Chapter 14 Relax, Fuko, it’s actually much worse than you think
Relax, Fuko, it’s actually much worse than you think
‘Why did you write on your shirt?’ I ask, wiping tears from my eyes.
‘They didn’t have paper.’
‘Why did you not use your phone?’
‘So many things were happening. People were shouting numbers as I was on hold, plus we needed a visual representation of how far we’ve come.’
‘Why did you not use their board?’
‘Oh, and what, ruin their specials for today? That would’ve been bloody rude. I have made myself dislikeable to you. I don’t need the list of my enemies to increase.’
‘You’ve redeemed yourself to me.’ I step into the lift.
‘Good,’ he says back, quietly, as if he was surprised that it had escaped his thoughts. ‘Plus, the shirt can come with me. The board couldn’t.’
‘It’s a shame you got it dirty again after you scrubbed it clean.’
He stares at it for a second, then says, ‘Maybe it was meant to happen.’
When the doors of the lift open, Fawzia throws her arms around me and squeezes me tightly when we tell her the news.
She and Toby have a very desynced air-handshake—when her arm is up, his is down; when he tries to catch up, she slows down.
We are now an hour overtime and still need to contact all the vendors.
‘Khalas, you guys have done so much. Go home, please. We will do the rest. Fuko, I will tell Steven all about your performance. Thank you so much, again, you two. Enjoy your date, Toby.’ Fawzia waves us away.
Toby does need to get to the opera. I let him go ahead as I turn to the bathroom.
The automatic air freshener puffs out a pathetic gust of lemon scent as I wash my hands.
The mirror has some droplets on it. My own reflection turns sour right in front of me.
My chest tightens in an ache with every breath.
I promised to not ignore him, to be mates again.
But... maybe it’s best not to be around him for now.
Not to go on any fun adventures, not to do any work tasks together.
This isn’t something I should be feeling after a work outing with a colleague that’s dating my best mate.
Maybe I am lonely. Maybe I should have called Malik.
His card is in my wallet; the paper is burning through the leather. I take it out and push the door that leads back to the office corridor. A body slams into me on exiting.
‘Fuko, are you all right?’ Toby’s hands lift me up for the third time today. His eyes drop to the card in my hand, and he adds quietly, ‘Ah, are you going to call?’
I don’t know what to say. It feels as if he’s caught me red-handed. It shouldn’t feel like this. The card slides back into my wallet. I shouldn’t be this weird around him. ‘Why are you back?’ I change the subject like a coward.
‘Forgot my shirt.’
‘Of course, they don’t let people into theatres without those, I’ve heard,’ I say and he chuckles. Don’t laugh, please. Just ignore me. Just leave me alone.
I call the lift, and we step into it. The numbers dance in a slow waltz as intrusive thoughts rush through my mind:
3. Should I call Malik?
2. What will Toby say to Sashka today?
1… Am I making a mistake?
The lights go off. The lift stops. The red emergency light switches on as if it’s punishment for my bad thought.
‘Um... Hello?’ Toby presses the button that informs the control room of our stuckness.
Nothing back, silence. I check my phone. No signal. I hold down the Emergency button, and a crackling voice pours in. ‘Sorry, guys, the lights are off everywhere. We are waiting for them to turn on. Cyberattack, it seems.’
The two of us grunt.
‘I wonder if Hugh’s mate from Richmond Council can sort this out,’ Toby asks.
I tense my abs to suppress a wheeze, but it’s too late. What a ridiculous situation after a ridiculous day.
‘This feels like fate, somehow,’ Toby says to himself.
‘No such thing. It’s all my bad luck. I’ve wasted my good luck on the work task, and it’s returned back. Sorry, Toby. I think it rubbed off on you.’
I turn to him, expecting to see him rolling his eyes or glaring at me with an unimpressed sidelong glance. Instead, he gazes at me the same way the Narrator looks when Marla calls him Tyler in Fight Club.
‘What?’ I dart my eyes around to figure out what has caught his attention.
‘You... You have never called me by my name before.’
‘No. What? I must have done.’
‘Not to me.’
Thank goodness the lights are off in this stuck lift. The red warning flickers hide my blushing really well, just like the plastic card and pen I gave Sashka for her studying.
‘How long you reckon we’ll be here for?’ I ask, breaking the silence.
‘Surely no more than ten minutes.’
‘There were some cyberattacks last week, left Cardiff without power for an hour.’
‘An hour. Geez.’ He looks at his phone. ‘Might miss the opera.’
It is hard to tell whether he is happy or sad about that. He just said it as a fact.
My leg begins to ache, so I let myself sit down on the floor. It’s now been five minutes. I hope they rescue us soon.
‘So... tell me why you chose marketing.’ Toby joins me on the floor.
I think about giving him the same answer I always give, which is ‘I think I am good at it’, but instead say, ‘It didn’t have to be marketing. Any job. I don’t think I’m good enough at anything else to not be good at my job.’
‘You are selling yourself short. What would your ideal job look like?’
‘I do like this one!’
‘You are not on trial. This is off the record.’
I think for a second, wary of revealing too much. ‘Maybe something in film.’
