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The nice thing about having two office bases is that I get two leaving lunches. Courtesy of being blessed with two sets of colleagues, I get double the leaving presents, too. You have to look for the positive in these things.
I was treated to a slap-up meal in Manchester last week with my northern colleagues. I say ‘treated’ but I actually paid for myself as Bushra said they can’t pick up my tab because they’ve already bought me a leaving present. So I forked out £18 for my pizza lunch and got a £50 gift voucher from the girls. At least I’m in profit. It wasn’t an emotional goodbye, as Bushra and I will stay in touch. I’ve insisted she must consult me should she ever go down the arranged marriage route. She’s still thinking about it.
Today is my leaving lunch with the London crew. It’s nice to know in my relatively short time here, I’ve made enough of a mark to warrant such a thing. Jamie, my London region equivalent, has taken it upon himself to do a headcount.
“13, 14, 15! Ooh, get you, Miss Popular! I had no idea,” he says.
“Neither did I.”
It does give me the warm and fuzzies to think all these people have turned up for little old me. There’s John, Rick and Jerome. Even Eric, the unsociable git, has bothered to show his face. There are a few others whom I’ve barely shared a sentence with but have probably come because I opted for an Indian dosa house as my venue of choice. I challenge anyone to resist the allure of a crispy pancake stuffed with spicy potato. Of course, either side of me, taking pride of place are my PR cronies, Bryony and Delilah.
I opted for a chicken and potato stuffed dosa. It was so spicy that I was reaching for more water than anyone, which was ironic. No one else seemed to be sweating or redenning. It’s embarrassing.
Just as I take another gulp of water, there’s the sound of a glass being tapped by Jamie. Everyone stops talking and eating and all eyes fall on me.
“Oh God, is it time for me to make a speech? I don’t know what to say!”
“That’s a first!” says Bryony, which is echoed by others among a chorus of giggles. I’m getting flashbacks of my hen do. Is there a rumour going round that I talk a lot?
I must say something more meaningful than I did the last time I was asked to make a speech. It needs to be something memorable, even profound, that they will ponder long after I’ve left. Think. Think.
“I wasn’t sure what to expect when I first transferred here. I wasn’t sure if I’d feel a part of anything. I guessed I’d be an outsider from another region, from another team, but it’s been amazing and -”
My phone vibrates across the table. As it grunts towards me, I see that it’s a withheld number. It’s probably a recruiter from one of the many jobs I’ve applied for. That’s exactly what I need, a prospect. An opportunity I can pepper into conversation when the inevitable questions about my future plans come up during our dosa feast. I can tell them, I can tell them good. I’ve got options, I’m not desperate. I can leave with my head held high.
“Sorry, I need to take this.” I rush out. The winter frost has had a temporary reprieve, making way for some low sunshine which creeps across my face and warms my cheeks.
“Sally Maguire here, from The People People?” Her upward inflection suggests she’s not too sure of the company name. Neither am I.
“I’m just calling regarding the job you applied for.”
“Great,” I say, simultaneously doing some internal sleuthing to deduce which job she’s referring to.
“That role has sadly gone.”
Well, I guess that’s that, then.
“But there is another role I think you’d be an ideal fit for.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s a great client that we’ve had for a few years now. They’re in the pharmaceutical sector so there’s scope to gain new skills and they really do nurture their staff.”
“Great,” I say for the second time, struggling to find alternative vocabulary.
“Yes, they’re a great bunch and there’s bags of room for career development. Now... hear me out...”
Oh dear. I’ve heard that before.
“The salary is a bit lower than your expectations. It starts at 27k. And location wise, it’s a little further afield, in Stevenage. But I checked against your address and, door-to-door, you could be there within the hour. An hour and twenty, tops.”
Oh piss off, Sally from The People People.
