In Real Life (10 page)

No one says anything.

Somehow Paul gets through the two-hour workshop. He involves them all in a discussion about Craig's story. He improvises some writing exercises afterwards. And he glances at Alison only occasionally, just once or twice, and she looks back blankly, as if nothing whatsoever has gone on between them. Maybe it hasn't. Maybe Paul's reading way too much into this. Maybe she chats online with all her lecturers. Maybe that's just what people do nowadays.

After class, he feels a tangible wave of relief when she gets up and leaves the room, chatting and laughing with Rachel.

Paul sits with Craig in his office and they go over his story, Paul pointing out how more conflict and tension could be introduced to improve it.

‘It starts off strongly,' Paul says, ‘but then you never really fulfil that early promise. The guardian figure. He's an interesting character, but couldn't he do something a bit more unexpected? It just all gets a little . . . predictable.'

Craig nods.

Paul can feel him soaking up every word he's saying, taking his advice on board like it's fact. And as Paul speaks he thinks: What the fuck do I know? What right do I have to tell anyone how to write anything?

After the short tutorial, he and Craig walk down the stairwell together and out through the exit, and there, sitting on the bench in a pair of aggressively tight black leggings, is Alison Whistler.

‘Can I have a quick word?' she says, standing, taking a drag on her liquorice paper roll-up.

Paul feels himself blush again.

‘See you then,' Craig murmurs shyly. ‘Cheers.'

As he walks away, Paul wonders whether Craig could possibly have picked up anything weird between him and Alison. He waits for Alison to speak, and realises that she, too, is waiting for Craig to walk out of earshot. Once he turns the corner at the end of the path, she sits back down on the bench. She looks at Paul, her eyes wide and black, her shiny dyed hair blowing around in the wind, visible goose bumps on her thin, pale arms. She's like a cartoon, a sexy cartoon. After a pause, he sits down too, his leg only a few inches from hers.

‘You wanted a word?' he says, noticing an embarrassing tightness to his voice which he hopes she doesn't pick up on.

‘Hi,' she says.

‘Hi,' he says.

part two

first world problems

LAUREN

2014

S
o? How did it go?
Alyssa texted. It wasn't even nine in the morning. It was raining, again, and the bus was cramped and vinegary, and when the man in the seat to my left opened his copy of
Metro
, his suit-jacketed elbow jabbed in my ribs like he was trying to tell me something.

I cancelled
, I began to text, then deleted it.

Fine
, I wrote instead and pressed send.

Really???
Alyssa texted back, almost instantly.

No. I cancelled at the last minute
, I replied.

I felt the man's elbow jabbing at me again, forcing me to scooch even further towards the window. I shifted around and glowered at him but he didn't notice. There were two articles on the page he was looking at: one
about gay rights activists in Russia, the other about a boy with sculpted facial hair's ‘
X Factor
dream' being over. My phone buzzed on my lap again.

WTF
, Alyssa's reply said.
He seemed nice!

‘He' was a guy called Carl, who worked in Alyssa's husband's office. She'd shown me his
Guardian
Soulmates profile on her phone one night last week. He was thirty-four and he liked long walks and political theory and the films of Pedro Almodovar. His hair was so dark we both suspected it might have been photoshopped.

I'd only agreed to swap phone numbers to get Alyssa off my back about internet dating for a while. It seemed to be all she talked about recently: ‘It's not weird any more,' and, ‘I know someone that actually found someone through it,' and ‘What if I managed your account for you and just let you know if anyone nice or hot messages?'

Why did we have to be such fucking
girls
all the time, I thought. Why did we always have to be defined by whether we did or didn't have a boyfriend or a fiancé or – in Alyssa's case – a husband of six years who sat around playing Xbox whenever he wasn't working?

I didn't want to get annoyed or fall out with her over this, but at the same time, whenever the subject came up, it felt like she was prodding at a wasp's nest deep inside me.

Please leave me alone
, I typed, then slipped my phone into the pocket of my jeans, determined to ignore it
from now on. I watched the raindrops slide down the outside of the window.

The man next to me turned the page.

Girl, 13, dies of ruptured stomach from legal high
, the paper said, as the bus turned the corner and the sea swung into view. There were tiny coloured specks of fishing boats bobbing on the horizon, and every time I saw the Channel it made me think about how I still wasn't used to living here yet and didn't think I ever would be, which in turn made me wonder what you were doing, right at this exact moment, if you were also on a bus to work somewhere.

The man turned the page.

162 die in factory blaze in Bangladesh
.

He turned the page again.

Dog of the Day! Milo (7), Cavalier King Charles Spaniel
.

I could see the stack of bin bags from halfway down Bingley Road. There were even more than usual; piled up to shoulder height, glistening with raindrops, they filled almost the whole doorway, completely obscuring the ‘Please do not leave donations on the step!' sign I'd made and tacked up on Saturday night. I had to drag the bags into the street to get the shutters open, and one of them caught on a shard of broken pint glass, spilling its contents into the road: Dora the Explorer pyjamas, stained soft toys, and a few cardboard baby books so damp they'd almost turned to mush.

