anything like me.
Anyway, my boss Dorothy wasn’t back ’til Thursday which meant less pressure to sit at my desk and look like I gave a shit, so I started my day making coffee for everyone, except for office annoyance Kelly, who was already balls deep into her New Year detox.
‘Hot water with lemon – every morning.’ She sniffed loudly, holding up a flask. ‘If it’s not natural, I’m not interested.’
I could see Lucy biting her tongue as she listened to this streaky fake-tanned woman with drawn-on eyebrows and twenty menthols protruding from her handbag lecture the room on her new natural lifestyle. I knew that by lunchtime, there would be a sweepstake about how long it would last. (The pub downstairs are starting a ‘buy one get one free’ pizza on a Monday. I’m totally winning this.)
‘You brought your own hot water?’ Brian asked without looking up from his phone. ‘Is it special hot wa—’
‘Filtered . . . and smart.’ She looked at her flask like she expected it to take a bow.
Brian chuckled. ‘Your water is smart or it makes you smart? Will it makemesmarter?’
‘It doesn’t fucking perform brain transplants,’ Lucy hollered from her desk.
Kelly smiled, grateful that Lucy stepped in. Lucy isn’t particularly a fan of Kelly but she dislikes Brian even more.
We’d been in the office for fifteen minutes and already these two were ready to battle. They’ve hated each other for years. Brian is still the cock he’s always been and Kelly is just, well, Kelly. Nothing ever changes around here. Actually, that’s a lie – handsome Stuart, the man I once let shag me up against a jaggy fence, left before Christmas to move to Finland with his new wife, leaving us wondering who the hell Dorothy would hire in his place. Fucking Finland! The lengths men will go to avoid me.
I sat at my desk and logged in, allowing emails to start trickling through. Of course the most recent was from Lucy.
From:Lucy Jacobs
To:Phoebe Henderson
Subject:New Year
So? How was New Year? How was the Irish invasion? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. Did Molly stay up for the bells or were you and Oliver snorting champagne and shagging in front of the telly?
From:Phoebe Henderson
To:Lucy Jacobs
Subject: Re: New Year
It went well, I think! I hope they had a nice time but his parents just give off a vibe of being uncomfortable everywhere except in their own home. It’s weird. Yes, Molly did stay up for the bells – we watched Jools Holland. She spilled Ribena on the floor. It was thrilling. Oliver woke me up in the morning to moan about potatoes. I know, I’m boring myself now. Let’s have lunch. You can tell me all about Nessie, you drunken arse.
