Two
The invitation pops up in my email while I’m researching freelance gigs/watching videos of puppies meeting kittens for the first time:
“Position at Ladditude ,” I read.
Dear Mr Taylor,
Thank you for applying for the role of Agony Uncle at Ladditude . Our team were very impressed with your writing samples, and we would like to invite you to an interview on Wednesday at 15.00 via Zoom. As we are a small company, we do not have offices and tend to work remotely. Please let me know if this time is convenient and if you are open, in theory, to remote working. We look forward to meeting you.
Best wishes,
Stephen Lippman
Crap. While I admire my determination to take on the patriarchy after several glasses of wine, I’m feeling slightly less enthusiastic in the sober light of day. I wander into the kitchen and take a huge gulp of coffee, and slowly, the fog clouding my brain starts to roll back. I remember exactly what led to hitting the ‘submit’ button; the final straw was seeing one too many smug Instagrams of first homes and refitted kitchens. That got me dreaming of a regular gig rather than living hand to mouth for the privilege of writing for thirty people a month. Drunk me is hardly going to let a little thing like not being the preferred gender get in my way. Sober me, however, is arguably more sensible. I ponder the idea of being Agony Uncle for Laddititude , which a quick Google assures me is every bit as blokey as the name suggests, and discount it.
It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’ll just write back to this Stephen Lippman person and tell him that I’ve got another job. It must happen all the time. There’s nothing else I can do anyway. I mean, the email was very nice and complimentary about my writing, and I am a bit short of cash… but there’s really no way I can get around the whole being a woman thing, so I’ll have to let it go. Definitely, I will let it go.
Firm in resolve, I wander to the cafetière and top up my coffee. I’m sipping it thoughtfully when Adam slouches in, bare-chested and smug, with a girl who cannot be more than twenty-two in tow, confirming my earlier suspicions. He attempts to high-five me as if we’re Little League buddies while she scrolls through her phone in the background.
“Alright, Alex?” he announces. “Big night last night?”
“Err… no… just a quiet one. I stayed in,” I mutter, unwilling to confess about the Agony Uncle job in front of his fledgling.
“It sounded like you were having an interesting evening…” he trails off, chuckling, and I redden slightly. I’m about to tentatively ask why he might have that impression when he decides to tell me anyway. “You were singing “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood… over and over and over again. At top volume. Still working off some post-Chris rage?”
“I’m fine,” I say, shooting daggers at Adam and glancing at the fledgling, trying to remember how developed female intuition is at twenty-two and wondering if she’ll display some female solidarity. She seems more preoccupied with her iPhone, so I’m assuming not. God, I miss being in my early twenties.
She and Adam start making nauseating kissing noises, so I drain my coffee and grab my coat, leaving the flat before they induce any potential after-effects of my heavy night of drinking.
Typically, it’s raining outside, but not enough to brave the love nest for my umbrella. “Get it together, Alex,” I mumble to myself. “You’re twenty-nine. Get a grip.” I wander into a café for some shelter, and as I wait for my too-posh omelette to arrive, I realise I’ve gone into my overdraft again. Way, way into it. It’s like that point in the cave where potholers intuitively realise that if they don’t turn back now, they might not make it (I know this from my brief time at Potholers Weekly ). I start to feel a bit frantic. Blood pressure rises, my heart beats faster, and I start to get sweaty palms, but the waitress is already approaching with my unaffordable meal.
I take a forkful of eggs, chewing distractedly while desperately combing through my memory, trying in vain to remember how I could be so overspent. In a panic, I start going through what funds have yet to go out of my account and what will come in. My rent has gone already, which is the biggest expense, but I still owe Adam for bills. I’ll get some money this week from Reptiles Monthly , and I’ll get my final paycheck from Galactic Unicorns , but that’s it.
I need to stop going out for breakfast, I say as I take another bite of the posh omelette. With every bite of that flavoursome egg, I’m aware I’m standing in a burning building, striking matches. I take a steadying breath. OK. Let’s focus on solutions. I need to start looking for new jobs. As soon as I get home, I will be laser-focused on my job hunt. No distractions. I’m a good writer with a broad enough portfolio; it can’t be that difficult to find a job that pays properly. Adam was also going on about some book I should buy about self-control, which I absolutely will order next week.
Now that I’ve solved my impending homelessness, I ignore the dissenting voice in my head telling me that I’ve been unsuccessfully looking for a secure writing job for years and the whisper that cuts sharpest: wanting it isn’t the same as deserving it. I CAN do this. It’s just imposter syndrome. I’m versatile; I’m adaptable. Chris always said I was the stronger writer. I take myself firmly in hand before I can wander down a traumatic memory lane and settle my bill, leaving a tip I can’t afford.
