‘Leanne’s signed in – use hers. I can’t have that nonsense clogging up my notifications when everyone inevitably takes the piss.’
Leanne smiles and pulls up a webpage for me. I post my request from the column’s Twitter account, then log out. Last time I left myself logged in as Glasgow Girl, Gordon announced my forthcoming and completely fictional haemorrhoid surgery to my seventeen thousand followers. I’m wise to these people now.
My editor Natasha arrives ten minutes later, carrying three espressos and a green tea, which she carefully lines up on Leanne’s desk.
‘Morning, troops. Don’t say I’m not good to you.’ She opens her coffee and blows on it, looking over at the empty desk in front of Gordon. ‘Patrick not in yet?’
Gordon shakes his head. ‘He’s out on a job. I think he’s interviewing Val McDermid.’
‘Nice one.’ She smiles. ‘Catriona, I need some new column suggestions from you this week – I think something slightly more engaging than that piece about how your cat hates men. Not sure I’m convinced that misandry exists in the feline world. Anyway, have a think and we’ll talk after lunch.’
I nod and continue trying to turn on my PC, but already a slight twinge of panic has set in. I’m aware from recent online comments that my column isn’t as funny or clever as it used to be, and I’m mindful that Natasha has noticed this too. I liked that cat piece! It was funny: how a white cat turned up, knocked on our front door and decided to stay so I called him Heisenberg and because . . . oh fuck it, she’s right – it was shit. And he doesn’t just hate men, he hates everyone but Grace.
Finally my PC decides to work and I check my emails. It’s mostly PR rubbish, one from a crazy woman asking what David Tennant is like in real life and can she have his autograph and several addressed to Glasgow Girl demanding I either shut my face or keep up the good work. I delete them all and neck my espresso, hoping it’ll magically trigger some good ideas. It doesn’t work. I sigh, and suggest a brainstorm with my colleagues. Leanne is first in line to contribute:
‘You know how you said in Saturday’s column that you didn’t want to do the online dating thing, but maybe you should? Plenty of material there! Lots of people meet online.’
‘Yes, yes, everyone knows someone who met their other half online, but that someone is usually a socially awkward musician who has run out of people willing to listen to his latest song about Karl Marx on SoundCloud. No, it’s all too weird and clinical. AND DANGEROUS. I don’t like the thought of searching through hundreds of photos, trying to pick the one who looks the least likely to pick me up in the car that will drive me away from MY LIFE. That shit is real. I watch the news.’
Gordon laughs. ‘You’re so dramatic. I think you’re canny enough to weed out the bad ones.’
‘I’m not so sure . . . I could write about speed dating?’
He shakes his head. ‘You did that last year.’
‘Bugger, so I did. How about I date someone young and then someone old and—’
‘Do you really want to date someone old?’ Leanne interjects, squinting at me. ‘He’ll just bore you with tales about the war and you’ll be forced to change his incontinence pads.’
‘Which war?’
‘All of them.’
I place my head in my hands. ‘Ugh, I have nothing. My dating life is a big, dull pile of crap! It’s not even noteworthy enough to write about once, let alone week after week. The last man I asked out on Twitter didn’t even bother replying.’
‘You ask men out? Well, there’s your first mistake.’ Leanne’s looking at me with the face of a 1950s housewife.
‘What do you mean? It’s 2014. Women do that. I ask men out all the time.’
‘And how’s that been working out for you so far?’
‘Sometimes they say yes . . .’
‘But it never lasts, right? Oh, don’t look at me like that. I had the same problem! You have to read the book.’
‘There’s a book? What book?’
‘The Rules of Engagement. I swear it changed my effing life. I’m engaged to Charlie because of it.’
‘Oh, is it one of those generic self-help brain-fucks, Leanne? I hate those.’
Leanne’s phone starts to ring. ‘It’s a remarkable book. Look, just go out at lunchtime and buy it. You won’t be sorry – Hello? Yes, this is Leanne.’
I swivel back round on my chair, laughing. A dating book? I don’t fucking think so.
*
Lunchtime arrives and everyone heads off to do their own thing. I could just have the packet soup I’ve had in my desk since Christmas, but instead I decide to dine alfresco by buying a sandwich and sitting in George Square watching all the suits and the students go about their lunch hour. Since I’m usually stuck at home writing, this helps to remind me that I still live in a world where other human beings exist. I hope that a good hard dose of people-watching will inspire me, because I’m struggling to come up with new ideas. I’m not sure when or why I lost my spark, but I’d better get it back pronto before Natasha sees fit to fire me.
