Chapter 5
On Monday morning I’m hiding under my hangover cap, shielding my eyes from the sun and my face from my colleagues.
Quite frankly, I could do without looking too closely at Ted and his overly moistened lips when I’m already feeling delicate.
The sad truth is that my hangovers last for several days now.
For some reason—probably the tarot gift from Sara planting a seed of desperation for a sign from the universe—this morning I find myself downloading an astrology app called Co-Star that I’ve heard Dami and Ang talking about.
After filling in details about when I was born and getting all my various signs, my horoscope says:
Forward motion requires lifting one’s legs.
Is that supposed to be helpful?! What does that even mean, Co-Star?!
I delete the app immediately. If Max ever found it on my phone, I’d never hear the end of it.
I look back at my computer. What am I supposed to be doing again? It doesn’t help that, despite having showered several times this weekend, I feel like I somehow still smell of sick.
When I first joined—which feels like a million years ago, although apparently it’s only five—I was good at this.
I had energy for finding people roles they’d be brilliant in and helping companies grow.
I used to care. I never loved the job itself, exactly, but I was invested in having a job and being good at something.
But the years went on, and the cyclical nature of the work began to feel like a relentless hamster wheel.
Nothing is ever enough? You find someone a role one day and then it’s onto the next?
Just more, more, more, all the time?! The thanklessness of it began to wear me down.
No one is that grateful when I find them a position they excel in, but when it all goes wrong, it’s somehow all my fault?
Somehow, somewhere along the way, I lost my motivation.
And then, if you’re not enjoying your own job, the irony of finding other people jobs they love feels like the universe is laughing in your face.
Everyone who I originally worked with began leaving for greener pastures, which made it even more depressing. Eventually, I looked around me and I was the only OG left, apart from Ted. All the new people coming in had the boundless enthusiasm I once had, and lost, and that made me feel even worse.
Around last year, I gave up entirely. I developed a highly sophisticated method of trolling through LinkedIn and going on people’s “vibes.” You can actually tell a lot from someone’s profile picture.
Say, for instance, someone was looking for someone to take over a senior role in their “consumer packaged goods” department.
Fuck knows what “consumer packaged goods” means, exactly.
I mean, loo roll is a packaged good, but so are jam tarts.
Where would anyone begin targeting people?
So I would just stare into their eyes for a very long time and ask myself, Would this person want to work in consumer packaged goods?
If the answer was “probably not, they look like they do LARPing on weekends,” move on.
If I leaned toward “possibly, their smile doesn’t quite reach their eyes and it seems like their souls are 90 percent dead anyway, etc.
, etc.,” then I’d put them in the “maybe” pile.
It’s as good a method as any. Probably?
My boss Margaret clearly disagreed because six months ago, she moved me into marketing and my job became even more nebulous.
Fuck knows what it is that I’m doing these days.
I suppose I should be grateful she didn’t just fire me.
Despite everything, she does appear to have a soft spot for me.
I think it’s because she remembers the effort I put in when I first started.
Sometimes she brings up something great I did about a billion years ago with a confused look, as if she’s searching for evidence of That Becky and Now Becky being the same person.
She’s always trying to encourage me by giving me “important tasks” to make me feel needed and reignite my enthusiasm, and can’t seem to accept that while That Becky had hopes and dreams—vague as they were—Now Becky just wants to sit at her desk comparing all thirteen Halloween movies.
I cast my eyes over the notes on the new “urgent” task that she’s given me. I’m supposed to be “developing content for the website that illustrates vibrant, busy office life.”
Can I just take a picture of Leanne from Accounts smiling vacantly as she rearranges the communal pen pot for the four hundredth time and go home?
My phone buzzes.
Recovered yet?
Against my will my heart flutters and I feel like I might vomit again. It’s Max. I type a reply.
Why is everything so loud? And bright? Ted’s lips are glinting in the sun
Bahah. Just stay under the cap
He knows me so well.
Anyway, respect for peaking pre-10pm at your own party, but I had something to tell you! Drink tonight?
