CHAPTER FIVE
‘I still can’t believe you actually did it!’ Scarlet says, not for the first time, as we arrive home to our badly-in-need-of-a-refurb rented first-floor flat in North London the next afternoon.
‘Neither can I,’ I mutter yet again, sifting through the post that came while we were away.
I feel kind of strange for doing it – for kissing a man I’d only just met, directly after I’d experienced such a strong connection with another man. It was kind of risky, but also kind of exhilarating. It was a good kiss – so good I gave Josh my number. I gave Chris my number too. But the connection between us was less sexual, more … deep, conversational.
I wonder what would have happened if I’d said yes to his suggestion that I get on the plane. I think about it for the rest of the weekend. I gave Chris my number because I experienced a real spark, a feeling that I can’t name. It was a connection that I’ve never had with anyone before, even in past relationships. None of them have been successful. They’ve all either been short-lived and have fizzled out quickly or, in the case of my last relationship, they go on for too long.
I didn’t see it coming – the cheating. I wish I had. It blindsided me because everything had been so good , so easy, or so I’d thought. I’d been the epitome of a chilled-out girlfriend, but my then-boyfriend Simon had been ready to move on for some time, he’d eventually told me. He’d been messaging other people in his downtime between seeing me, his phone constantly pinging away. Until messaging turned into something else entirely and a photo message lit up his screen briefly while he was holding it. It was of a woman wearing hot-pink lace underwear. I thought I was going mad, refusing to believe what I’d just seen. And then Simon swiped it away so fast he almost dropped his phone.
So … I feel Chris’s pain. Having someone you trust, someone you’re invested in, ‘keep their options open’ cut my heart wide open. I should probably be wary of it happening again, and I am, to an extent. But I’m also a firm believer that lightning doesn’t strike twice and that you can’t tar all men with the same brush. There are good ones out there. I simply don’t seem to find them. But Chris – meeting him knocked me sideways. He’d been the highlight of the wedding, our conversation had been so special. And then there was Josh, and although we didn’t have quite the same, immediate connection, there was something between us.
‘So you won the bingo-to-end-all-bingos,’ Scarlet reminds me. ‘Any particular spa you want to go to?’
‘You don’t have to take me on a spa day, honestly,’ I reply somewhat reluctantly, because it’s the right thing to say, but actually I’d love to go on a spa day. And I definitely can’t afford to pay for it myself.
‘No. Fair’s fair. We’re going.’
‘Thank you,’ I tell her softly. ‘You choose.’
I flick through the mail, while she online-browses Champneys spas. The post is mostly leaflets. Thankfully our joint bills arrive by email now, since Scarlet streamlined it all, which makes ignoring them so much easier than if they’re made of paper, edged in red and propped up by the toaster, like they were this time last year.
‘One for you,’ I say, throwing the rest in the recycling and kicking off my shoes.
‘Posh wedding invite: four hundred and fifty gsm,’ she says, ripping it open and identifying the paper quality.
‘You are the geekiest person I know,’ I tell her.
‘I work in graphic design. I’m allowed to be geeky about paper quality. When you’re an interior designer, you’re going to be all geeky over Egyptian cotton thread-count or sofa-cushion placement or whatever.’
‘I’m already quite geeky about that,’ I admit. ‘Who’s getting married now? I thought we were done for a while.’
‘It’s not until February. A Valentine’s Day wedding – that’ll be nice. Be my plus-one?’
‘Obviously,’ I tell her. ‘I’m sure I’ll still be single then, as per usual.’
‘Me too,’ she replies.
Although now I’ve agreed to it, I wonder whether I’ll be able to afford to stay overnight anywhere, even if it’s all the way off in February. I silently pray it’s nearby in London and not somewhere far away that requires a hotel room, such as …
‘Edinburgh, that’ll be nice,’ Scarlet says, casting the invite to one side as she goes off to her bedroom to unpack.
I sigh. How much are hotel rooms in Edinburgh? I need to sort out my life. I can’t go on like this, cruising aimlessly. I’m not even cruising any more. I’m drifting. Away from my dream of being an interior designer, and away from the reality of any kind of gainful employment. First thing Monday morning I’m going to get back on the job hunt. I have to lower my expectations about what kind of job I’m qualified for, which is – pretty much no job at all. Since leaving university I’ve worked in admin, or on receptions, or as an assistant. The last proper job I had was essentially laminating security badges and handing them out to guests at a TV production company. I’d thought this was a step up from the usual admin roles, and it came with a snazzy made-up job title that didn’t turn out to reflect the role I was doing at all. But everyone told me to stick with it, because it was a precious job in TV and ‘Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position?’
It was fine while I worked out what I really wanted to do. And then the Fates decided for me. I got made redundant and all bets were suddenly off. I felt so low. It was like going back in time on the job-hunt front. Then too much time passed, the window between jobs widened and now my CV is a mess. Temping on and off for a year at my age – it’s a hard one to explain to potential employers.
My parents told me that, in their day, working in the post room or on reception was a sure-fire step to one day becoming CEO, but I’m pretty damn sure those days are over, and that these days working in reception leads to … continuing to work in reception.
