‘I have no expectations. Did you know that you have to be qualified, trained and have a portfolio to wash a dog?’
‘What? I hadn’t thought. . . wait, you don’t even like dogs.’
‘I know but—’
She starts rummaging through some paperwork. ‘How do you feel about rabbits? I might have something with rabbits here. . .’
‘I was thinking more like temporary clerical work, perhaps?’ I interject. ‘Data entry, maybe?’
My stomach churns at the thought of tapping mindlessly on a keyboard or filing for eight hours a day, but it’s better than nothing.
‘If I had it, I’d be putting you forward for it, Nick. I’m sorry. I am trying. But I’ve pretty much exhausted every avenue I have. I’ve looked into retail and call centres, as well as data entry. . . it’s just a tricky time of the year.’
‘I know,’ I say, rubbing my forehead. I can feel a headache brewing. ‘Right now, I’ll do just about anything.’
‘I’m sure something will turn up,’ she replies, sounding less than optimistic. The crumb from her hair finally falls on to her desk. ‘Positions come in all the time.’
I nod and do my best to look reassured, but I don’t think she’s buying it.
‘Chin up, Nick,’ she says softly, determined to finish our meeting on a positive note. ‘Will I see you at the party tomorrow night? Might be just what you need, you know. . . take your mind off things? Though I’m not sure we got your RSVP. . .’
‘Yup, looking forward to it!’ I lie, forcing the corners of my mouth upwards. ‘I gave the RSVP to Matt; he must have forgotten to post it. You know what he’s like!’
Another lie. I had completely forgotten about the party. The silver and white monochrome engagement party invitation is currently on my coffee table being used as a coaster.
‘Excellent, we’ll see you tomorrow then! Matt too!’ Greta beams like a woman who has just solved all my problems. She is also beaming like a woman who is expecting a gift. Did she provide a gift list? If I can’t afford actual coasters, how the hell am I supposed to afford an engagement present?
Determined to add my name to whatever Matt has purchased for the happy couple, I thank Greta and swiftly leave her office, mumbling something about catching the bank before they close. As I step back out into the chilly air, I stop and take a deep breath which catches the growing lump in the back of my throat. How is this my life? I have no money, no job prospects, an inappropriate jacket for the weather and tomorrow I’ll have to endure a room full of successful people who have their shit together nodding politely while I say that I’m taking a break from Kensington Fox and exploring new avenues, like my lifelong dream of grooming dogs. . . or rabbits, if Greta has anything to do with it.
I take out my phone and text Angela, asking if she fancies going to this party, then Matt, letting him know that he’s responsible for my missing RSVP, before heading into Charing Cross station to catch my train back to London Bridge. Matt responds first:
No probs. Glad you’re leaving the couch.
Shortly followed by Angela:
Sorry bbz, have plans. Call u later xoxo
I reply withNo worries, but in truth, I’m slightly perturbed. Angela never misses a party, so she must be attending something equally entertaining. Something better. Something she didn’t invite me to. She always invites me. Is she embarrassed to be seen with me now? My paranoia begins to kick in and continues booting the hell out of me all the way home.
Matt arrives back at the flat just after 7pm to the sight of me tossing clothes from my wardrobe on to my bed. My normally tidy room now looks like a jumble sale.
‘Lost something?’ he asks, looking mildly amused.
‘I can’t find my Paul Smith shirt,’ I reply. ‘I wanted to wear it tomorrow.’
‘Jesus, you’re such a woman. Just wear something else.’
‘But I like that one. It shows off my tits.’ I grin and pretend to flick my hair back.
Matt laughs and begins to help me look. ‘Is it the denim one? Pretty sure you spilled curry on that.’
‘No, it’s the yellow one.’
Matt pauses. ‘You mean the one your girlfriend hates?’
‘Yes! I haven’t seen it since we—’ I stop rummaging and look over at Matt, who raises his eyebrows.
‘She wouldn’t. . . would she?’