I’m dreading hearing the words come out of his mouth, and having to plaster on a fake smile and pretend my heart isn’t withering into a little, shriveled raisin. But I already know that I’m going to go.
Sure:)
Even though he wants to meet up with me to tell me he’s moving in with another woman, I still want to go, just so I get to see him. How sad is that? How does one make their unrequited love profound and philosophical, like Gatsby, rather than just pathetic? Maybe if I wrote a poem?
“‘TO DO: write poem,’” says a voice from behind my shoulder.
UGH. It’s Ted. I cover up my notepad.
“Hi, Ted?” I question, without turning in my chair. I remember to click off Prime, where I’m watching The Godfather Part III. I finished parts one and two last week. Giving films their due attention can be quite challenging when you’re being constantly interrupted by colleagues.
“I didn’t know you were into poetry!” Ted continues, ignoring the hint of what do you want please go away in my voice. “I’ve always rather liked haikus.”
“I’m not,” I say.
“Oh, I see, OK.” I finally turn to look at him, because clearly we’re having a conversation now. He presses his finger over his mouth as if agreeing to keep my secret. “Sure.”
He licks his lips. Why is he always licking his lips?
Ted is only five years older than me, but he has the mannerisms of an eighty-year-old grandma.
Unfortunately, as he’s the only person apart from Margaret who’s been here long enough to remember I used to be invested and friendly, I can’t shake him.
“You OK, Ted?” I say.
“Tea run.” He points at his mug.
“I’m OK, thanks.” I point at my flask of coffee.
“Oh, of course. How was it?” he asks, referring to my birthday party.
Our conversation is cut mercifully short by Margaret.
She strides across the room and stands abruptly before us, a vision in camel.
She starts talking urgently about something, but as usual, I am too distracted by her outfit to pay attention.
After five years of working for her it never ceases to amaze me that she dresses, every single day, head to toe in pure camel. Where does she shop?
“. . . so if you could follow up, Becky, and report back,” she finishes.
Shit. I wasn’t listening.
“Will do.” I nod firmly. Over the years I’ve learned Margaret responds to assertive body language as much as tasks actually getting done.
Maybe that’s partly why she still holds out hope for me as an employee.
If you have no idea what you’re doing, but type furiously and stare at your computer looking determined and alert, then you’ll fly under the radar.
Poor Ted. He works really hard but he doesn’t have a purposeful walk, so Margaret’s always bitching about his “lollygagging.”
“All right then, thank you, Becky.” Margaret returns my nod, eyeing my cap with disapproval. She’s usually as confused by my state of dress as I am by hers. “Ted, stop standing around yammering.” She strides back to her office as Ted springs toward his desk like a chastened frog.
“All right, back to work we go.” Ted grins sheepishly. “See you at four.”
“Four?”
“The announcement!”
“Oh, yeah.” I cannot muster the same enthusiasm as Ted, but at least whatever this “announcement” is will break up the day somewhat.
At one point during the afternoon, I think I might feel an echo of the gratification I used to feel, when a lovely woman named Cassidy takes the time to email me to say how much she’s enjoying her new position and thank me, as she only found the recruitment company through one of my marketing campaigns.
I am happy for her, and it’s sweet of her to update me, but then it just reminds me how uninspired I am by my own career.
Annoyingly, people keep clustering behind my desk all day, so I get to the end of The Godfather trilogy but I can’t start Goodfellas.
For a little while I try to distract myself by looking around and imagining having sex with various coworkers.
But it’s not that interesting because there isn’t a single person in this office I would wank over.
Most of the time, I avoid thinking too hard about working here.
But today my mind keeps sliding back to being twenty-four, ready to leave Scintilla, full of hope about finding a fulfilling purpose.
I applied for all sorts of things that sounded fun and interesting.
But I found job hunting to be a bit like dating apps; there’s an oppressive amount of choice in candidates, which means it’s competitive, it’s cutthroat, and no one will give you a chance.
I didn’t have a clear idea of what I wanted to do and, in this job market, it feels like if you haven’t known what you wanted to do since birth and been working your whole life toward it, you don’t stand a chance.