It goes without saying that I only thought this and would never swear at someone who is trying to find me a job, even if it is so completely at odds with my expectations. However, my finger may or may not have accidentally lingered over the red phone icon, and I may or may not have, accidentally or on purpose, hung up.
“Sorry about that.” I return to my seat but remain standing, ready to pick up on whatever hollow bullshit sentence I left off at. “Right, what was I saying?”
“Hold up!” says Eric, much to everyone’s surprise. “Before you get too soppy, I’ve got a little present for you, for good luck.”
Huh? Since when has he even cared? Eric tosses a scratch card in my direction.
“It’s not much but -” He shrugs and leans back in his chair opposite me.
“Okay, erm, thanks.” I dutifully scratch the back of the card with my unused knife. The first silver box reveals the princely sum of £25,000. That’s a good start. I just need two more of the same now. I scrape at the second box. It also says £25,000. Well, I might as well get this over with so I can carry on with whatever I was going to say. The third and final box reveals... okay, this can’t be right, can it?
“Is this a joke?” I say out loud, seeing the £25,000 written for the third time.
“What is it?” asks Eric.
“It says 25K. It says I’ve won 25K. Is that... take a look!”
I show it to him.
“I think I want that back,” he says, grabbing the card.
I reach across the table and snatch it back. “No way! A gift is a gift. And I need this.”
Could this be real? Could this be happening? That’s more money than I’ve ever held in my hands. It’s money that will change my whole outlook. I wouldn’t have to worry so much about being made redundant. I wouldn’t have to worry about where the next job will come from, or when it will come. It’s not a life-changing amount of money but it’s a bloody good situation-changing amount of money. It can’t be right, can it?
My heart races. I can’t stop smiling in shock. I can’t quite believe it. This doesn’t happen to me. Not to mention that I’ve never played the lottery in my life on religious grounds. If it’s been gifted to me, is it permissible for me to cash it in? I assume it is. I am in need, after all.
I show Bryony. She looks at it with a serious face. She can’t believe it, either. In fact, looking around me, everyone looks a bit unsure as to what to say. Why aren’t they congratulating me?
“This is mad. This is mad! Is this a joke?” I ask for the millionth time, with a nervous, manic laugh. My heart quickens. Surely, this can’t be, because if it is, it’s well... aaahhh!
I look at some more faces. Rick looks away from me, instead focusing on his half-eaten dosa. John’s still staring. Hold on... I know that look, it’s... oh no, it’s the look of pity. I turn to Bryony for an answer. She’s sporting the same pity face, too.
“It’s not real,” Bryony mutters under her breath.
“What? Really?” I ask, looking at the scratch card and not quite believing her response. Please, please don’t say this is a joke.
“Eric, what were you thinking?” Delilah furrows her brow.
Jamie lets out a cackle, which runs through me like nails on a chalkboard. “So yeah, that was a great idea. Sorry you’re losing your job, here is a fake scratch card to get your hopes up!”
“I only meant it as a joke,” says Eric. “I thought it was obvious.”
More customers come through the door, with a sharp gust of wind following them and rendering me numb with cold.
Oh my God. Oh my God. I’ve been had. I’ve been had in front of everyone. I don’t know what’s worse, that I really haven’t won £25,000, or that I was gullible enough to believe it. Was it so obvious that it was a joke? Are these fake scratch cards a thing, something that, yet again, I’m left out of? Oh God... they all saw me. They all saw my feelings. My bare, unbridled joy.
My eyes are flooding. Better blink those tears of embarrassment away. I’ve not felt this mortified since Fiona shouted about arranged marriages in front of everyone at work. I can’t believe I believed it. I could die.
“You’re alright aren’t you? Look, she’s not that bothered.” Eric is sniffing around for support to make him feel like less of a thoughtless bastard.
Everyone’s waiting for a response. All I can think of to say is: “Eric, you prick!”
With that, I get up, leaving 15 surprised faces as I run to the bathroom. I can’t let them see me cry. I can’t let them see me humiliated. I can’t let them see my shame.