‘Actor?’ A genuine guess.
‘Absolutely not. Writer or director. Now that would be cool.’
‘Why don’t you then?’
‘Time, money, confidence. Not everyone can be as self-assured, free, and rich as you.’
‘Ha ha, yeah. I suppose I have it all.’ Here it is again. That slightly off-tune note, a dead pixel, a lens flair in his eyes. As if also becoming aware of it, he then adds light-heartedly, ‘I am also excellent at fishing.’
‘You have mentioned. I will have to take your word for it. What about you? Why are you in marketing? Seems a bit naff for someone who graduated from Oxford. Surely you dream of power or money.’
I think I bring up his uni a lot. Does it bother me that he might be smarter than me? Something to unpack later.
‘I don’t really have dreams. I did a lot of media coverage of local elections for my dissertation. It was quite fascinating to see how some local newspapers shape the perceptions of the public. And just like you, I was just looking for a job. Any job would’ve been fine.’
Doesn’t change the fact that it could be the power he is after.
‘I was published in a local newspaper once.’
‘Yeah?’ A dimple pops in on his cheek, and a curious eyebrow springs up.
‘Wrote about Tateyama. The mountain you were on. It was believed to be an entrance to hell back in the day. Also, women were banned from climbing it for the longest time. I don’t remember what I wrote, exactly, but something along the lines of maybe if someone wants to experience hell, they should give climbing this mountain a shot first.’ I made this awkward.
Change the subject, Fuko. ‘By the way, why were you on that mountain?’
There is a moment of complete silence when neither of us breathes; the annoying flicker of the emergency light is the only thing making a sound. I wait for Toby to say something, anything. He looks around as if he is trying to find answers in the rapidly depleting air of this lift shaft.
‘I—’ His mouth opens at the same time as the lights come back on. The number 1 glides to G and reconnects us with the outside world.
‘Saved by the bell.’ I stand up and lead us out. ‘Keep your secrets. I will learn of them one day. But maybe as you said, fate is stopping it for now.’
The sky is turning clouds a beautiful shade of pink, the one that promises the safe passage of memories into the night.
It reflects in the glass walls of the modern high-rise offices, offsetting my belief that we are still on Earth.
Maybe a different planet or a different world, but surely not mid-July in London.
‘It’s so pretty,’ I whisper to myself.
I expect a chuckle or a quiet laugh through the nose, but Toby says nothing. He isn’t looking at the sky or the buildings or breathing fresh air that wasn’t promised a minute ago. He is staring at me, three steps behind. Silent.
There is softness in his shoulders—a collapsed sandcastle. His face is a stark contrast, nonplussed and tense. The look in his eyes tells me he wants to say something.
An ache grows in my chest. His knee bends slightly as if to walk towards me. His fingers open up as if to reach out.
‘Enjoy the opera.’ I smile and wave.
It’s quiet behind me; he doesn’t follow. Good, I think, fighting this weird and foreign urge to curl up on the street.
No one in the priority seating is letting a woman with a ‘Baby on Board’ badge sit, so I let her take mine. And then silently weep over her. She looks up, concerned, and offers me the seat back.
I lie and say, ‘Allergies.’
She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. I thought fainting at the interview was embarrassing. Fighting tears on the packed, boiling Tube all the way south on the Northern Line, over a boy—that is truly embarrassing.
The walk home from the Tube is usually fifteen minutes. I stop by a corner shop and get a tub of ice cream. Women in films always do it, why can’t I?
I look at the chocolate-and-caramel frozen treat.
Fuko, get a grip. How many times can I remind you that he is your supervisor (even if just in name) and dating your friend?
Best friend. Who has been through so much and deserves someone as funny and smart as Toby.
You don’t need this right now. Just concentrate on your job. I put it back and leave the shop.
The postwar red-brick terraces on our street have turned the lights on for the evening. As I walk past another one, I notice that the fronts of the houses look a bit like frowny faces that follow me with their window eyes as I approach my house.
I unlock the door. Dad is already home, mugicha in hand. Eastenders is on.
‘Okaeri. Dinner is ready, working girl.’
‘Tadaima. Is Hanako home?’
‘Out with friends.’
That’s so upsetting. How does she have a life and I don’t? Maybe she is sneaking off with a boy and I am too unobservant.
After dinner and about half an hour of mindless scrolling in my room, a message pops up.
Sashka: Are you home?
I debate answering. She probably wants to announce how wonderful and magical and lovely—
Sashka: I am outside.
Oh. Um. Okay. Shit.
‘Dad, Sashka is here,’ I shout, running down the stairs.
The freshly hoovered carpet under my feet adds some bounce and speed to my step. I clench the door handle and take a short, rapid breath.
When the door opens, my stomach sinks.
Her mascara has left black streaks on her cheeks; her lipstick has been wiped off with the back of her hand; and her luscious hair that usually falls perfectly is slightly less perfect.
‘Sashka, what the hell happened to you?’ I ask as she collapses her head onto my shoulder and squeezes.
‘He, broke, up, with, me. He, ended, it, all.’ She cries after every word.
I should have got that bloody ice cream.