He nods. ‘Weirdest thing, we had a glass of wine at the bar while they were sorting our table and she was fine. Then she suddenly asked if we could go because she felt ill.’
‘Maybe the wine didn’t agree with her?’
‘Probably. I’ll call her tomorrow. Bring her some soup or something if she’s still under the weather.’
I pout. ‘You never bring me soup when I’m sick.’
‘There’s not enough soup in the world to cure what’s wrong with you. Be right back, I need a slash.’
As I wait for Matt to return from the bathroom, I’m tempted to text Sarah and see if she’s alright, but I decide that’s not my place, no matter how much I want it to be. Besides, I don’t trust myself not to accidentally send a kiss at the end of the message like a fucking love-struck wanker.
The next morning, I make it into the office for 7.30am, thinking that I’d be one of the first here, but I see that everyone else also has their try-hard hats on. Jane Bridges, the tall woman with enormous hair who started a week after me, looks exhausted. In fact, they all do. The more I get to know some of my colleagues, the more I realise that they’re just as full of shit as I am. The tough veneer they exhibit is deceptively fragile and could crack at any moment. Of course, there are always a few who thrive in this kind of environment, like Sophia. . . or Duncan Walker, who sits near the water cooler and calls everyone his posse. Or Matt. . . is Matt actually a sharky wanker?
Just as I’m starting to wonder how I ever thought that this was the world I wanted to exist in, my mobile rings.
‘Nick, it’s Greta. They want an interview! I think you’re in.’
Chapter Thirty-One
The last (and only time) I was in Oxford, I was eight years old and being reluctantly dragged around the Botanic Gardens by my mum and three of her excessively perfumed friends. I don’t remember that much about the day trip, apart from being bored as hell, but I do remember how much my mum longed for a garden of her own when we returned. High-rise flats don’t really lend themselves to horticulture, but she filled our flat with as many reduced-price flowers and houseplants as her budget would allow.
For my second trip, I’m infinitely more excited to be going to Oxford, if a tad nervous – not just about the interview, but about the fact that this job could literally change my world. New direction, new town, new life – it’s quite overwhelming to think about, so I put in my earbuds and drown myself out.
The train arrives at nine thirty-five, giving me plenty of time to find the office I’m interviewing in at ten. Google Maps informs me that it’s a nine-minute walk away, so I grab a quick espresso at the station and head out the main entrance.
Not having to navigate the same pavement with seventeen thousand other people is the first tick on my Oxford vs. London list – that and the fact that it’s incredibly pretty. London isn’t anuglycity as such, there’s just so fucking much of it and it’s everywhere.
I follow my map, passing a mixture of historic-looking buttery-coloured brickwork buildings, shops and new builds before I finally arrive at Homelessness Action, whose offices look very modern, but not at all imposing.
‘Good morning! How can I help you?’
The receptionist smiles at me like she’s genuinely happy to see me, while behind her, a staff of at least twenty people occupy an open-plan office. I count at least seven happy faces and see a woman wearing a Nirvana T-shirt – I’m already getting good vibes.
‘I have an appointment with Joseph Dalton at ten.’
She taps on her keyboard, finding my appointment and nods. ‘Nick? Great. Please take a seat and I’ll let Joe know you’re here.’
I thank her and sit on a huge purple couch, wondering if I’ve come to the right place. If someone wore a band T-shirt at my current office, Sophia would have them fired or maybe even thrown from the roof. This is all very disconcerting. Even the ring from the phones sounds chirpy.
A man in a blue shirt and swinging lanyard approaches me, holding out his hand.
‘Nick. Joe Dalton. Thanks for coming in.’
We shake hands and I follow him through the office and into a large pale green meeting room, complete with yucca plants and a water cooler. Joe opens his folder, revealing my CV and I take a deep breath.
‘Impressive,’ he remarks, his pen scanning down the pages. ‘First class degree, a year at Rose Allen, then five years at Kensington Fox. You were lead on the Broadshore merger, right?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, slightly unnerved by the fact that this particular piece of information isn’t on my CV. Broadshore was a particularly tricky healthcare client who threatened to move their business to other firms on a daily basis. He’s obviously done his research. ‘It was an interesting project.’
‘Why did you leave Kensington?’
‘It was time,’ I lie. ‘I think it’s important to expand one’s horizons.’
‘One’s horizons’. . . When have you ever spoken like that? Are you the Queen? Is that what we’re doing now?
‘And you’re currently at Portman Brown. . . I hear they’re a tough crowd.’
I nod. He has no idea. ‘It can be, but you know. . . work hard, play hard.’
