Glow Job

Prologue

CHLOE

FEbrUARY

Shoreditch, London

‘You are literally glowing!’ Thea says, leaning against the sleek countertop in the office kitchenette.

I never know what it means when people say that.

If you’re glowing, you’re radioactive or maybe you’ve been hit by some cosmic force and become the new superhero du jour.

The comment is not directed at me, in any case.

I am definitely not glowing. What is the opposite of glowing?

I’m matte, like paint on a scratched and unnoticed wall.

If I was a paint shade, I’d be ‘Pale AF’.

No, it’s Nancy who is glowing. Nancy who got married three weeks ago and is just back from her honeymoon to Koh Samui, so of course she has that sunshine sex-glow about her, like someone’s put a light bulb up her bum.

‘You know, I put it down to these new snail-gel facials I’ve been getting,’ Nancy says, sipping on the big metallic vat of water that she carries around like a milkmaid.

I look at Thea, wondering if she’s going to laugh about this. Snails? On her face? That is mildly funny, no?

‘But you know, when we were out there, it was so freeing,’ Nancy continues. ‘We had our own sea villa. We had sex on the deck every morning.’

Lordy, Nancy. In a state of panic, unsure how to respond, I retrieve my chocolate croissant from its paper bag and take a large bite.

Isn’t this the definition of TMI? Thea doesn’t even flinch.

But this is what they both do during these watercooler moments: share intimate details about colonics, waxing and one-night stands.

Thea once stood there and told me about the curve of a man’s penis. Like Gonzo’s nose apparently.

‘We ate so much fresh food. The papaya was sublime,’ Nancy says. ‘I must have eaten at least three a day.’

Thea nods, a matcha latte in her hand. They both look at me, waiting for my contribution to the conversation. I continue to take bites out of my croissant, trying to wipe away crumbs from the shelf of my bosom and the corners of my mouth.

‘Papayas are good for breastfeeding, for breasts in general,’ I say.

Naturally, I don’t know why I share this fact at this precise moment.

Maybe it’s because it’s eight thirty in the morning, I woke up at five to get my train and the caffeine from my coffee hasn’t quite hit my brain yet.

Maybe it’s because I’m blinded by Nancy’s glow. They look at me curiously.

‘I’m not pregnant,’ Nancy mumbles, a self-conscious hand going to her belly as if I had assumed she was.

‘Oh Christ, no. That was me with my mindless trivia. My sister-in-law ate a lot when she had her baby. She used to wear the papaya skins on her boobs because they also have anti-inflammatory properties,’ I explain.

‘Your sister-in-law wore papayas, like a bra?’ Thea asks, incredulously.

I nod. Oh dear. Thea then does that thing where she widens her eyes at Nancy and laughs under her breath.

I’ve always had to endure this social part of my job because I’ve never really clicked with these girls.

Thea is the sort of person who makes you feel immediately inferior with her sleek hair, tailored wide-leg trousers and expensive minimalist T-shirts.

Her deep auburn hair clearly enjoys salon treatments and morning straightening.

In contrast, I am mousey messy-bun chic in whatever was on sale in H Julian has a way of looking at me that’s always through me, like I’m not quite there.

Like I’m an office plant in the corner, taking up space.

He could say, ‘Well done, Chloe. Thank you for staying in the office until two in the morning and coming up with that concept that won us a two-million-pound contract. Thanks for going out and buying my wife’s birthday gift because I forgot. ’

But today, he forces a smile and then looks me up and down. ‘Oh dear. Have you had an accident? Do you need to step out?’

For a moment I wonder if Julian is referring to my outfit as an accident, but I look down and see a brown stain at the front of my grey trousers.

I step back in shock – it must be some errant chocolate from my croissant.

I am not a classy person when I eat. I half suspect the rest of the croissant is in my hair.

I lick the back of my thumb and rub at the stain, trying to get rid of it.

I look up at his face – it reads embarrassment, pity even. Worse is what he thinks it might be.

‘I think it’s just chocolate, Julian,’ I explain.

‘Oh.’

I return his confused look. I feel like some disappointing middle child that he wishes were just a tad cooler.

‘It’s not poo, in case you thought it was poo,’ I say. Out loud. Why did I say poo twice? I can see Nancy trying to contain her giggles as I try to twist my legs around to make the brown stain less obvious.

‘How was your holiday last week, Katie?’ he then asks in a state of blind panic, trying to change the topic of conversation.

I pause for a moment. ‘I’m Chloe,’ I say sadly in a loud whisper.

‘God, yes. Who is Katie?’ he says, trying to plaster over his gaffe with a joke.

‘There isn’t a Katie in the office and I… ummm… I didn’t go on holiday.’

‘But you weren’t here last week,’ he says, tilting his head and frowning.

‘I was.’

‘Oh.’

‘I was in the meeting with the Spooner Group. We took an Uber over to Canary Wharf together for the presentation.’ My eyes widen.

It was only a few days ago. Clearly, this is how memorable I am.

I even offered him gum. I am also more senior than Thea and Nancy who he seems to have no problem remembering.

‘That was you?’ Julian asks. ‘I thought it was… Of course, you’re Chloe.’

I can’t hide the disappointment in my face that I am so off his radar that he thought I was on holiday last week and he’s just had to double check my name.

I’ve only worked here for two years, Julian.

I think I’ve taken two holidays in that time because every time I want to get away, there’s a new tender to bid for and it’s a ‘difficult time to have staff on leave’.

I literally sit opposite his office in his eyeline and those walls are made of glass.

I look over at Nancy and Thea who are not like me; their work rate is poor and their output is always littered with mistakes, but they wear cool clothes, they join in with all the corporate, mildly misogynistic banter in meetings, so heads are turned.

They glow out of their very pores, whereas I am the opposite, my bulb turned down so low that I’m barely visible.

‘Well, you learn a new thing every day, eh?’ Julian says, laughing off his gaffe. ‘Did you enjoy Nancy’s wedding reception? I didn’t see you there.’

‘That’s because I wasn’t there,’ I say. I wasn’t invited.

‘Oh, it was very good,’ he continues.

‘I’ve heard. There was beef. I’m hoping the meat kind as opposed to a full-on fight.’ No one laughs again. Please laugh, that was vaguely funny.

‘There wasn’t a fight at my wedding,’ Nancy says, taken aback.

No one laughs. There’s a desperate feeling welling up inside of me that I can’t show for my own pride, my own sanity. I think back to all the times I’ve shown up for this business, for him, for these two glowing bitches filling up their water bottles.

‘I really thought your name was Katie,’ Julian says. ‘Easy mistake really. You look like a Katie.’

I give him a tight smile. You look like a twat, but I can’t say that out loud, can I?

‘Right, let’s get some coffee on, ladies,’ he announces. ‘Lots to get done today.’

MARCH

JESS

Tenerife, Spain

‘Senora, is there a problem?’

For the love of Christ. Please, please, please.

No, no, no. I desperately don’t want to have to admit this, but yes there is a problem.

A major problem. I am stuck. In this dress.

And not just stuck. In an attempt to take it off over my shoulders, my arms somehow got stuck in the air, the fabric is tight around me, like someone wedged in a windsock.

It’s literally me and my knickers in the wind and they’re not even great knickers; I’m talking about three years old, been around the block, the elastic hanging on by a whisper and a prayer.

I’ve seen this happen to a woman on an episode of a programme I’ve binged.

Either the firemen came to cut her out or the surgeons had to amputate something because it was stopping her circulation.