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‘That’s too bad,’ he replies. ‘Listen, I’ve got to run to a meeting, but we’ll chat later, OK? Knowing you, you’ll have found something else before the end of the week. You’ll be fine, I promise.’
The speed with which he lost interest in my predicament is completely typical of how he is these days. I hang up and flick a pleasantly cathartic V-sign at the phone screen before turning my attention back to the mussels. By the time I pay the bill and leave, I’ve made my way though the mussels, an entrecôte de boeuf with frites, and a slab of tarte de pommes with cream. I don’t feel better, exactly, but I do feel pleasantly full at least. The important thing I’ve realised is that, although I’m not working, I am still being paid for the next month, so if I get my act together and start job hunting sooner rather than later, I might even have something lined up before my main redundancy package kicks in. I decide to start updating my CV this afternoon. It will be a much better use of my time than sitting around watching daytime TV, and then I’ll be ready to move as soon as I spot a vacancy I like the look of.
I’m about a hundred yards from the office on my way to the bus stop when I spot Jonathan coming the other way with a large carrier bag. I don’t really want to speak to him again, but he’s seen me and there’s no point in being rude. He looks terrible, but I’m not surprised. Despite his manspreading, he’s a good manager, and making people redundant has obviously taken a real toll on him.
‘You look worn out,’ I tell him as we meet. ‘Are you all done? Last victim sent packing?’
‘Yeah, something like that,’ he replies, and I’m surprised by the bitterness in his voice.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Not really. You know Sharon said there was one more redundancy after you?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was me.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. Ironic, isn’t it? There I am, having to rip the rug out from under my colleagues, only to have them do it to me at the end.’
‘Oh, Jonathan. That’s really shitty. You’d think they would have the decency to tell you first and spare you the job of telling the others.’
‘What am I going to do, Ella?’ he whines. ‘I’ve got a wife and baby to support. Gina’s going to hit the roof.’
I’m tempted to snap at him that I actually have my own problems to deal with right now, and the fact that he’s married doesn’t make his situation any worse than mine, but I manage to bite my tongue and remain civil.
‘You’re going to do exactly the same thing I’m going to do,’ I tell him, firmly. ‘You’re going to lick your wounds, and then you’re going to look for another job. Shit happens, Jonathan. Today it’s happened to us. Listen, I think I can see my bus. Good luck, yeah?’
‘Thanks, Ella. You too.’
I have to sprint to catch the bus, but thankfully the driver is in a good mood and waits for me. As I settle into my seat, my phone pings with another message. I hope it’s not Lee again. I’m in no mood for more of his bullshit platitudes. I grudgingly unlock the phone and see that the message isn’t from Lee, but I would almost rather it had been. It’s a message from Ruth. With a sigh, I open it.
Just been told the news. Fuck. No wonder you didn’t want to talk about it this morning. I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch to you. Let’s meet up for a drink soon, OK?
I sit and stare at the message for a while as I try to work out how I feel about Ruth now. She’s been incredibly self-righteous since the whole Lee thing kicked off, and it wouldn’t surprise me if one of the motivations behind her message is to get a blow-by-blow account of my redundancy meeting so she can share it in shocked tones with everyone else in the office. I would always have described her as one of my best friends, but I realise I don’t trust her any more, and there can’t be a friendship without trust.
My finger hovers over the screen for what feels like an age, and then I delete her message without replying.
10
I’m sitting on the sofa, watching TV in my trackie bottoms and a T-shirt and nursing a glass of wine, when I hear Lee’s key in the door. I haven’t been lounging about for the whole week, but it didn’t take me long to get my CV up to date, and there are surprisingly few job vacancies for project managers in Leeds currently. I’ve sent off one application and registered with a couple of agencies, but there’s really not much more I can do at the moment. After just four and a half days without work, I’m in danger of turning into exactly the sort of stay-at-home slob that I promised myself I wouldn’t become. There are already a couple of mid-afternoon drama series on TV that I’ve started to get into.
Lee and I have spoken a couple of times since Monday, and I can tell he’s trying to make the right noises, but he just doesn’t get it. To him, this is a blip that I will magically solve within a week or so, and then we’ll carry on as if it never happened. All he feels he needs to do is chivvy me along and encourage me, but I’m finding his faux positivity and motivational claptrap incredibly irritating, frankly.
‘Hi, Els,’ he calls from the tiny space that serves as our hallway. ‘I’ll just dump my stuff and I’ll be with you, OK? Pour us a beer, would you, I’m parched.’
‘Certainly, your lordship,’ I mutter under my breath as I pull myself out of the sofa and pad towards the kitchen. I retrieve one of the bottles of craft lager he likes from the fridge and pour it carefully into a glass, leaving it on the side for him before retreating back to the sofa. After a few minutes, he appears from the bedroom.
‘I’m sorry I’m late; the traffic was terrible today. I’ll just have a couple of swigs of this, leap in the shower, and I’ll be ready to go. I’m bloody starving, I tell you.’
He leans over the back of the sofa to kiss me, but his lips have barely touched my hair before he’s pulling back.
‘Ella, you’re not ready!’ he exclaims.
‘Ready for what?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. We’re going out. The Italian restaurant, remember?’
