Angela believes I’m too handsome to be unemployed, which is sweet of her to say, but she also believes ponies are baby horses, so I’m not relying solely on her judgement for the time being.
I give myself a shake and begin productively clearing away the old pizza boxes and beer bottles from the coffee table. They’re all mine, of course, no one else around here is using Domino’s to self-medicate. As the money has dwindled, my need to lie around the flat feeling sorry for myself has increased. My flatmate and former colleague, Matt, tries his best to be supportive, but even I know it must be difficult to rally someone who has discovered a fondness for Stella Artois at 8am.
‘You need to snap out of this, Nick,’ he’d demanded last week. ‘Get yourself back on track. You made one mistake—’
‘Two!’ I corrected quickly. ‘I made two.’
From the comfort of the couch I had observed Matt messing with his dirty blond hair in the hall mirror, not oblivious to the subtle eye roll directed at my response. He strode through the living room and into the kitchen, his sticky pomade fingers grabbing his wallet from the worktop.
‘OK, fine, you madetwomistakes but—’
‘Actually, three, but they didn’t find out about the third one, so it doesn’t count. Does anywhere do breakfast kebabs? Is that even a thing?’
Matt sighed. ‘Look, all I’m saying is it’s not the end of the world, mate. You’ll find something. I’d knock the morning drinking on the head, though.’
‘Technically, I started drinking last night so it’s still part of my drunking evening. . . evening drinking. Bah, you know what I mean.’
‘All I’m saying is, it’s a slippery slope. . .’
‘Your hair’s a slippery slope,’ I mumbled, but Matt wasn’t listening. He was too busy being employed.
‘Mm-hmm,’ Matt replied, as he marched towards the front door. ‘I’m off. Get a shower, pal.’
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t more than a little envious of Matt. Despite his overuse of hair product, Matt Buckley is a shrewd man with a healthy bank balance, an investment plan and a couple of wealthy parents to fall back on. Mostly I’m envious that Matt still works at Kensington Fox. As much as I miss the money, I miss the work more. I loved that job: the buzz of the office, the meetings, the after-work drinks, the networking, the camaraderie, but now I’m on the outside, desperately trying to get back in, somewhere, anywhere, and failing miserably.
I’ve blown through most of my savings, as well as the hundred quid Matt keeps in the emergency tin on top of the fridge. I feel that right now, life itself is an emergency. Being skint isn’t exactly unfamiliar territory. Growing up on a housing estate in Tottenham with a single parent wasn’t the most affluent start, but it meant that I quickly learned how to graft. I started working part-time when I was at school to help Mum out, using every spare minute in between school and shifts to study, which led to a scholarship at university, where I worked evening shifts at the twenty-four-hour Asda, while my friends got shit-faced at whatever foam party or theme night was being held at the students’ union.
My main concern isn’t that I’ve been fired for missing a crucial filing deadline (which wasn’t entirely my fault) or that I accidentally threw up over an important client’s wife the same evening, it’s that I’ve worked my arse off to get here and I’m about to lose it all.
Chapter Two
Three weeks into an extremely chilly October and there isn’t anyone in London who doesn’t have a copy of my CV. Even Ahmet who runs the Kebab House is keeping me in mind for any future vacancies. I could do deliveries or become an Uber driver, but even that requires a car and I don’t have the cash, even for a shitty one.
Apparently, I’m too qualified for McDonald’s, but not qualified enough for Debbie’s Dog Grooming, because seeminglylaw school doesn’t mean shit when you’re faced with an anxious dog who doesn’t want his nails trimmed, Nick. While I feel Debbie was rather harsh, it does make me realise how few real skills I actually possess. Yes, I can organise mergers and negotiate multimillion-pound contracts, but I have no idea how to operate a till, mix a cocktail or make a coffee appear from one of those giant, frothing machines. I’m almost out of options. Hopefully today will be better; God, please let it be better.
Quickening my step, I pull my flimsy jacket around me as I make my way through Covent Garden towards GL Recruitment, owned by Greta Lang, a woman who dumped me five years ago. We’d dated for three months and I’d spent that time trying to remember how she took her tea, while she had spent the same time determining that there was zero future for us and had written me off. Looking back, she had a point; I could never truly commit to someone who drinks decaf. Regardless of‘not being the one for her’, we’ve remained good friends and as I press the buzzer at the entrance, I’m hoping she’ll be the one to pull me out of my current sinkhole of despair.
Greta’s office is small, elegant and extremely vibrant, which perfectly reflects her as a person.
‘Take a seat, Nick, can I get you anything?’ She brushes down the front of her shirt, scattering tiny baguette crumbs at her feet. I’ve obviously caught her at lunch.
I yank out the chair at the front of her desk and shake my head. ‘Apart from a job? Nah, I’m good.’
She smiles and sits behind her desk, moving her glasses from her face to the top of her head. She missed one crumb which now nestles in her brown hair. When we dated, Greta was a blonde, like Angela, but I much prefer her as a brunette. It makes her green eyes pop. Shit, I don’t think I ever noticed she had green eyes; she was absolutely right to dump me.
Greta taps a few keys on her laptop and clears her throat. I recognise that sound. It’s the same sound she made before she broke up with me, before she explained very tactfully that we were finished. That is the sound you make when you’re about to give bad news.
‘I’ll be honest, Nick; it isn’t great news.’
I knew it.
‘We just don’t have many corporate law vacancies at this time of year. It’s all temp Christmas positions, which were snapped up by students months ago. After the festive period, you’re more likely to—’
‘Still be unemployable?’
Having a friend who works for a recruitment agency is only useful if companies are actually hiring. The longer I remain unemployed, the worse it looks on my CV. Greta’s pity smile is not what I need to see right now, but she offers it anyway.
‘Lawyers get fired and hired all the time,’ she responds, with a look on her face which says otherwise. ‘I’ll find you something. You might just have to lower your expectations in the meantime.’
