Chapter 2
Chapter Two
WILL
‘Will, can we talk for a moment, please?’ My manager’s grating, sugary sweet tone stops me in my tracks. The elongation of every word makes me want to claw my skin off. ‘This is vitally important, and it is imperative that you drop everything.’
I indicate my Tesco microwave meal spinning. ‘I’m just making my food and then—’
‘No. My office. Now.’
He turns on a shiny Ted Baker boot heel and heads back towards his office. I hope my meal is still there when I return.
My hands rise to my chest, and I have to immediately hold my breath as my nose wrinkles from the offending stench of warm fish.
There’s a window cracked open letting in a breeze, which ruffles a bunch of papers stacked on the ledge, but nothing is helping the smell.
Dwarfed by his black ergonomic chair, Clive is typing away on his Mac computer.
A sticker on the back reads: ‘Property of Clive Flock. Do not touch.’ Hanging behind him is a poster of himself, titled: ‘Winner of best animator 2002.’
We work at a company that animates for corporate clients and children’s TV.
There’s talk of branching out into illustration and the book market, too.
I somehow ended up here after deciding my degree wasn’t aligned with what I wanted to do.
My college illustration BTEC swung it. I wanted to draw; I wanted to animate the stories I wrote.
I don’t do any of that. Not on an official, employed basis anyway.
Clive squints at his computer, shaking his head as I stand before him, looking down.
‘How are you?’
‘Well, hungry, and I just found out my ex is—’
‘Will, I’m going to need you to stay late this evening.’ He doesn’t even look at me. ‘We need to get the list of shots to the client before the day is out.’
‘Okay.’
I rub my nose, trying not to sniff as my eyes water in response to the stench in the room, though I’ve shed plenty of tears over my mind-numbing job, too. My job is to keep track of the animated shot numbers, to ensure that the real professionals don’t use the wrong animation sequences.
Typing numbers into documents that never get read is soul-crushing.
‘I … understand.’ I pause. Clive pushes his glasses up his crooked nose with a short, stubby finger.
His nose broke years ago in a boxing match.
Apparently, people once called him Nimble Clive in the ring.
Now they call him Sly Clive because he sneaks about, eavesdropping on conversations.
By ‘they’, I mean me, because only I call him Sly Clive. ‘I could send them from home?’
Clive inhales, spluttering with a theatrical air that makes me think he once tried and failed to be an actor. Or maybe he just inhaled some pungent fish. I wait for him to finish. ‘No.’ Clive’s eyebrows are reaching his thinning hair. ‘Company policy.’
‘Company policy?’
‘No working from home.’
‘You do it.’
‘I do not.’
‘The entire office next door is working from home right now.’
‘No, no.’ Clive covers his ears. ‘They need doing and sending tonight, Will. It’s super important.’
I grit my teeth. I hate when Clive says super. It’s said with a squeak, his voice inflecting higher on the last syllables.
‘Can I get paid overtime?’
‘No.’
Clive snorts, inhaling what I can only imagine was a big glob of snot. His contorted face makes me recoil, afraid he might spit it out onto his office floor. There are some rather suspicious looking stains there. Is that old tuna mayo?
‘I’ve actually called you in about your role,’ Clive says.
My heart beats as if I’ve run a marathon. This is it. He’s finally listened to my incessant pleas to promote me into a role I am passionate about, because right now I’m at the end of my tether.
‘Take a seat,’ Clive instructs.
I purse my lips. Unless Clive wants me to sit on his lap, something I absolutely will not do, then there isn’t anywhere else to sit. Old coffee mugs litter the only windowsill, flies buzzing around them.
Clive points to the mountain bike leaning against the wall. ‘Sit.’
I twist my fingers together, stepping slowly over to the bike.
I reach for the bike, pulling it as I try not to think of Clive in his sweaty latex, which hangs from a hook on the door.
The tyre hits a cupboard, then a box, and I have to wrestle it into the middle of the room.
Clive places his hands together. I straddle his bike, tall for such a short man, and sway from side to side as my legs dangle, trying to keep myself up.
I stand on tip-toes, gripping the handles.
