Chapter Four
Eleven Months Ago
If you had asked me twenty years ago what my professional life would look like in my mid-forties, I would have probably envisioned something corporate. Likely a senior management role at a downtown office where I would confidently stride into work every day in expensive blazers and Louis Vuitton heels. I’d be one of those women who got their hair coloured every month and enjoyed a mani-pedi every second Friday. I’d work somewhere important where people did what I said and got me fancy coffees without me asking. People would admire my exceptional performance and hard-core dedication. I would be both respected and feared.
What I would not have envisioned was making a career out of temping in a variety of shitty administration positions because my life had fallen apart due to trauma and booze. I would not have predicted quitting or getting fired from so many jobs in the past twenty years that I hadn’t developed any valuable skills. Not that administrative positions were somehow beneath me—they were great for someone who did them well—but my limited computer abilities and extremely poor organizational skills ensured that I was not one of those people. And yet, those were the only positions in which I got placed.
I looked at the address on Google Maps, smack dab in the centre of downtown Regina, and then up at the crumbling, red brick building looming in front of me. No name plate, no number on the door. Based on the numbers on the two identical brick buildings flanking it, though, this had to be it. This had better be it,I thought. If I had to walk any further in this heat, I would be a mess for my first day. And even though I didn’t want this job, I did need it. This was going to be my next step in turning my life around.
I opened the door and stepped into a dim lobby, chin tipped as my eyes followed a long, carpeted staircase leading up to another blank door. For an advertising agency, they sure didn’t advertise themselves very well.
There didn’t seem to be an elevator anywhere, so I trudged up the stairs, pulled open the second door and poked a cautious foot into what I assumed was the agency. A brightly coloured mural competed for my attention with pastel posters hanging in frames. Gold and silver awards were showcased in glass cabinets, gleaming in the warm light. A wooden swing was inexplicably hanging from the ceiling.
This had to be it. If any company was going to have a swing hanging in their lobby, it would be an advertising agency.
The sound of my heels echoed across the cement floor as I made my way up to the reception desk that was currently missing a receptionist.
I looked around. Was this the job I was temping for? Was I supposed to start right now?
I checked my phone to see if I had missed an instruction in the email. Nope. I was just supposed to meet “Quinn” at the front desk. “Quinn?” I peeked around the corner. “Hello?”
Quinn, or who I assumed was Quinn, burst through a side doorway, arms full of files.
“Ah!” She screamed when she saw me, dropping the files on the floor. “Crap.”
“Shit, sorry,” I said as I bent down to help. I was instantly mortified as she started to cry. Good Lord, what kind of hot mess had I gotten myself into?
“Sorry.” She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with the flared sleeve of her billowy cotton blouse. “My emotions are a bit all over the place. I’ve been working late and haven’t been sleeping and, you know?” She swept her hand around the room, blouse sleeves trailing like streamers.
I didn’t know. But I nodded anyway. “Sure.”
As I picked up the files and stacked them in a pile on top of the raised desk, I watched Quinn do the same, sizing her up, wondering what kind of a person cried after dropping pieces of paper. And who had paper files anymore?
With every few files she added to the pile, she ran her hand across her glistening forehead, tucking wayward strands of dark hair streaked with purple back into her messy top-knot. She was sweating a lot for someone who was wearing nothing but a light blouse and a flowing floral skirt. I considered asking if she was pregnant (maybe I was covering for her maternity leave?) but then remembered that one should never ask that question unless one sees a baby actually coming out of a vagina.
“Thank God you’re here,” she said as she finished stacking, hands on her hips, breathing deeply. “You are Julie, right?”
“I am. Julie.”
“Oh good.” She relaxed, relief softening her already kind face. “The last temp was met at the door by one of our staff dogs and freaked out. And the temp before that didn’t show up. Do dogs freak you out?”
“No, I love dogs.” I didn’t love dogs.
“Okay, good.” She blew her bangs out of her eyes, seamlessly reached into a pocket in her skirt, pulled out a bobby pin and used it to secure the offending hair behind her left ear.
“Sometimes people bring their dogs here. Which is great, but sometimes they poop on the floor. And guess who has to clean it up?”
“The dog owners?”
She laughed an empty, humourless laugh. “You’d think, right?” She slid to the floor and rested her head against the wall.
“So,” I thought I’d try, “am I taking over for you when you go on…holidays or…leave or something?”
She sighed and pushed herself up to a standing position with the help of the tall reception desk. “I’m actually not the receptionist,” she said, a flash of resentment in her eyes. “I’m an account manager.”
“Oh.” I glanced around. “Why are you—”
“Because I’m the only woman on the accounts team.” She rolled her eyes.
“Ah ha.” I nodded. Now everything made sense. “How did you manage to carve enough time away from planning birthdays and stocking the supply cabinet?”
A burst of uninhibited laughter escaped from her mouth. “I like you,” she said after she’d recovered. “Here, take these.” She handed me a stack of files and motioned for me to follow her into a back room. “Our old receptionist got fired after sleeping with one of our clients. One of our married clients. So, the first thing I’m going to teach you is don’t do that. Or”—she reconsidered—“if you are going to sleep with one of our married clients, don’t get caught.”
