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I huff. “Do I have to do everything?”
I live with Ben, Michelle, and her boyfriend, John. Out of the four of us, it appears I'm the only one who learned to do things for themselves before leaving home. I organise the bills, the mostly ignored household rosters, and frequently call the landlord with problems. Ben knows how pissed off I get about this—he turns away to intently focus on sorting out the junk lying around the lounge.
“Are Michelle and John back yet?”
“No. I’ll call the landlord in the morning.”
Muttering Avery style, I leave the room.
As I partake in the lukewarm shower in the cold bathroom, I consider the wisdom of returning to London early when, with my parents, I had a cosy house with copious hot water and free food. Why did I decide to swap that for an icebox of a house and a diet that's likely to exist of pasta and baked beans?
I have a friend, Erica, who works at a club, pole dancing in the evenings, and is paid more in one night than I could earn in two weeks from waitressing. I declined her offer to introduce me to the manager, using the excuse they probably prefer taller girls who could reach more than halfway up the pole. Who knows what the club owners like in an employee; I've never been to one myself. Erica told me I'd be fine because of my ample assets, but I politely declined. Still, if I had a pound for every guy who stares at my chest instead of looking me in the eyes, I wouldn't be in debt.
I have to hope the gods smile on me and send some work my way. Otherwise, after my finals, progressing to a teaching course is out of reach.
