“Yes, I do,” I reply, putting as much oomph into the claim as I can. If Barb disintegrates right now, I’ll join in, and we’ll both end up crying. It will be a decision that will work out badly for both of us.
I nod at the rest of the staff but stay silent as I make my coffee, drinking it out of a World’s Best Granddad mug simply because it is the biggest one in the cupboard. If there’d been a bucket handy, I’d have used that instead. I settle down in the small office that is my domain and log on to my computer. First things first, because I have a clear sense of my priorities right now, I google Kidderminster. It turns out to be a market town in Worcestershire. Clearly a hotbed of evil.
Next, I check my emails and open the dreaded memo. I scan through it but learn little more than what Barb has told me. It is couched in corporate terminology to soften the blow and make it all seem more reasonable—benchmarking, economies of scale, blah blah blah, but the cold fact remains: the axe is hovering over our heads, and Tim is wielding it. A decision will be made next week, it explains, and all staff contacted in person.
I am scared, and I am worried, and I am starting to feel a little tremble in my hands. I have worked so hard for the small life we have, and I sense it starting to crumble around me. It’s not like this is my dream existence, but the thought of starting again makes me feel weak.
I tell myself to stay calm. That I am not the same person I was all those years ago. That I have skills, experience, a decent résumé, references. That I will be able to find another job.
Except... well, times are tough, aren’t they? It always feels like times are tough, but right now it’s true. You can’t watch the news without there being some story about layoffs or factory closures or the soaring cost of living. There was a piece in the local newspaper—the free one that comes through the door—recently about there being 120 applications for one job at a McDonald’s.
What if I end up being one of those people, fighting for a minimum-wage job? What if I can’t afford the rent, or petrol, or, heaven forbid, Charlie’s Spotify account? I already shop at the cheapest places I can tolerate, and there just isn’t much slack—there are very few ways I can cut back without making life a complete misery. I budget for one bottle of wine a week as my own luxurious treat, and right now I feel like I could do with increasing that, not cutting it out.
When Charlie was little and his dad left, we lived in a series of one-room flats that have left me haunted. Most of the people who lived in the same buildings were nice, just down on their luck—but some of them were not so nice. Some of them were scary, and aggressive, and intimidating. Looking back, I understand that many of them had problems with addiction or their mental health, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying.
It was a horrible period of my life, and I can’t contemplate going back to it. It took me years of hard work and many missteps to get to where I am today, to our cozy cottage and a sense of security that now feels threatened. Even if Charlie is now eighteen and thinks he’s all grown up, he’s still my baby, and it’s my job to give him the very best I can.
I bloody hate Kidderminster. And Tim. And carpets.
And the whole damn world.
The rain is crashing against the windows, and a crisp bag flies up in the wind and splatters across the glass. I stare atit—cheese and onion flavor. My least favorite crisps. A bad omen.
I see Barb looking in at me, a questioning expression on her face. I force a smile onto mine and give her a little wave. I hope it is a wave that says, “Look how calm I am—it’s all fine!” not a wave that says, “The end of the world is nigh!”
My phone pings and I pick it up, fighting the urge to throw it through the window. It is rarely good news. I find a smile when I see it is a message from Charlie. “Sorry I was a dick this morning,” it reads. “PS—the internet is back. And the milk is off. And we need bog roll.”
I reply with a series of random emojis that have no meaning whatsoever. My mood is complicated, in the way that only a stream of small cartoon faces can ever express.
As soon as I’ve finished my reply, the phone pings again. This time, it’s not so pleasant. It’s from the bank, informing me that I am seventy-two pence past my overdraft limit, and that if I don’t pay in this grievous amount by midnight, I’ll be charged twenty-five pounds. I consider replying, but there are no emojis that fully convey the way I feel about this. Now I’ll have to go to the bank later and put a pound in, one of the last twenty of them in my purse—but it’s payday soon, I remind myself. Though how many more paydays I’ll have is a matter of some conjecture right now.