“Got it.” I laughed. “Should I be writing this down?”
“I like you,” she said again as she piled more files into my arms.
“How long have you been here?” I asked as she opened a large metal filing cabinet and indicated that I should drop the stack into the drawer.
“About ten years. I got my first job here as an account coordinator after I moved from Vancouver.” She shut the drawer. “We’ll deal with these later.”
“Cool.” I leaned back and perched on a large table holding, of all things, a giant paper cutter and laminator. “But, also, why?” I love Saskatchewan, and I love Regina, but I was born and raised here. I still don’t fully understand why people come here and stay by choice. Especially when they’re from somewhere cool like Vancouver.
“Don’t judge me, but I followed a man here.” She fiddled with the sleeves on her blouse. “It’s a long story, but in the end, even though we broke up, Regina felt like home. It rains too much in Vancouver. It’s way sunnier here, which I love. Even when it’s bitterly cold for half the year, which I also love. Give me a cozy sweater and a fireplace over a bikini and a pool anytime.”
I nodded.
“Don’t look so horrified.” She laughed and swept her hands over her large frame. “Obviously I don’t wear bikinis very often.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Anyways,” she said, wiping her hands on her skirt, “let’s return to the front and I’ll start giving you the lay of the land, maybe even introduce you to some people. Have I told you I’m glad you’re here? Please never leave.”
We’ll see, I thought. Lord knows I certainly was not one for longevity.
By early afternoon, I’d met most of the staff and learned so much about how an advertising agency functioned that my head felt full.
“Well.” Quinn checked the time on her phone. “I guess I better get back to my actual job. Those client briefs aren’t going to write themselves. Are you okay here for a while?” She turned to leave and then glanced back. “Oh, I almost forgot, we’re having kitchen drinks after work. Did you want to join us?”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly devoid of all moisture. “Kitchen drinks?”
“Yeah, it’s our art director’s thirty-fourth birthday. He’s been at an off-site meeting all day or I would have taken you over to meet him—he’s a bit of a bro-dude, but he’s actually pretty decent to work with. We’re going to do a special Monday bar cart in the kitchen.”
One thing I’d learned about agency life, through the many sordid stories Quinn had told while she was training me, was that the drinking culture was on par with a university frat house. Every Friday one of the interns pushed a cart filled with booze around the office and everyone, and I mean everyone, started the end of the work week having a drink at their desks. Apparently, this was on par with most Canadian advertising agencies.
“I don’t think so,” I said, desperately trying to produce some saliva. “I mean, I have plans.” I’d thought I’d have at least a week to come up with a good story to explain why I didn’t drink. I didn’t want to start a new job by instantly not fitting in.
“We’re starting early though. Your plans aren’t until after work, right? You can at least have one drink before you go.” Her blue eyes sparkled, urging mine to join in their excitement.
I looked at my lap. I wasn’t sure what to say. Until eight months ago, I was one of the first people to look down on those who didn’t drink. Those who were more responsible than I was. The boring people. But I guess I would have to own my new reality one of these days. Maybe not to everyone here, but I wanted to be honest with Quinn. Despite the fact that I’d just met her, I had really started to like her. And I didn’t make friends that easily.
I took a deep breath. “I don’t drink. Alcohol. I don’t drink alcohol.” I looked up and held her eyes, searching for the derision, waiting for them to roll, waiting for the inevitable “Why?”
“Cool, okay.” She shrugged. “We can get some pop or fun soda water or something. You should still come though, it’ll be fun.”
Well, that was easier than I thought. “Sure, I’ll think about it,” I said as she walked away, grateful for her understanding. Honestly, the hardest part about being sober wasn’t the not drinking part (although that part was very challenging), it was the not drinking around other people. The socializing part. I had no idea how much alcohol was tied to social conventions until I stopped drinking it. I mean, I knew I drank a lot, I would have a drink any chance I got; the old Julie would have already been in the kitchen pouring a glass of red. But I hadn’t realized how much a part of the social fabric drinking was, how people didn’t just use it to forget—to get through their lives like I did—they also used it to connect. It was a way to form and strengthen relationships. An excuse to go out; a way to bond.
Co-workers formed friendships, and, as friends, they were more likely to open up. I hadn’t realized how hard it would be not to participate in that anymore. How out of place I would feel at my other jobs. When you were the only one not drinking in a room full of uninhibited, after-work drinkers, you really noticed it. And, in my mind, so did everyone else.
Around 3:30 p.m., I heard the first rustlings in the kitchen. Bottles clinking, glasses being taken out of the cupboard, the fridge door opening and closing, the crisp pop of a can being opened. My mouth actually started watering.
A few subdued voices turned into more as people decided they were done for the day, shedding their work armours as they took their first sips. Carbonated bubbles loosened tongues and lifted laughter. Louder voices rode on the giddy relief that work was finally over. Someone turned on some music.
