The Funny Thing About Love

1. Nell

1

NELL

Refresh.

Refresh.

Refresh, refresh, refresh.

I am standing behind the bar with my head bowed, jabbing repeatedly at the email icon on my phone. I hope it looks vaguely like I’m chopping lemons or cleaning glasses or doing something I’m actually being paid to do.

The pub is pretty much empty. It’s a Friday afternoon, which means the after-work drinkers will start filing in soon – but right now there’s only a handful of people scattered around the room, nursing their pints with newspapers spread out in front of them. I glance up at the clock above the pool table. Ten to six. In the interview they said they’d let the successful candidate know by ‘end of play’ today. Which means 6 p.m. Which means . . . I’m not getting it. I haven’t got it.

It’s the first time I’ve allowed the thought to properly take shape, and the realisation slams up against me. For a second, the disappointment is so keen – so sharp – that my breath catches in my throat. I really want this. I want it so, so badly. But it’s not going to happen.

‘Nell! Order coming out!’

My boss’s voice shakes me out of my mopey stupor. I take a deep breath. Can’t let Ian down. I can wait till after work to feel sorry for myself. Yep, as soon as my shift is over, I can go straight home, crawl into bed and do some serious feeling sorry for myself.

‘Coming!’ I pocket my phone and head for the kitchen.

Through the hatch, Ian hands me two bowls of chips. ‘Table twenty-eight for these, please.’

‘On it.’

He makes a face. ‘You’re supposed to say, “Yes, chef.”’

Against all odds, that gets a smile out of me. ‘Have you been watching The Bear again, Ian?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You are aware we’re not a super-trendy Chicago sandwich shop, right? We’re a carvery off the A46.’

Ian straightens his apron and adopts the mock-severe tone that never fails to crack me up. ‘Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you, Nell. But occasionally throwing your old boss a “yes, chef ” might make the job feel a bit more glamorous. So, if you wouldn’t mind . . .?’

‘Yes, chef.’

‘“Yes, chef”, you’d mind? Or “yes, chef”, you’ll say, “Yes, chef ”?’

‘Yes, chef, I’ll say, “Yes, chef!”’

I grab the bowls and walk off, laughing. I like Ian. I like this job. In fact, I like both my jobs. As well as waiting tables here at the Duck Ball, I’m also working morning shifts at Asda in the city centre. Trying to save as much money as I can for when I move down to London. But lately, that ‘when’ has been shrivelling steadily into an ‘if’.

I left uni a year ago – almost exactly to the day – and since then it feels like I’ve been stagnating. Back here in my tiny hometown just outside Lincoln, back living with Mum and my little brother, Will, back using every spare hour I can find to write. Although, as it turns out, when you’re working two jobs, there isn’t exactly an abundance of spare hours.

Mum’s been on at me for months to apply for other writing gigs. ‘You shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket, love,’ is basically her catchphrase these days. But Punching Up is the only basket I’m really interested in – so why not go all-eggs-in? She just doesn’t get it. Neither does Will. Only Dad would get it. But Dad’s not here.

There just isn’t another opportunity like the Punching Up internship. Not one that puts you straight into the writers’ room of the country’s biggest comedy show. And I would know – I’ve spent months scouring the internet for anything that even comes close.

I missed last year’s deadline because of my finals, but as soon as I graduated, I made a promise to myself – and to Dad, I guess – that I would go All In for it this year. Work my arse off up here in Tealby to earn enough to see me through a month-long unpaid internship in London, and then – ideally – turn that unpaid internship into a paid job. And not just any paid job: my Literal Dream Job. Punching Up is my favourite sketch show. In fact, scratch that: it’s my favourite TV show, full stop. But it seems like ‘dream’ is the operative word here. Because it’s not going to happen.

I deliver the chips and head back behind the bar. Automatically, my hand dips into my jeans for my phone. I check my email again. Nothing. Five to six now.

I thought the interview went well. I made them laugh; I made actual writers on my actual favourite comedy show laugh! And as for my initial application . . . Well, I spent weeks preparing it. The cover letter had a word limit of 700, but I still must have written and rewritten it a thousand times. I’ve got a folder stuffed full of sample sketches I worked up during my three years at uni – none of which I’ve ever had the guts to show to anyone, obviously. But, still, I gritted my teeth and chose my two favourites, and then tweaked and sharpened and fine-tuned them until they were as hilarious as they could possibly be. Which, apparently, was not hilarious enough.

I refresh my email again. Still nothing. I try to console myself with the thought of how many applications they must have received. Punching Up is one of the biggest shows on TV, and they only run this internship programme once a year. Only one person gets selected for it too – and that person usually ends up with a proper staff job at the end. I know for a fact that my favourite writer on the show, Talia Joski-Jethi, worked her way up from an internship.

I stupidly thought that getting through to the interview stage meant I had a real shot. But who knows how many people they interviewed? Could have been dozens. Hundreds, even. Of course I wasn’t good enough.

My pocket buzzes and my heart jumps into my throat. But it’s only a text from Chloe.

Did you hear

anything yet???

Not yet ???????

Chloe is my best friend from uni. She and my other best friend, Mica, moved to London straight after we graduated last summer. They’re both earning stupid money doing grad schemes in the City, and since their flatmate recently moved out, they now have a spare room with my name on it. I mean, it literally has my name on it. They stencilled ‘NELL’ on the door and sent me a photo saying, Now you HAVE to come! Just when I thought it wasn’t possible to love them more.

It really felt like everything was falling into place. I have friends down there, and now a place to live. All I need is this internship.

I stare out across the pub and it’s like I can see the days and weeks spooling out ahead of me, spinning away. I picture myself still living at home in six, seven, eight months’ time, gearing up to try again for this internship. Or cold-calling agents and producers, sending out sketches and cover letters into a vacuum, while sitting at home every Thursday night, next to Dad’s empty armchair, watching our favourite show and wishing I was somehow involved . . .

‘Nell! Order coming out!’

I troop back to the hatch. ‘Yes, chef.’

‘There we go.’ Ian grins, handing me the plates. ‘Not so hard, is it? I feel more glamorous already.’

Just as I’m laying the food down, the pub doors open and a gaggle of rowdy office workers come barrelling through. I hurry back behind the bar, grateful for the distraction.

‘OK, who’s first?’ I call to the crowd. ‘What can I get you?’

They yell out their orders, and as I turn to reach for some bottles of lager, I accidentally prod the screen of my phone, which I left on top of the fridge. It comes to life, and I see a little red ‘1’ has appeared on the email icon.

My pulse stutters. For a moment, the clamour of the customers dies away, and all I can hear is the bass-drum thump of my heart. Please, I think. Please.

I press the icon. And there it is:

Dear Nell,

Congratulations! I’m writing to inform you that you have been selected for the one-month internship progr—

That’s about as far as I get before I start screaming.