“For you? Always. Same account?”
“On my tab.”
“Have a good one.”
A pouch landed in the damp palm of my hand, to match the sweat forming at the back of my collar. It was always like this. Anticipation mixed with a heavy dose of added anxiety.
This wasn’t good for me. I should know better, my heart racing almost as if it already knew what was coming. I knocked my drink back and took myself off to the men’s room. Discreet. Perhaps not so much as I lined up alongside the mirror, a neat row of customers already stood there, not even bothering to hide their activities. A line of white on top of my hand. I wasn’t fussy. Not at all. I snorted it up in one go, feeling my nostrils burn.
Oh God.
Everything felt numb, the dust trickling down inside of me, like my throat was no longer my own. The burning sensation moved downwards as I closed my eyes.
It was all good. And I deserved it. Every little speck of glitter that formed in my line of vision.
One week out
George
“Stop!” Kirsten shouted, barging in through the door, not even apologising for interrupting our meeting. Not that this was unusual in any way because this was how she usually operated. And just on cue, here was a flustered Alastair hot on her heels.
“The wake-up married in Vegas theme has been done. We need something fresh. We need something new. I am rehashing our entire concept.”
“Okay,” I said, slowing my voice down to try to make the screeching in my brain stop. Like tyres against wet asphalt, and the hairs at the back of my neck were already standing straight up.
“We’ll mismatch all the couples from the start. Then somehow make them re-couple. Break people up on purpose. You know, George. You know what I’m talking about.”
Did I? Apparently, I did as I nodded weakly.
“The ratings for the first episode ofSingles Barwere abysmal,” Kirsten continued on, not even out of breath, flicking her bob out of her face. “Alastair!”
“Ehhr…Channel 4 released partial stats, but it seems the public is overdosed on the dating concept…”
“Singles Baris seriously dated. The vibe gives me two-years-ago. We need new and fresh. We need to skip dating completely. Straight in there.”
“But that isn’t what…” someone piped up. Brave. Braver than me.
“Make it happen. Make it big, bold. Brash as anything. Don’t hold back.”
And just as boldly as she had entered the room, she was once again gone, leaving a dishevelled Alastair in her wake, wringing his hands and then wiping them down the side of his suit jacket.
“You know what she’s like,” he half whispered. “Make it happen.”
Across the table, someone tore up a piece of paper. Someone else carefully rearranged their clipboard. I closed my laptop, letting the distinctive click break the silence.
“Any ideas?” I said weakly.
“We have one week,” someone whispered.
I knew. I bloody knew.
I’d worked here for the past six months, and it already felt like a lifetime. If I’d known at college what I knew now? Perhaps I would have made wiser career choices. Taken math seriously and become a teacher. Sat in a little secondary somewhere out in the sticks, talking about algebra instead of losing my marbles and prematurely going grey in some temporary central London shared workspace building.
We didn’t even have a proper office.
Going home was a relief, every bloody day, and it was almost nine in the evening when I shuffled up towards the entrance to my run-down block of flats. The life of a junior production assistant. First paid job. I was way in over my head here, and I knew it, all the enthusiasm and confidence I’d started off with now long gone.
I was tired. So bloody tired. I’d even been too tired to check my phone, which was surprising, because that was usually what I did first thing, stepping on that bus at the end of the day.
