Living here is actually not conducive to a healthy lifestyle. But it’s in a nice street so, I guess, you give, and you take.
I’ve procured a dehumidifier in my room that also acts as a clothes horse. It’s badly ventilated in here without the windows open but it’s too cold in winter to open them. As I shrug out of my dress and into my cosy pyjamas, I realise it has already gone nine in the evening. There’s an ongoing battle between myself and James as to who will leave the office last. Michael stays late and I would hate for him to think I’m not invested in my job.
I am.
But the issue is, so is Gloatman.
Luckily, he got a call that had him sighing, running a hand through his perfectly shaped hair as he strode out of the office, giving me one last miserable glance. Thankfully, it meant, despite our battle in the meeting earlier today, I had triumphed. But on top of this I actually had a lot of work to get done, or reassign within my team, thanks to this last-minute work trip that Michael has flung on us.
His email came through at four fifty-five, just as my team were giving each other anxious glances about when it might be suitable for them to leave without looking uncommitted to the cause. I don’t expect them to hold the same standards as me, but it would be nice if one of them showed an ounce of willingness from time to time. I’m pretty certain they think I’m a workaholic.
Over the past couple of years, getting back to my room has been the worst part of my day, and I struggle to pinpoint why. I can cope with my messy, damp-infested flat. If anything, it’s character building. It’s the way my heart starts juddering at an uncomfortable rhythm as I lie back. It’s the way, despite adding a softer mattress and the weighted blanket to my bed, my limbs seem to go rigid as I try to relax. It’s the way my breathing becomes laboured even though I’m just lying here doing nothing at all.
My brain spins, going over the day, the commute, the meetings, the challenges. I scrutinise every part of it until I’m on the verge of throwing up. I should’ve said something else to Michael. I should’ve held my tongue with James. I let him get to me. It’s not long before I sense my cheeks are damp. The room is dark, somehow both stuffy yet cold, and I take a shuddering, calming breath as I realise how very tired I am.
“I love my job. I love my job. I love my job,” I preach quietly into my pillow.
Maybe I do need a break? I’m not sure the break I need is the one Michael has organised. No. I think I need to do aMamma Mia!, find an island in Greece and a long-lost auntie who has a half-ruined farmhouse I can do up. Hopefully I’ll bump into three gorgeous men over one summer and have some exciting, wild affairs under the sun.
Instead, we were sent our boarding passes for Inverness. Inverness! And our return flight isn’t until Saturday. He didn’t even ask us if we had plans at the weekend. The man just assumes we’re free.
I am. But that’s against the point.
I love my job. I can do this.
I sort of wish one of my housemates were around so I could chew their ears off about this whole thing, but alas they’re all out working their second jobs. For a moment, I’m thankful I earn at least enough to avoid that. I honestly think a second job would kill me. Especially as sleep claws over me now, my eyes heavy, weary.
Before I drift off, I set my alarm for 3 a.m. An overwhelmed cry falls from my lips.
I love my job.
*
Heathrow is quiet at this time in the morning. There’s a lull in activity for a few hours each night, and Michael appears to have booked our flight at an unsociable time. I sit in sleepy silence at the gate, waiting for my flight to be called, and when it comes to boarding, Gloatman and the rest of the team are still nowhere to be found. Apparently, Michael would be finding his own way there, and Mel in HR decided it would be more conducive to a healthy work environment if she stayed. An appropriate decision, considering Gloatman’s team can be total arse wipes to my team.
For a moment, I sense a pocket of adrenaline bursting inside of me. Where are they? Why am I on my own?
I open my phone and dial for Fiona. There’s no answer. I frown at the boarding queue getting smaller by the second. I haven’t got long to decide. I think about calling James briefly to see if he’s on his way, before realising that I hope he isn’t coming anyway, and this may be the best thing that’s happened to me in a while.
This does feel suspiciously weird though. I look behind me at the way I came into the terminal. I could turn around now, travel home and slither back into my bed for a kip, all before 7 a.m. That’s not how you get promoted though.Must remember to show willingness.
The queue is getting shorter, and they’ve already called for final boarders. This is it. I need to make a decision. Oh, flip. I bite my bottom lip, considering. What’s the worst that can happen? If it turns out Michael cancelled the trip last minute and forgot to tell me then I’ll just turn around and come home. I’m a grown woman. I shouldn’t be afraid to get on a flight on my own. And yet, uneasiness is bubbling under my skin.
I sigh, stepping towards the cabin crew waiting to scan my pass, then board the plane.
Once seated, I pretend to enjoy the flight, despite the worry of what’s to come from my unpredictable manager making me fidgety, whilst peeking out of the window as the light, fresh blue of morning leaks into the night sky. There’s a slight orange tint, the promise of summer just around the corner. It’s such a short flight, I don’t even get offered a hot drink. Luckily, I bought a bottle of water at the terminal that I sip on slowly, popping my ears as we descend.
Scotland from this height looks like a lot of water and barren land.
I peek at my phone on flight mode and realise I haven’t called Mum back yet. She rang whilst I was still in the office yesterday evening, and I didn’t want to let that vulnerable side of me leak into my fierce façade. Mum has a way of making me fragile. My dad, on the other hand, has a way of making me a little cross and bossy. Their divorce, when I was fifteen, felt very personal to me.
They made me sit at the head of the table as Mum took my hands into hers. She was a bit teary; I remember that. Dad looked more resigned, tired. Mum said, “We’re getting a divorce.”
Dad said, “It’s been a long time coming.”
To which Mum made a gasping sound, as if he’d personally slighted her. “We never really loved each other at all, to be honest. We only stayed together because I got pregnant with you.”
My dad rubbed his face, shaking his head in exasperation. “What your mother means is that we love you very much and it meant the world to us to raise you together but that we haven’t ever been truly happy. Not really.”
