‘I thought we were talking about Saturday?’
‘We were – but it’s the whole thing, Mum. You’re always having a go. No wonder he’s run off.’
‘All I did was ask him how the job-hunting was going…’
I tail off because I know she sees straight through it. Anyone would. I might have been annoyed at Dan’s passive aggression but I can hold my own as well.
Olivia throws her hands up. ‘You know he’s got a bad knee.’
I bite my lip because we’ve been over this numerous times. Whether or not Tyler has a bad knee – and I have my doubts – the fact is that he’s five years older than Olivia and has never had a job. She works evenings in a café to earn her own money and, from what I can tell, much of it is spent by him or on him. Olivia doesn’t see it, of course. She’s in love and, for her, this is what that means.
The one thing I do know is that I’ve heard more than enough about Tyler’s alleged bad knee. In his own words, he ‘totally ballsed it up’ playing football when he was fifteen. Quite why that’s stopped him doing any work whatsoever is unclear. What’s also unclear is the lack of a doctor’s note reinforcing his own rigorous medical opinion. Given Tyler’s lack of qualifications, job, or experience, I’m not convinced he’s qualified to practise medicine. Pointing out that sitting around playing Xbox all day means he could sit around an office all day didn’t go down well with either him or Olivia on Saturday.
Dan told me I should lay off and I know he’s right – but watching a daughter repeat your own mistakes isn’t easy.
‘Have you seen my work pass?’ I ask, getting to my feet.
Olivia doesn’t look up. ‘No.’
‘I thought I’d left it—’
She launches herself to her feet, grabbing the charger from the socket and hauling the bag to her chest. ‘I said I hadn’t seen it. You’re not bothered about Ty, why should I care about your pass?’
There’s no time to reply because, in a few strides, she’s already across the room.
‘Liv,’ I call, but it’s too late. Her Doc Martens stomp across the floor, the front door slams into the wall and then back into the frame. Her abrupt departure echoes through the house, booming and bouncing to emphasise my failure as a parent.
I breathe in deeply through my nose, holding it and then slowly letting it out. My eyes are closed and I know I’m talking to the empty house but I need to get the words out.
‘Your father and I need to talk to you,’ I say. ‘It’s important.’
Chapter Six
I know Natasha can see me through the glass. I’m knocking on the door of my work and she’s across the office, half-turned in her seat, aware I’m here but doing nothing to let me in.
After a third knock, I give a chummy wave that kills a tiny bit of my soul. I mouth the word ‘hi’ and smile, hoping she’ll get off her sodding arse and let me into the damn building. This time, she spins fully around in her seat, offering the dampest of watery smiles; the type of expression that has a big fat middle finger directly behind it. She motions towards the door with her hand, pointing at me, then at her own chest. I nod, maintaining my smile.
Yes, I do need letting in, you massive cow.
Natasha is barefoot, her skyscraper overpriced Italian heels placed neatly under her desk. She only ever wears them from her car to the office and back each day – unless she has a meeting with Graham, of course.
She takes her time drifting across the office, showing off her shiny, waxed legs in case any of the lads are looking in her direction. When she gets to the door, she points to the scanner to the side.
‘Forgot your pass?’ she asks, the forced sweetness of her voice muffled by the door.
What do you think?
I nod and she finally presses the release button on the inside to unlock the door. I thank her and she gives me a look as if she’s just donated me a bloody kidney.
She starts off back to her desk. ‘You’re late today,’ she says over her shoulder.
‘Graham approved it,’ I reply.
‘That’s nice. Did you have a lie-in?’
‘I was working away.’
The smirkiest of smirks: ‘Right.’
Natasha and I are both IT sales reps. The thing with telling people my job title is that their eyes instantly glaze over. It sounds boring and, in all honesty, it is boring. It’s one of those careers a person falls into. No child dreams of growing up to sell computer networks from one company to another.
If the other person does show any degree of interest in my job title, the next question is along the lines of, ‘You must know plenty about computers?’ – and that’s when any explanation really does become a chore. I know an awful lot about one specific network system and how it integrates into a company’s framework. Even that sounds dull. When it comes to that one and only system, I can tell other people about its intricacies, what it can and can’t do, how it can help a company with its business, how users can be trained. And so on. It’s like being a butcher and knowing one hell of a lot about pork sausages but very little about beef.
What it does do is pay the bills. It also gave me something to do after Olivia was old enough to start school. I’ve been doing it for nearly thirteen years and I know I’ll almost certainly be doing something similar until I can afford not to.
I think that’s probably why I don’t like Natasha. For a start, she has almost two decades on me. This is a beginning for her, a first job after college. This will be the finish for me. It wouldn’t be so bad if she wasn’t so bloody obvious about knowing that. She’s the sort who puts every aspect of her life on Facebook or Instagram. It’s all ‘post-run selfie’ or ‘night in with my baby’, accompanied by a picture of her with her handbag dog. I know all this not because we’re friends online or anything like that, but because I’m something of a stalker. It’s hard not to look and I dread the day she ups her privacy settings. I’m living vicariously through her.
My desk is opposite Natasha’s and we’re separated by a cloth-covered piece of plywood. Natasha sits next to Claire, who’s nice enough – if a little quiet – and then there are three men who spend more time out of the office than in it.
When I get to my desk, there’s a Post-it note pinned to the monitor with ‘See Graham’ scrawled in felt-tip.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Natasha says. She’s twirling a strand from her blonde fringe. ‘You’ve got to see Graham.’
I’m not even sitting and pluck the note from the screen, holding it up.
‘Thanks,’ I tell her.
‘You’re welcome.’
There are times when I wonder how many of the interactions I have with people are false. My entire job is about talking up the functions of an IT system to try to make money. I fudge the awkward questions and overplay benefits. I’m frequently on eggshells with Dan and Olivia at home, pretending all is well – and then, even in the office, I never tell Natasha what I think of her. It’d mean too much of admitting what I think of myself. Most of what I do involves being fake-nice to people.
Graham’s office is a little down the hall, separated from the rest of us. I knock on the door and wait a few seconds until he calls for me to enter. He always leaves it a few seconds; perhaps making whoever’s outside worry a little more, perhaps clearing whatever’s on his monitor. I know which of the two I think is true.
He’s a very sweaty man, always has been, and – probably because of that – the air-conditioning in his office is always cranked up to levels that would have Greenpeace up in arms. On top of his stocky shoulders is a big bald egg and I’ve never been sure it’s through choice or premature hair loss. He’s forty-three, two years older than me, but a person would never guess it from looking at him. He’s got that red-faced fifty-going-on-sixty-thing going for him.
Graham nods at the seat opposite his own and the chair squeaks noisily as I slide onto it.
‘How was the meeting?’ he asks gruffly.