But I’m not.
It’s the last week of February and I don’t have a job. I don’t have the prospect of a job. I just have aching hands from typing job applications, googling brand agencies, and writing spec letters.
I’ve written an individual email for each application. I’ve researched every single possible company in the UK that I might suit. My mind is reeling with product names, campaigns, contacts. I’m exhausted. And panicky. Occasionally I glance in the mirror and see my own stricken face, and it’s so not the face I want to see that I quickly look away again.
I’m trying to keep the fear at bay by doing stuff. I’ve reorganized my hammock. I’ve re-drafted my monthly budget to make it last two months. I’m doing a ton of walking, because, you know, walking’s free. Plus it gives you endorphins and will therefore, in theory, cheer me up. Although I can’t say that’s really working. And I’m still up to date with Instagram. I’ve posted moody images of London streets at 4:00 A.M. (I couldn’t sleep, but I didn’t mention that.) I’ve posted a photo of the new pretzel stand at Victoria. I sound bright and breezy and employed. You’d never know the truth.
Flora’s been in touch, quite a bit. She’s left phone messages and texts and a long email starting: Oh my GOOOOOOOD. I can’t believe the witch FIRED you, that is SO UNFAIR!!!!!!!!
I sent an email back, but I haven’t spoken to her. I just feel too vulnerable right now. Sarah’s also been in contact—in fact, she sent me a surprisingly long and sympathetic card. Apparently Demeter got rid of Sarah’s boyfriend too, before I arrived at Cooper Clemmow. He’s called Jake and he’s a really good designer, did nothing wrong, but got made redundant. He’s still unemployed all these months later, and they’re both fairly devastated but trying to be positive. She ended with, I know how hard this is for you, and a string of sad faces.
And, you know, I’m sure she had the best of intentions, or whatever, but it didn’t altogether cheer me up. I never went to that drinks at the Blue Bear either—how could I? I’m not part of the gang anymore. And, anyway, I couldn’t afford to pay for my round.
I’m hanging out a lot at home, but even that’s stressful, because of our new flatmate. Anita has sublet her room while she’s away in Paris. It’s totally against the rules, but our landlord never comes round. (I wish he would. He might get rid of the whey.) Our new flatmate is a cheerful blond girl called Irena who has rosy cheeks and wears a floral headscarf a lot of the time, and I had great hopes of her until she invited all her friends round.
I say “friends.” That’s not exactly what it is. They’re a religion. It’s the Church of the Something (I didn’t quite catch the name and now I don’t like to ask). And they all meet in her room and sing and have talks and shout, “Yes!”
I have nothing against the Church of the Something. I’m sure they’re very good people. Only they’re also quite noisy. So, what with the singing and the whey boxes and Alan yelling, “Knobhead!” at himself, it’s getting quite oppressive in here.
I’ve come into the kitchen to make my vegetable stew, and I’m crouching on the cardboard boxes, which are now so battered they keep half-collapsing. Maybe I should join the Church of the Something? The thought crosses my mind and I give a wry smile. Maybe that’s the answer. Only I don’t think I have the energy to shout, “Yes!” twenty times a night. I don’t have much energy at all, is the truth. I feel drained. Defeated.
I stir my butternut squash and rutabaga stew (cheap and nutritious) and close my eyes with tiredness. And just for a moment, with my guard down, I let my mind roam into places it shouldn’t. Places that are cold and scary and full of questions I don’t want asked.
What if I don’t find a job?
I will.
But what if?
There’s a sudden dampness on my cheekbone. A tear is creeping out of one eye, I realize. It’s the steam, I tell myself furiously. It’s the onions. It’s the whey.
“All right, Cat?” Alan appears at the door of the kitchen, leaps up, and starts doing chin-ups from the lintel.
“Fine!” I force a bright smile. “Good!” I shake some dried herbs into my stew and give it a stir.
“Bunch of nutters, aren’t they?” He jerks his head toward Irena’s room.
“I think we should respect their beliefs,” I say, as another “Yesss!” resounds through the flat.
“Nooo!” Alan bellows over his shoulder, and grins at me. “Nutters. You know she wants another room for her friend? Asked if I’d move out. The nerve. They want to turn this place into a commune.”
“I’m sure they don’t.”
“D’you reckon they shag or whatever?”
“What?”
“Like, they haven’t all taken the pledge, have they?”
“I have no idea,” I say frostily.
“I was just wondering.” His eyes gleam. “A lot of these cults are into some crazy shit. Some of those girls are pretty hot.” He does a few more chin-ups, then adds, “I mean, Irena’s hot, come to that. Does she have someone?”
“I don’t know.” I scoop my stew into a bowl and say pointedly, “Excuse me.” I clamber down off the whey boxes and past Alan, heading back to my room. Please don’t let Alan hook up with Irena, I’m thinking. I’ve heard Alan having sex, and it’s like one of his motivational rants but ten times louder.
I sit cross-legged on my bed, start forking stew into my mouth, and try to find something positive to think about. Come on, Katie. It’s not all bad. I sent off a stack of applications today, so that’s good. Maybe I should go onto Instagram now. Post something fun.
But as I scroll through the images on my phone, they seem to be mocking me. Who am I kidding with all this fake, happy stuff? I mean, who am I kidding, exactly?
Tears are running openly down my face now, as though they don’t care who sees them. All my defenses are crumbling. There’s only so long you can tell yourself that a crap situation is good and believe it.
On impulse, I take a picture of my hammock. And then my rutabaga stew. It isn’t like any Instagram images of stew I’ve ever seen—it’s an unappealing pile of browny-orange slop, like prison food. Imagine if I posted that on Instagram. The crappy truth. See my cut-price supper. Look at my tights, falling out of their hammock. Look at all my job applications.
God, I’m losing it now. I’m just tired, I tell myself firmly. Just tired…
My phone suddenly rings and I jump, startled, nearly spilling my stew. And for a split second I think, A job, a job, a job?
But it’s Biddy. Of course it is.
I haven’t told Biddy—or Dad—about my job. Not yet. I mean, obviously I will tell them. I just don’t know when.
OK, full disclosure: I’m hoping desperately that I won’t ever have to tell them, ever. I’m hoping that I’ll somehow be able to sort things out quietly for myself, get a new job, and tell them after the event in a light and easy way: Yes, I’ve changed jobs; it’s no big deal, it was time to move on. Let them think it was my choice, a natural progression. Save them all that distress and worry. Save me all that distress and worry.
Because if I tell Dad I’ve been let go from my job at Cooper Clemmow…Oh God. Just the thought makes me wince. I won’t only be dealing with my own distress, I’ll be dealing with his righteous anger too. He’ll rail and fume and ask me what went wrong….And right now I don’t feel strong enough for that.
Biddy’s different, more reasonable. But now isn’t the moment to burden her. She’s got enough on her plate with the glamping venture—I can already tell she’s been overwhelmed. It’s been more money and work than she expected, and it’s consuming all her energy. I can’t make her load heavier with my problems.
Nor can I risk her offering me money, which I know she’d do like a shot. That’s her inheritance, and it’s going on the business, not on me. Honestly, I’d rather give up my flat in London than have Biddy subsidizing it.