The day moves slowly, all of us quiet and gently downtrodden, flattened like my lupins in the rain. We are kind to one another, there are more teas and coffees than normal, and we all get on with our work. Heaven forbid our productivity rates should slump at a time like this.
It is hard to concentrate, and I have to redo several pieces of work because my mind has suddenly taken on the characteristics of one of those baboons that tries to pull your windshieldwipers off at a safari park. Leaping all over the place, loud, smelly, nimble, bare-arsed.
I keep finding myself dragged back to those one-room apartments, and each time I do, it gets worse and worse. I imagine Charlie falling in with drug dealers or gangs, and myself becoming an alcoholic, and before long we are both just toothless drudges, like the poor people in those Hogarth paintings of gin mills.
My resilience is low, and I am glad to be working in an office full of other people. While I am around other people, I will be able to hold it together. While I am around other people, I will be able to smile and joke and fully inhabit my Brave Face. I will be able to stay strong for their sake, if not my own. I am aware, of course, that eventually I will be alone—that I will be back in my little cottage on the edge of the world, with a glass of wine and a luxurious new multipack of bargain-basement toilet tissue.
Then I will have to face up to this. I will have to think about the future, and finances, and all those sorts of grown-up things that make me want to run screaming into the hills. My life might not be a party, but it is solid—Charlie is solid, and that’s what matters. Keeping his life on an even keel, where all he has to worry about is the occasional internet break, is the most important thing in my universe. He might think his life is boring, but he has no idea how lucky he is—boring is a luxury, a privilege. Boring takes effort.
After what feels like at least ten days, my shift is over. We all troop out of the building, Barb staying behind to lock up, with promises to take care and stay cheerful and not think the worst. I have a weird vision of a group of strangers, somewhere in Kidderminster, doing exactly the same.
Charlie has messaged me to say he is in town, and he will meet me for a lift home. We make our arrangements, and I go about my very pressing business—the bank, the shops, and a luxury spawith full-body massage, detoxifying facial, and a glass of cucumber water. That last one was a lie—the closest I’m getting to a spa anytime soon is standing in the rain and looking upward.
Our small town is nice enough, a strange mix of the usual soulless modern high-street shops and a few rows of old Tudor buildings that have survived from days of yore. Of course, these are the buildings that feature on all the postcards and on the websites of the people here who boost their income by hosting tourists.
There are a few tourists around today, and my heart aches for them. Families with young children mostly, toddlers jumping in puddles, soaking-wet parents looking exhausted and bedraggled as they wander around the shops and the one amusement arcade. This is probably not the holiday they’d hoped for. This is not what England in July should be like.
By the time I get back to the car, Charlie is already there. He is leaning against the hood looking at his phone, shielding it from the worst of the downpour with his hands. As ever, I feel a little jolt of surprise when I see him.
I know this isn’t an uncommon feeling among parents, but it feels like only yesterday that he was a baby. Then, the day after that, he was starting primary school. Maybe a week after he started losing his first teeth, and calling me Mum instead of Mummy, and making new friends at high school. Now he is huge, hairy, and hungry—all three, all the time.
I am a person of averages—average height, average build, average attractiveness. I have long brown hair and blue eyes, and the only thing about me that ever gets commented upon is my smile. I’m told it’s a cracker, and was once offered a job as a croupier in a casino purely on the basis of it. I should probably consider a new career as a smile model, as it seems like I might be needing one soon.
Charlie, though, is very much his father’s son—at least when it comes to appearances. He is already over six foot tall, still slender from the terrifying growth spurt he had last year, with wild dark curls that make him look like a young Heathcliff. His eyes are deep brown, like his dad’s, and he has that half-man, half-boy vibe that kids of his age always seem to display. Keeping up with his need for new clothes and new shoes has been a fun time recently, and I will be financially relieved when he stops doing this growing-up thing.
I still can’t believe that this gorgeous young dude came out of my body, and I am flooded with love as I approach him.