I locked my computer and took a deep breath. There was only so long I could sit here before someone asked if I was going to come and join the fun. Or no one would, which would be worse. I guess I would have to do this eventually. If I stuck to my contract, I was going to work here for at least six months. I doubted I was going to be able to skirt on the surface of the social scene here like I did at my other, month-long terms. I might as well get it over with.
I walked into the kitchen and was met with a slightly tipsy yell; the kind of yell that I had once been so familiar with. “What are you drinking, new girl?”
I stopped in my tracks, my eyes glued to an alarmingly attractive man wearing a cardboard hat announcing that he was, indeed, the birthday boy. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a Men’s Health magazine. How had he slipped by my desk unnoticed? His cheek bones alone would have piqued my interest. And the rest of him? My goodness.
“You were away from your desk when I came in.” He stuck out his hand and winked like he knew me. “I’m Ethan. What are you drinking?”
Wine, please!I wanted to shout as I ignored the wink and shook his hand, his palm twice the size of mine. I wanted a drink so badly I was having a physical reaction. I discreetly wiped my palms on my pants and breathed deeply, trying to slow my pounding heart. I could smell the sweet heaviness wafting out of an opened bottle of Cab Sav and the pleasure centres of my brain started firing. I could almost feel the buzz. The comfort. The safety of cloudy thoughts.
With the greatest amount of effort I had ever put forth, I opened my mouth to politely decline when suddenly Quinn was shoving an icy can of sparkling water into my hands. “Have some of this,” she said. “I’m not drinking tonight.”
“Because she sucks!” someone yelled in the background.
“And,” she continued, rolling her eyes, “I hate not drinking alone. Would you be my not-drinking buddy?” She grinned.
I met her eyes, stunned into silence, my mouth open; then it softened into a grateful smile when I realized what she was doing.
“Sure,” I said, opening the can. “I don’t need to drink to have fun,” I said a bit louder, my voice met with a few cheers mingled with some low boos.
“Thank you,” I whispered, watching Ethan out of the corner of my eye as he rejoined his buddies.
Quinn just smiled and turned back to the group. “Now, which one of you jerks said I sucked?”
“Does everyone else always leave before cleaning up?” I asked as Quinn stacked glasses on the counter and I put them in the dishwasher.
“Yup,” she said. “Often our fearless leaders will sit at the table drinking wine and chatting while the women clean up the mess, so everyone else thinks it’s fine.”
“Amazing.” I picked up a piece of crumpled paper someone had thrown on the floor and tossed it in the garbage. “And thanks again, by the way. For, you know.” I held up my empty can of sparkling water and gave it a shake.
She smiled. “Speaking of…that.” Her bright eyes dropped to her hands. “Please tell me if I’m out of line, the last thing I want to do is offend you.”
“I’m not easily offended.” I returned her smile. “Try your best.”
“I don’t know why you don’t drink, and you don’t have to tell me.” She pulled on her sleeve. “But one of my friends runs a support group and it’s really great. She’s really great. And I’m always looking for ways to help her out. And maybe you already have a group or maybe you don’t need a group, but if you do, I could give you the information.”
She was looking everywhere but at me and my heart went out to her, knowing she was trying to help in what, for many, could be a very delicate situation.
“I am actually looking for something new,” I said and she relaxed.
“It’s not super formal,” she continued, now meeting my eyes. “Just a bunch of people dealing with the same issues, getting together and talking.” She shrugged and her words disappeared into her shoulder.
“It sounds interesting,” I said, not knowing how much I wanted to reveal but at the same time somehow knowing that Quinn wouldn’t judge me. “I tried a different kind of group a month ago and it didn’t go very well.” I hesitated. Should I tell her why? Did I really want to introduce someone I’d just met, and more importantly liked, to the barely functional train wreck that was my life?
I decided I did. I might as well be totally honest with at least one person I worked with.
I watched her closely as I told her the story of my meltdown, and subsequent realization that I needed to get my shit together, searching her sunny face for signs of disapproval.
“You know,” she said after I was done, “I admire you for standing up for what you believe in. Most women wouldn’t do that in front of a group of people.”
“Well, most women aren’t dangerously close to falling into the abyss of insanity.”
She tipped her head to the side, clearly questioning my logic. “Most women I know are.”
Fair point.
“You know what?” she said as she closed the dishwasher door and draped the cloth over the side of the sink. “I think we’re going to be great friends.”
I smiled, secretly pleased that she thought so. With the exception of Kate, I hadn’t had many real friends who were women. Or who were men, for that matter. When I was younger, I was too busy looking after Ben; his anxiety had often displayed as silence, making him a prime target for bullies. My parents did their best—I knew they loved us—but when presented with something they didn’t fully understand, something that no one talked about when they were our age, they preferred to pretend everything was fine, never really evolving into the kind of Boomers who felt comfortable talking about emotions. If it hadn’t been for Kate sticking by my side, I likely would have started drinking much earlier than I did.
I wondered if Quinn would feel the same once she found out about everything else.