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“This makes it easier for you,” she cries. “You’re doing what Danii asked, getting rid of me.”
“That’s not what I want,” I yell.
“It is,” she snaps. “You’re just too scared to say it out loud. Let me go, Grizz. You’re relieved of your duties.”
“It’s not safe for you to be out here.”
“I’ve been surviving on my own since I was a toddler,” she says with a sad smile. “I’m good at it. Take care, Grizz, and I hope things go well with Danii.”
“Please,” I mutter.
She stops again, this time fixing me with an angry glare. “No, Grizz,” she snaps. “Whatever we had is done. Goodbye.” And she stomps off.
LUNA
“Name?” asks the woman behind the desk.
“Luna Carter,” I say, trying to keep my voice low.
The job centre is packed out with people either talking to advisors, like me, or sitting waiting. It’s one large open space, so everyone can hear the conversations. I gently rock the pushchair, praying Ivy stays sleeping.
“What experience have you got?”
“None, really,” I mutter, glancing around. “I haven’t done an awful lot.”
She narrows her eyes. “What have you done since leaving school?”
I squeeze my eyes closed before leaning closer and whispering, “I’m a sex worker.”
“Huh?” she asks, turning her head so she can hear me better.
“I’m a sex worker,” I repeat.
She arches her brows in surprise. “Right. Well, we don’t get anyone looking for that kind of thing here. Let’s skip experience and come back to it. Skills?”
I bite my lip so I don’t laugh, and she must realise around the same time as me because her cheeks colour with embarrassment. “Listen, I’m currently unemployed and I need help to feed my baby. Can you sort that out?”
“Are you still producing your own milk?” she asks.
“Well, yes, but I can’t feed her.”
“Have you got a medical professional who can back that?”
I frown. “No.”
“We need a note from your midwife before we can offer formula vouchers. We also need to show you’re actively looking for work before we can get to the benefit forms.”
I sigh heavily. This whole process is about forms and waiting. I left the clubhouse yesterday and decided I’d try to sort myself out. But getting here took so much effort, and now, they’re asking impossible questions. “Say I find a job, will I get help with childcare?”
“You might, depends on your income.”
“So, if I get a job tomorrow, I won’t get help right away with childcare costs?”
She almost laughs in my face. “Fill out the forms,” she says, piling them in front of me. “It can take anywhere up to ten weeks to hear back.”
I gasp. “Ten weeks?”
“We have a backlog,” she says, shrugging. “From COVID.”