‘Now, you might be wondering what role you have to play in this company. Don’t lie to me. I see your frustrations sometimes.’
‘Not frustrations, as such,’ I begin. He only sees my frustrations when I pluck up enough courage to ask if he’s thought any more about my future at this company. Honestly, sometimes it feels like I’d be better off getting an internship somewhere else, but animation jobs are limited in Cardiff.
‘Oh?’
My hand slips on the handlebars and I accidentally hit the bell.
A piercing ring echoes around us. Clive winces.
‘Sorry. Uh … it’s just, when I started here, I thought I’d be animating by now, but it just feels like all I’m doing is putting numbers in a spreadsheet.
Every time I’ve gone for a promotion you’ve hired someone else.
’ Plus, this job is convenient, close to my apartment.
Less commuting time always sways it for me.
Why stress myself over doing something else when I could get there and suddenly realise this job is actually perfect?
It’s not, but you have to pick your battles.
My life is in Cardiff. Always has been. It’s not perfect, but it will get better. It has to get better.
‘A very important role.’ Clive turns back to his computer, opening an email. He peers at it, his glasses cast aside by his keyboard flecked with old soup. ‘You are valued here.’ Clive smiles. ‘That’s why I thought I’d let you know that we are letting you go.’
The bike falls from under me and I land on the stained, brittle carpet floor. ‘Letting me go?’
‘Well, potentially,’ Clive says, looking at his computer. I struggle to lift the bike as I get to my feet. ‘Yes, your job is one of the ones at risk.’
Racing heart, I try and make sense of what Clive has said. ‘Wait, so, I have lost my job? Or I might lose my job?’ Hey, look at that. The proper way to put emphasis on a word, Clive.
‘Yes.’
I pause. ‘Which one is it, Clive?’
Clive places two hands at either end of his screen, pulling it towards him. ‘Yes, you are at risk.’
Jesus. My hands are shaking. I need an asthma pump, even though I don’t have asthma. I angle the bike back against the wall, hoping it doesn’t fall like my future. ‘When can I expect to know?’
‘Please sit.’
I move the bike away from the wall again, straddling it once more with reluctance.
Clive doesn’t say a word.
‘Uh, Clive?’
‘Yes?’
‘When will I know if I’ve lost my job?’
‘Oh, don’t ask me.’
‘You’re my manager so, you know, I kind of expect you to have answers, Clive.’
‘Yes, you would think so, wouldn’t you?’ He barks out a laugh, ignoring my stony expression.
‘Well, the new management, you see, believes we can utilise new ChatGPT technology for certain roles and your job is one that they seem to think could be done more efficiently. With new management comes new opportunities.’
Fuck ChatGPT.
‘Not surprising,’ I mutter. ‘Do you mean AI?’
‘Am I what?’
I sigh. ‘Don’t worry, Clive.’
Fuck AI.
‘Yes, so. Because I value you so much, I just thought I’d let you know that.’
Is he hinting at me that he knows something else?
Something that he can’t tell me yet? Is he even that switched on?
How do men like Clive get in these positions?
I rub my hands on my jeans, balancing on the bike, trying not to break out into a sweat.
My stomach churns, from hunger but also something else.
‘I need this job. Would I be able to maybe be employed somewhere else? The animation department, perhaps? I’ve been trying for years to get someone to see me and my talents.
Surely the new managers can see my dedication to this place.
I don’t mind starting from the bottom and—’
His Mac starts to ring, and Clive leaps back, yelping.
‘It’s just a Teams call,’ I say. What is it with the older generation being so fearful of technology, even after the pandemic? Further proof that whoever is calling him is doing so from home.
He waves a hand at me, towards the door. ‘Thank you.’
‘But, Clive—’
‘Hello?’ Clive shouts. ‘Hello, can you hear me?’
‘You’re on mute,’ a voice I don’t recognise says as Clive waves me out of the room.
It takes a lot of grace to slip off a bike, and as the hem of my trousers gets caught in the pedal and my sleeve catches the break lever, it’s a miracle I don’t cuss out loud.
Successfully disengaged from the bike, I retreat from the office.
Jesus, Clive.
Clive’s office door shuts with a snap behind me.
