Right now, Chloe looks miserable.
‘Sid!’ she says, eager and anxious in equal measure, and I can sense more misery coming on.
‘Adrienne shouted at me today,shouted,’ she tells me. ‘Just because we were out of the coffee pods she likes. It’s not my job to replace them, is it? Do you think she has a psychiatric illness?’
Chloe, a wet week out of school and not yet toughened up enough to cope with actual shouting in an office, stares at me over the top of her drink and waits for me to answer. She can’t be twelve or else she couldn’t be interning, but she looks it, despite the carefully applied modern eyeliner, verygrown-up suit and theI-am-cleverbig-framed glasses.
I think of all the things I could say: ‘Adrienne’s good at her job but, sometimes, it gets the better of her and she goes into the kitchen for a little meltdown and a caffeine hit.’
Chloe only knows teachers, who are not supposed to shout.
Therefore a workplace meltdown has to be incorrectly categorised into amental-health box and can’t be normal people at the end of their tether. Apart from babysitting, I’d say we are her only work experience.
‘This job is not what I thought it would be,’ Chloe goes on. ‘How do you handle it, Sid?’
Chloe has seen me with my kid sister, Vilma, who is nineteen, and I’m getting the vibe that she thinks I am Vilma’s mother, therefore a nurturing sort.
I am not a nurturing sort. Not by a long shot.
Plus, she can’t really think I’m Vilma’s mother? I’mthirty-four, notforty-four, although my skincare regime is a little lax, if I’m honest.
The barman finally hands me my large glass of wine and I’m about to test how acidic it is before replying when I think, who am I kidding? I’d drink battery acid atfive-thirty on a Friday. Still, the battery acid works and I sigh deeply after my first deep drink.
‘Chloe, without meaning to sound unhinged, sometimes I go into the office kitchen and have a little rant at the microwave. It lets off steam.’
I had amini-canteen breakdown yesterday when a frantic phone call came in about apancake-and-cream franchise setting up shop right beside a school which famously has no sports area whatsoever. I tell Chloe this.
‘But you didn’t shout at anyone, did you?’ says Chloe, sounding younger every moment.
Patience has never been one of my finer qualities, but I try my best.
‘Work can push people, Chloe. Adrienne’s brilliant at her job; passionate. It was nothing personal, I’m sure, but I’ll talk to her if you like. Did she say sorry?’
Chloe blushes. ‘Yes, several times, but that’s not the point, is it?’
‘The workplace can be a tense environment,’ I say, thinking that the pub is doing its job and I am relaxed enough to stop myself throwing the contents of my glass over Chloe to show her how people can really react when they’re irritated.
‘Want a nacho?’ I hand Chloe the packet to change the subject.
‘I don’t eat processed foods,’ she says piously.
‘Suit yourself.’ I snap my packet back.
Chloe hasn’t a clue as to what work is really like as opposed to what young people think it is going to be. The microwave getting shouted at and that accountant who’d faked his CV and nearly lost us our government funding because of the subsequentfunds-going-missingfall-out are about the worst things that have ever happened there. The money’s not great and I’d be better off if I’d moved jobs years ago, but Nurture is a nice, steady place to work, despite the setbacks likecream-and-pancake franchises. Nurture is truly my second family.
If Chloe knew what horrors some offices held in store for newcomers, she’d take being screamed at in the kitchen any day.
When I finish my wine, I use an app to call a taxi from the only taxi company I ever use. Everyone else has different systems and can’t understand why I prefer to wait twenty minutes for someone I know to turn up and bring me home, but I don’t care. When the text comes that my driver’s here, I say goodbye to everyone and try not to get sucked into any moreopen-ended discussions about terrible work traumas. Everyone is relaxed by now and it’s a good time to go. My own couch, possibly a hot bath and a box set await me. I never drive into the office on Fridays and walk in because my bijou apartment – very bijou – is only two miles away from ourcity-centre offices. But I never do the walk home.
Tonight, my driver is a lovely man called Gareth, who looks like a bouncer and has a husband and twoapricot-coloured chugs (pugs crossed with chihuahuas: ‘Their breathing’s much better, Sid, love, when they’re mixed breed’) at home. As he’s finishing his shift, he’s perfectly happy to sit without much conversation – the chugs are losing weight as per the vet’s instructions, thankfully – and listen to Lyric FM playing quietly over the radio.
I phone Vilma from the car: ‘Hi, Vilma, tell me – do I look old enough to be your mother?’ I ask.
My little sister snorts down the phone, then hits protective mode: ‘No! Who said that?’
I sink into the back seat. ‘A girl in my office, about eighteen, an intern. She’s probably seen you come to get me for lunch because I had the distinct feeling she thought I was your mother.’
‘Don’t be an idiot.’