By the time I get home, I’m feeling decidedly better and more confident. I open the front door and wander into the kitchen. Adam is sitting at the kitchen table, sans fledgling, looking morose. “What’s up?” I ask him, not overly concerned with his answer.
“Kristel’s gone,” he says glumly. “Thought she should date someone closer to her age.”
“That’s fine, isn’t it?” I wonder. “You didn’t want to date her, did you? You don’t want to date anyone!”
“No, but I’m not used to being dumped. I’m usually the dumper. Especially not because of my age,” Adam mutters darkly before stalking off to his bedroom to demolish some zombies on his Xbox.
I go and get my laptop and bring it back to the kitchen table, Googling writing jobs and thinking that I’ll be available to talk if Adam does emerge. Next, freelance writing jobs. Nothing. Editorial jobs. A bunch pop up, but none are suitable. I don’t think I’m ready to be managing editor of the Financial Times quite yet. I keep trying, with every different amalgamation of the words writing, editing, and freelance writer I can think of. Nada. I start feeling a bit panicky, and my search terms become increasingly generous. Assistant newsletter writer in a secondary school. Wigan County Council newsletter writer. Christmas travel information for Transport for London pamphlet writer. Nothing. Nothing. Big nothing. That feeling of dread from earlier crawls back, threatening my fragile stability, when Adam wanders back in and slumps in the chair opposite me, having presumably saved enough of the city from the undead to earn a break.
“Is this what it feels like to be you?” he asks glumly.
“Excuse me?”
“This feeling of emptiness. Men not wanting you because of your age. Being abandoned for someone younger.”
I roll my eyes. Adam isn’t mean. He just happens to be as self-involved as the grandest of divas. Underneath that muscle, an inner Elizabeth Taylor is screaming, “It’s all about me!”
“Adam, I know it must be weird to be the one getting knocked back, but she was a one-night stand. There’s no need to cry about it.”
“It’s not that,” he whines. “It’s the whole ageing thing. I spent an hour this morning while you were out looking for wrinkles in the mirror. I think I found one. Look.” He comes up to me and puts his face so close to mine that I can see his nostril hair billowing when he breathes.
“I can’t see anything, Adam.”
“Look!” he commands.
I look again. “Oh, I guess maybe a tiny one. But that’s normal at…” I trail off before adding “at your age.”
Unfortunately, he deduces the missing words and looks thunderous. “It’s alright for you. You’ve had several years to get used to wrinkles and rejection.”
He realises about thirty seconds too late what he’s said, and he tries to backtrack, but it’s too late. It’s been a tough morning; saying goodbye to posh omelettes and my tumbleweed existence, and my mantra about ignoring Adam’s inner diva’s ramblings fails me. A traitorous tear escapes and makes a bid for freedom down my cheek. I’m embarrassed, and I furiously wipe it away, but another one follows down the same track.
“Alex… Alex, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I swear,” Adam has that stricken look that women come to associate with a cornered man presented with a crying woman. He turns fuschia and ups the back peddling. “Come on. You know I didn’t mean it.”
I glare at him through my sodden eyelashes and say nothing.
“Alex… don’t cry. How can I fix this? Do you want me to fetch your multipack of Mars bars?”
Damn, so he had spotted them hidden at the back of the cupboard. Slowly, the seeds of an idea start to germinate in my hungover, worried brain.
“No. But there is something else you could do…” I say cautiously. “Adam, how do you feel about… impersonation?”
He shrugs. “Go on.”
I tell him all about my financial situation and about drunkenly applying for a job at Ladditude .
He listens carefully and then laughs, correctly guessing what I’m hinting at. “I can’t pretend to be you. I think they’d figure it out. I don’t barely speak English, let alone write it!”
“You’re putting that on. Look, it’s working from home! They never have to see me!” I protest. “You’d just need to do the Zoom interview. The rest can all be me.”
“But…” he stammers.
Before he can come up with any negatives, I interject, “You just made me feel like Miss Bloody Havisham. This is the least you can do. You owe me. Also, at the rate things are going, I won’t be able to afford to keep living here unless I get a new contract. You don’t want to live with a stranger, do you?”
“Alex… I’d never get through the interview. I don’t know anything about writing and all that shit you do.”
I ignore the last bit. “I’ll prep you,” I plead. “And they have my portfolio. They’ll be confident you can write.”
“What if there’s a test?”
“Well, then, I won’t get the job, and I’ll be in no worse shape than I am right now.”
“Are you sure I can’t just get you another Mars Bar multipack?” Adam pleads.
I glare.
“OK, OK. I’ll do it. I’ll go and talk crap about writing. How hard can it be? It’s just making stuff up and remembering to use the spellchecker, right?”
“Adam Hunter. Welcome to the literati.”