Thankfully, my food is still in the kitchen.
I grab a coffee before racing to my own office, or to use its proper name, a small square box room down the hall.
I slump at my table, leaning over the animations I’ve been drawing in secret, because my first love hasn’t died with my ambition.
A children’s story about the spider that hangs in the window of my office.
‘What do you think I should do, Willow?’
When I first moved into this office space fresh from graduation, there was a spider, who scared me, but over time I’ve come to appreciate her: she’s quiet, doesn’t demand I work overtime without pay and all in all is a very nice colleague.
My favourite here.
Of course, I don’t believe this is the same spider from all those years ago, but if she is, maybe I’ve got a scientific miracle on my hands and I could sell her for studies. I don’t know the lifespan of a spider and I don’t particularly want to find out. I don’t think I could handle it.
But maybe her time has come because Willow remains motionless. I can’t lose Willow, too.
The sun shines through the small, dusty window, highlighting her many eyes.
I chose the name Willow because I’m Will, and she’s Willow.
Also, I’m obsessed with Willow from Buffy.
I’m halfway through an illustration of Willow on a heist of the crown jewels. I like to think that telepathically she’s telling me her life story before she kicks the bucket. For her, this is her autobiography. Our little secret. The world will see it as fiction.
If the world ever sees it.
Willow is cute and approachable in my illustrations.
It could change the PR for spiders around the world.
I haven’t told Willow yet that this story of ours will never see the light of day. It would upset her. She might eat me like a juicy fly.
‘So, Willow, I might be losing my job. Did you know about this?’
Her leg twitches.
‘I suppose that might be the kick up the arse I need.’
She doesn’t respond, though I can almost hear her say ‘you’re too comfortable, Will. Too set in your ways.’
‘But I don’t know what that means for us.’
The wisp of her web glints in the sunlight.
‘And then, did I tell you? Ollie is engaged. If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you.’
Ollie’s Instagram loads on my phone, and I read the comments underneath his engagement announcement. I know I shouldn’t look, but I’m addicted.
‘Oh, look at this one, Willow.’ People I once knew congratulate him. The coffee I sip tastes like regret.
Even now, when I think I should have said yes and put my own concerns aside, my stomach churns.
Ollie and I experienced just shy of ten years of happiness and commitment without a ring.
Marriage? Come on.
That was like asking me to … well, marry someone.
Marriage has documents. Rings and venues.
Lots of people congratulating you. It’s expensive.
It’s paperwork and law and tradition and values.
Years of wearing a ring and being in domestic squabbles and mortgages and God forbid kids.
It has people falling out of love but not being able to leave because they’ve built this life together and it’s all got too complicated to leave and so they live a life of misery until one of them hurts the other even more by suggesting they part ways. No, I wasn’t prepared for that.
Except a honeymoon would be nice.
Somewhere hot and exotic. Perfect for Instagram. Thailand.
Although Ollie and I always spoke of Greece, yearning for the Mamma Mia fantasy. Only without the unplanned pregnancy and three strange men. Mind you, an affair with three strange men would have been fun.
A memory flashes before me of us at 2 am in our flat, singing the Mamma Mia soundtrack at the top of our lungs, on our third bottle of wine.
That soundtrack was the music of our relationship.
Every other week we’d indulge in the album, but whenever one of us played a playlist on shuffle it was almost guaranteed that a Mamma Mia song would come on.
We saw it in the West End once, too. Front row. We cried.
When Cher appeared in Mamma Mia 2, we were euphoric.
Now I cry when Cher comes on screen.
Tragic.
Totally not melodramatic.
‘God, what am I doing with my life, Willow?’
Thirty, with no obvious career prospects, a spider as my best work colleague, Grindr messages, no house to call my own, and a pay cheque that gives me heart palpitations.
The only thing I have is credit card debt. Lots of it.
‘Oh, Will?’ Clive’s back, opening the door without knocking. ‘Don’t suppose you could run and make me a cuppa, could you?’
‘Why can’t you?’
‘Terribly busy.’ The door snaps shut again.
Willow twitches another leg in her web.
‘One day, Willow, we’ll show him.’