Prologue
‘You’ve already got quite the queue forming, Nick. Can we get a move on, please; kids can get rowdy. I’m not paying you to preen. Let’s go!’
It’s only my first shift at Southview Shopping Centre and I already dislike my supervisor Geraldine, whose sullen head has snaked around the door and appears to be propping it open with the weight of her own self-importance. She can’t be any older than forty, yet has the dead-eyed glare of someone who has been forced to reincarnate as the same retail manager for centuries. The longer she stands there, the more I’m aware of the faint buzz from the shopping mall which creeps past her and invades the once quiet staffroom. It sounds as busy as she implies.
‘Be right there!’ I reply, trying to sound chipper, when in reality, I’d happily welcome the sweet release of death right now.
Anything but this.
Geraldine retains her scowl and slowly retreats, the click of her heels gradually disappearing as she makes her way through the double doors at the end of the corridor.
As I step into my oversized black boots and tighten my belt, I feel a tiny bead of sweat slowly trickle down the side of my face and absorb into my beard. Jesus, it’s hot. Why do shopping centres always have their temperature set toSahara? I’m going to be a human puddle by 5pm, if the utter humiliation doesn’t kill me first.
I mop my brow with my sleeve and adjust my hat, taking one last look in the staffroom mirror. I hardly recognise myself, which I guess is the point, and I’m grateful. Being recognised is not something my currently fragile ego could handle. I sigh loudly as I smooth my jacket over my oversized belly.
Welcome to the lowest point in your life, loser. Just be thankful Christmas only comes once a year.
Taking a deep breath, I reluctantly trudge out of the staffroom and towards the same double doors that Geraldine’s cloven hooves passed through a few minutes earlier. Emerging into the brightly lit shopping floor, what feels like the entire city of London stops to stare at me. I cannot believe I agreed to do this. As my cheeks begin to turn bright red, my transformation is complete.
‘MUMMY! LOOK! IT’S SANTA! IT’S SANTA CLAUS!’
Oh, fucking hell. Here we go.
Chapter One
Four weeks earlier
‘Oh, come on! You’ve got to be kidding me. That can’t be right.’
I stare at my phone, hoping the digits shown on my online banking account will magically rearrange themselves into an amount that doesn’t make my stomach catapult into my throat. I click on my recent transactions, hoping that I’ve become the victim of identity theft and a stranger is the reason I am almost completely broke.
As I skim down my purchases, my stomach leaves my throat and plummets to my feet. There’s no mistake. This was all me: same places, same amounts, same days of the week. Not only am I skint, I’m predictable. I’m not sure what’s worse.
I glance at the corner of the living room where my most recent Amazon purchase sits untouched, mocking me for being stupid enough to waste money on an unused gym membership while simultaneously ordering kettlebells online to work out at home. God, I’m an idiot. A skinny-armed idiot. I should return them and get my forty quid back, although I’m not sure it’s going to touch the sides of the hole that I’m going to have to dig myself out of. Still, it would be a start.
I close my phone, tossing it on to the couch with a groan while I pace the floor of the large flat I soon won’t be able to pay rent on.
It’s just a blip, I reassure myself.You’ll get back on your feet. Maybe just cut back. . . Set a budget!
Budget. God, I hate that word. Yes, admittedly, as someone who is technically unemployed, I perhaps should be a bit more frugal, but I’m certain Angela isn’t down for staying in with her penny-pinching boyfriend seven nights a week. She’s a girl who likes to be seen. It was touch-and-go when she found out I’d been fired.
‘But you were taking me to Marbs, babe,’ she’d reminded me, like I hadn’t already surreptitiously tried to get the deposit back. I watched her scroll through Instagram, never lifting her head to look at me. ‘What about Marbs?’
‘I know, honey, it’s just that—’
‘What about Marbs, babe?’ she repeated, almost singing the words at me. ‘I didn’t get non-surgical lipo and a keratin treatment just to hang around London. . .’
‘I appreciate that, but Marbella might have to—’
‘WHAT. ABOUT. MARBS?’
It’s funny, when you’re dating a former reality-TV star, reality is the last thing that they’re concerned about. Angela is beautiful, independent, sexy and probably the most career-focused person I’ve ever met (and I once worked with a guy who missed his son’s birth to have dinner with a client). I have always worked hard for what I want, and Angela is no exception. Three grand and a sunburned nipple later, I still had a girlfriend and she had two pictures of her tanned derriere in theSun.
Naïvely I didn’t think I’d be unemployed long enough to miss the money, but in the four months since I was fired from Kensington Fox LLP, I’ve had twenty-three interviews, followed by twenty-three identically worded rejection letters.
‘Thank you for your interest. We wish you every success in your future career.’
I’m not even sure I have a future career. It’s clear that doors are closing just as fast as word is spreading about my dismissal. How the hell did I get everything so wrong?