But that’s how it’s got to be, and I need to suck it up. I have a history degree and I don’t know why I chose it, on reflection. I just needed something to justify three years of university partying. But it’s always proved pointless when it comes to job hunting.
Perhaps it’s something to do with having to decline an invitation to New York with Chris because I’m broke – an invitation that could have been life-changing – but I am now feeling determined, and the Monday after arriving home from the wedding I start to fix my situation. I need to get out of the endless rotation of temping jobs and find something concrete in an industry I want to work in. I send out CV after CV, doctoring bits of it here and there, depending on the job I’m applying for. I nudge all those recruiters who months ago promised me the world, but delivered nothing. I will take anything at this point. While I wait to hear back from the design jobs, I’ve been placed on a two-week temporary agency contract that required no interview, thankfully. The temping role involves turning up and covering the reception phone lines for someone’s annual leave. But after two weeks I’ll be back in the wasteland again.
The only good thing about these temp jobs is that very little is expected of me, so I can sneakily snatch moments throughout the day when no one’s watching my screen to work on my mood boards and portfolio – such as it is. I redecorated and designed my parents’ house when they refurbished earlier this year. I managed to make a sixties semi-detached three-bed look like it belonged in House & Garden .
And then there was my grandmother’s house, a quintessential English country cottage that we had to bring out of a bygone age in order to get potential buyers interested, when it had to be sold. It turns out Londoners looking to buy into that second-home lifestyle don’t want to do any of the work themselves, so I had a go at sprucing it up. It wasn’t a total renovation: the local council doesn’t like it when you attempt to gut a Grade II listed property, so instead I made good with what was there, worked with the original features and built a fresh look. And all on a very tight budget.
Now I’ve finally got the time to edit my scant portfolio, although I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it, given that I have zero interior-design qualifications and know no one in the industry. A foot in the door, that’s all I need. But I can’t even get a job as a PA or a full-time receptionist. Becoming an interior designer – a proper one – feels so out of reach. Still, it’s nice to have a focus.
My phone pings next to me and a message flashes up on my screen from a number I don’t recognise.
How was the rest of the wedding?
Who’s this? I wonder.
And then the answer. It’s Chris, by the way.
I breathe in sharply and then smile. He’s stopped typing, but he must see I’m online.
‘Oh my God,’ I say quietly. My fellow receptionist looks over at me. She’s discreetly scrolling on her phone and glances back down at it again, when it’s clear I’m not going to divulge more.
I’m so pleased he’s texted me. I’m more than pleased. But I genuinely wasn’t expecting him to. I rub my finger across my top lip while I work out what to type. Should I play it cool? Should I tell him how excited I am he’s messaged? I should probably do neither of those things. He’s opened up a conversation by asking a question. I’m just going to answer it.
The wedding was great. There were fireworks. I pause before hitting send. I want to say something funny. But sadly no fights, I finish with.
Chris sends back a laughing emoji.
I wait for more, but there’s nothing, so I wonder if he’s waiting for me to keep going or if he also can’t work out what to say next.
How was your flight? I ask.
You made the right decision deciding not to come , he writes cryptically. I wait while he continues typing. Two solid hours of pure turbulence midway across the Atlantic.
Ugh, I reply. I don’t love turbulence.
Neither does anyone sane, he says. It might have been a bit of a mood-kill for you and me. Also, the woman in front of me threw up.
Delightful, I reply, but I’m enjoying his mind’s process, the reminder of romance that he’s introduced between us – you and me … – a few days after we met and then had to immediately say goodbye.
He carries on. I was watching Sully throughout the turbulence. You know, the Tom Hanks film where he’s a pilot carrying out an emergency landing on the Hudson River? It was like being on a far-too-realistic flight simulator. I had to switch over to Friends .
I laugh and then type, Wise move. I did feel this deep sense of regret after I said no, but I hate turbulence and people throwing up near me, so you’ve reassured me now.
Did you? he asks. Feel regret? Really?
Yes, I reply honestly. I wondered … what if?
Chris doesn’t immediately reply and I stiffen, panicking I’ve said the wrong thing. I can’t see his reaction. I’d have said that to his face, if we’d have been having this conversation at the wedding. But now I’m scared I’ve been too honest.
Me too, he comes back with. My body gives up its stiffness at his reply and I lean back into my seat. How far can we take this? I don’t even want to consider that there’s no point in this. I refuse to consider it. If there’s no point in it, why are we doing it? I haven’t even kissed this man and yet I’m wrapped up in him – thoughts of what it would have been like if I had gone with him. I’m so wrapped up that I don’t notice someone standing in front of me, attempting to check in for a meeting. I put my phone down to deal with the enquiry, but when I pick my phone back up again, Chris is no longer online. He must be at work too, although hours behind me.
I don’t know how to restart the conversation. And if I do restart it, where this might go? Might we talk more, video-call? Might we make idealistic plans that we can’t actually see through to their conclusion? Might it hurt me more doing that than if I do nothing at all?