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Finally! I’ve been itching to knock her teeth out.
Rosalie looks up at me, one perfectly arched brow raised. “Shoo,” she says, ushering me away with her manicured hand.
I see red. Snarling I close the distance between us in a heartbeat. She squeals, and scoots back from the desk.
“What’s going on here?” demands a stern voice. Mr Smithers is in the doorway.
Shaking, I back away from Rosalie. I nearly did it. I nearly hit her. I don’t know what came over me. Actually I do. Inside my head the little voice is squirming in frustration.
“She was going to hit me!” Rosalie squeaks, pointing her finger at me.
“Prove it!” I snap.
I shoulder my way past Mr Smithers before I end up saying something regrettable. I cannot lose this job. I know perfectly well that the awful terms of my zero-hours contract means they are within their rights to cancel my shift, and yet it feels so damn wrong.
That was stupid. Fair recruitment for otherkind doesn’t really exist, despite company diversity policies. I haven’t met a single non-human here. Being violent might make them think I am otherkind, and they’d fire me a heartbeat. With my lack of work experience and the current financial climate I know am lucky to have this job.
Just before I exit the building I remember I had intended to ask Smithers’ for my saved up pay for the funeral costs. Now I need that money twice as much. Unable to face Smithers again, I go to the payroll team’s office instead.
Fifteen minutes later I storm out of the building, shaking. Finance had no record of my savings arrangement. They said there had been an incident of internal fraud a year earlier and supervisors had been asked to inform affected staff. Smithers’ had said nothing to me. The deadline for making claims passed months ago. The payroll manager had given me a pitying look. My money is gone. Long gone.
Outside London is bright and busy and doesn’t give a damn about my feelings. God, how easy it is for people to make you feel worthless. It doesn’t help to know that in terms of money I really am worthless. Doesn't matter how little you care about money. When you’re worried about keeping a roof over your head, it feels like the most important thing in the world.
I sit on the side walk and call Luca. He answers immediately.
“Diana!” he says cheerily in his big bass voice with a hint of a lilting accent. He always sounds happy to hear from me. This time it fails to cheer me up.
“Hi Luca,” I say, my voice trembling with my effort to control it. I hate begging. I hate that Luca will immediately know that I am desperate. “Erm, do you need an extra hand at the restaurant today at all? I mean maybe just a few extra hours before my evening shift tonight?”
He pauses. I can tell that he doesn’t. “Sure, sure,” he says jovially. “Come in a co
uple of hours. I can find something for you.”
I babble a thanks. There are tears in my eyes when I hang up. Thank heaven for people like Luca.
I take a deep steadying breath. I am not pathetic. I refuse to be. I’ll get by. Enough is finally enough. I’ll find a better job than my catering one and I’ll tell Smithers to stuff it. All is not lost. If I get desperate maybe I can ask Luca for a small advance on my next paycheck. I’ll hate doing it, but I’ll work extra hard, and I’ll pay back his kindness someday. This thought calms me.
I am famished, but I ignore my hunger pangs. I have work to do. For two years I have been stagnating, fighting the little voice in my head every time she told me to do something about my dreams. Some nights fighting her to the point of mental exhaustion.
I had been so afraid that I would make a big mess of things again, and where has it got me? Nowhere. Seeing Storm yesterday was like a reality bomb going off. It is an unpleasant shock to see myself through his eyes. I have been sliding downhill for two years, heading nowhere good.
“Excuse me,” I ask a man who is passing by. “Do you know if there is a library near here?”
He smiles at me appreciatively. “American?” he asks.
I nod, unsmiling. All I want is some directions.
“Are you new to the area?” he says. “Do you need someone to show you around?”
The man is middle-aged and balding. Old enough to be my father. The way his eyes are weighing me up creep me out.
“No,” I mutter, and hurry away.
I make sure that the next few people that I approach are women, until I find one who knows where the local library is. A long walk gets me there.
The friendly-faced librarian at the desk smiles at my American accent when I ask her where to find information about the Agency of Otherkind Investigations. She makes me repeat my question. Then she looks at me like I must be confused.
“We don’t have one of those here,” she says.