I propped the door open with the fire extinguisher
and began hauling everything through to the back room, two bags at a time, and when I came back on my third trip, there was an old bloke in the shop, shuffling towards the bookshelves in the back corner.

‘Excuse me?' I called. ‘I'm afraid we're not open for another ten minutes yet.'

But he just nodded and smiled and carried on shuffling towards the books.

Let him browse, I thought. Why not? What does it matter?

I'd begun hoovering when I felt my phone buzz in my pocket again.

I knew it was Alyssa again before I opened the message.

Oh shit HAPPY BIRTHDAY btw!
it said.

IAN

2014

‘
S
o this is where the magic happens,' Martin says. He puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me into a large, weird-smelling room at the end of the corridor. There are about fifty to sixty people crammed inside, elbow to elbow at five long rows of desks, talking into headsets and typing on old desktop computers. It's impossible to make out what any one person is saying; their voices all blend together into a swarming, chattering racket.

I want to squirm out from Martin's grip.

I want to run back along the corridor and down the stairs and out through the lobby and away into the city.

I want to buy my guitar back.

I want to drop myself over the stairwell.

I want to travel back in time to 1983 and start all over again.

‘This is where you'll be working,' he says, shouting to be heard above the clatter of voices. ‘At the moment we're doing a large project on behalf of the government. It's a sort of questionnaire.'

I want to be back in the spare room again, reading
Ways to Happiness
.

I want to work as a large top hat for a city-centre printing firm; at least I'd be outside, walking around in the fresh air.

The room has the sour, chemical smell of fifty to sixty people drinking instant coffee all day without any proper ventilation.

A cheap electric heater buzzes warmth into my trouser leg.

I'm wearing my one pair of smart trousers, my one smart shirt, and my one pair of smart shoes. Everyone else is in jeans and jumpers. Even Martin's wearing a pair of those two-colour jeans with fake worn bits at the knees.

‘We'll find you a free terminal in a minute,' he says, ‘but first I'd better show you where everything else is.'

So we head back down the corridor and stop outside the door at the farthest end. Its small plastic sign says
Martin Glade
.

Carol Glade, I think.

Martin pushes the door open to reveal a small office with a plush leather swivel chair and a big desk with a new-looking iMac on it.

‘Pretty nice, eh?' he says.

‘Yep,' I say, looking in at the cool, dark room.

I wait for Martin to tell me to go in and sit down. But he doesn't. We both just stand there in the doorway, looking at his office.

‘Top of the range, that,' he says, pointing out the giant, flatscreen monitor.

‘Nice,' I say, trying to sound suitably impressed.

‘Anyway,' he says after another long pause, letting the door swing closed. ‘Back this way . . . follow me.'

He leads me back down the corridor again in the direction of the main room. On the way he points out the toilets and the break area, which is a grim, windowless, L-shaped room with a sink in one corner and a few tables and chairs in the middle.

‘How many breaks do we get?' I ask.

‘How many do you need?' he says. ‘You get one. For lunch. And no more than forty minutes, yeah? Too many breaks end up being a bit, you know, counter-productive.'

We go into the main room again and he directs me towards an empty space, to an old blue swivel chair facing onto a dirty beige computer. There are no windows anywhere, and the overhead striplights turn everything a jittery, grainy, electric yellow, like you're on drugs and it's five in the morning.

‘Have a seat,' Martin says.

I sit down.

NO VAPING, says a tatty printout, tacked to the wall above me. BREAK ROOM AND OUTSIDE ONLY.

‘Now, for starters, all I want you to do is listen in to Dean here and get a basic feel for what goes on.' He gestures to the man at the next terminal. ‘Dean's one of our absolute best, you see. I'll be back in an hour.'

He gives me a wink and pats me hard on the back, then swaggers out of the room.

I wiggle the mouse and my monitor crackles into life. It says ‘Quiztime Solutions' on the desktop.

I look over at Dean. He's grey-haired, with sunken cheeks and large bags under his eyes.

‘H—' I say, just as Dean's phone makes a shrill chirping noise.

‘
Gooood
morning, madam,' Dean says into his headset. His voice is as warm and musical as a radio DJ's. ‘And how are
weeee
this morning? . . . Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Anyway, my name's
Deeeean
and I'm calling from a company called . . . What's that? . . . Oh no, I'm not selling anything, madam. The reason I'm calling is just to let you know that you
maaaay
well be eligible for a . . . Okay then, madam, but if you'll just . . . Well, in that case I'm
truuuuly
sorry to hear that and I hope you have a . . .'

Dean sits back in his chair and sighs and rubs his sagging face hard with both hands. His stubble makes a rasping sound against his palms.

‘H—' I say.

Dean's phone chirps again and he leans in. ‘
Gooood
morning, madam . . .' he says.