Into the
Community
CHAPTER 5
There was no footpath along the road, but it was straight and quiet enough in places that I’d hopefully get a heads up if a car or a lorry came careening through.
Past the stretch of road that came closest to Sgàthan Sìth 1a and 1b, there was a fork in the road. I checked my phone with what was left of my dying battery. The closest village was a place called Carlinsrest. VisitScotland called it “a friendly stop for tourists on their way up to the Highlands.” TripAdvisor called it “a rambler’s delight.” I’d never heard of it before my moonlight flit.
Was it Cahr-lins-rest or Care-lin-srest? It felt rude to ask. What if everyone thought I was just another ignorant southerner come to buy property out from under the noses of locals? It was probably better to keep my mouth shut. Don’t bother anyone. Just—
“Morning!”
I came up from my thoughts so fast I swear it gave me the bends. A grey moustached man in an anorak was stood on a stile. He smiled and waved. A group of similarly anoraked people smiled behind him. A hill rose above them, like a great green wave coming to crash down on us all.
“I said, morning!”
I froze, mouth gulping air.
“Thought the countryside was supposed to be friendly,” one of the man’s companions muttered.
The man laughed. I walked away, taking the left road to the village, flustered but determined not to look back.
The man had a point. I was a countryside person now. I should probably make the effort to be more friendly. Did that mean waving to every hiker, dogwalker and weekender I saw? I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel comfortable doing that. Hello! Morning! It felt so weird. But that’s what I was here for—to do better, to become better—so I had to try. Fake it till I make it!
Then keep faking it and faking it and faking it and—
No, this time will be different.
In the past, I know I’ve come across as a bit of a cold fish. I’d say I’m guarded, but some mistake it for snobbishness, I think. What happened my first day at the office is a prime example.
I don’t come from office workers. My dad was a postman, my mother a nurse. Everything I knew about working a desk job I’d learned from TV and films. When I got the job, I bought myself a whole wardrobe based on those assumptions. I imagined a confident modern career woman, thought about what she’d wear, and bought that: a white blouse and some waxed black trousers, the closest I could get to leather without having cloying dead animal hide on top of my skin all day. It was an outfit that was soft and hard at once. Do no harm, take no shit.
As I was walked around the office, I made sure to smile and shake hands with everyone, trying my best to memorise the dozens of names. Then I was shown to my desk. It was on the edge of a bank of other desks, sticking out into one of the main walkways through the office. There was no computer. Just a branded notebook and a desk phone. When I pointed this out, I was given an iPad to look over the company website and ‘familiarize myself with their brand’.
That’s okay, I thought. They’re probably too busy to onboard you just now.
I looked around at my new colleagues, wondering if I should ask what they were working on and if I could help. Bounce some ideas. Make a round of tea. Everyone had their heads down, focused on their screens, headphones firmly set in place. I noticed that everyone wore hoodies and t-shirts, not the blouses and tailored trousers I’d been led to expect.
The desk to my left had one of those weighted, standing desk add-ons; the kind that could be placed on top of a normal desk instead of replacing it with an actual and expensive standing desk with motorised pistons and extending legs. It belonged to a taciturn man called Alan who was big into body-building and unseasoned, microwaved chicken. The standing desk’s sprung crossbeams shook under the weight of design books, a treasure trove of dirty mugs, and the force of his typing. I half-expected a note to be taped to the edge saying KEEP OUT or NO GIRLS ALLOWED.
The phone on my desk rang. I’d looked around at the rest of the team. No one looked up. I reached for the phone and hesitated. I wondered why someone would be calling me already. I looked at the others again. No reaction. I picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Who’s this?” A voice, clipped, terse.
“Uh, hi, I’m Tamsin. I’m the new email writer.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
“This used to be Issy’s phone.”
I looked around the bank of desks. There was a white-blonde woman on my right. She had her headphones on, eyes glued to her screen. The mug on her desk said ISOLDE’S PATIENCE. I think the person who’d shown me around had called her Issy.
“Maybe they moved the desks around? I don’t know. It’s literally my first day.”