***
“I am really sorry about earlier,” says Eric for the umpteenth time, trying to absolve himself from his earlier wankery. He’s been throwing sporadic apologies my way all afternoon. Now we’re the last people in the office, he’s issuing one final sorry. “You’re not too upset, are you?”
These things are always a bit rhetorical, aren’t they? Any time someone ends with are you?, you’re expected to be a good sport and say, ‘no, I’m not. It’s fine’. It’s the British thing to do. I can’t very well say: ‘Actually Eric, you caught me at my most vulnerable moment, where I have real concerns about how I’m going to find my next job. Where my lack of job has a massive impact on things like where I will live and what I will eat. To play such an ill-judged prank so publicly was nothing short of shit. All my colleagues, who’ve seen me fight the good PR fight, make strides in my career and generally be a confident worker, witnessed my duping. I felt catfished. I felt like one of those women who get tricked by a man online, who tells them he’s the love of their life, before asking them to send over thousands of pounds. Yeah, that’s how silly I felt because of you. So I am upset, you dickhead.’
“No, it’s fine,” seems like the right thing to say.
“Anyway, what are you still doing here? You know the rules - on your last day you do a half-arsed job and leave at 2pm.”
“I’m never knowingly half-arsed.” I meet his snigger with a smile.
He’s right, I’m breaking the universal office protocol. I should be home by now but I’m not ready yet. I just want to linger a little longer because I don’t know when I’ll be in an office next. Something tells me it won’t be for a while. I know that’s really sad and most people can’t wait to get home but I’ll miss the camaraderie of a team. I’ll miss the gossip over tea. I’ll miss the moaning about work, the office politics, the stirring, the bitching. I’ll miss being part of something.
I’m using these last moments to trawl through my emails, sending anything and everything that looks vaguely useful to my personal address. Wading through the litany of messages is therapeutic. The notes of praise from hospital managers providing validation, the short and sharp to and fro with Bushra offering comic relief, the 7pm meeting minutes fired off when nobody was at their desk to read it, remind me that I was indeed a hard worker. An arse coverer. I deserved better, really. I deserved more than this.
“I think you’ll do really well, for what it’s worth.”
I look up. It’s like Eric had read my self-pitying mind.
“I was just saying, I think you’ll do well wherever you’re off to next. I’ve sat opposite you long enough to see you’re a trooper. And I don’t profess to know anything about PR but I’m guessing all those national pieces of coverage I heard you talk about show you know your stuff.”
“Thanks Eric. That means a lot,” I tell him. He’s still a bit of a prick though, I tell myself.
***
My phone pings. It’s M. He’s probably wondering where I am. I should have been home ages ago.
I’m outside, his message reads.
We’ve been married over a year and a half and I still get goosebumps every time I see such an ominous message. I hope that feeling never goes away.
The bipolar weather is doing its thing. I don’t know how it can be frosty and warm at the same time.
Through the commuters I see glimpses of M, eyes smiling.
It’s a rarity for him to be early to meet me. I could get used to it. He’s holding a box behind him, trying and failing to conceal it.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says, though I already know what it is. Still, I go with the flow to let him have his moment. He brings the blue box forward to reveal a set of four cupcakes. Four of my favourite cupcakes. One Oreo flavoured, one buttercream, one black forest gateau and one that looks like a simple sponge with an iced heart on top.
“We’re celebrating,” he says.
“Celebrating?”
“Yeah. Celebrating the end of your old job and the start of better things.”
“How corny are you?” I say, unsure what to do with this random act of affection.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he whispers, “but I’m corny because I kind of like you.”
“So I can’t share that on my Facebook status?”
M laughs. “Oh yeah, that’s fine. Just no telling anyone in the real world.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, as we head in the opposite direction of home.
“Nowhere in particular. I thought we could just walk.” M clasps my hand, interlocking his fingers with mine.
“That’s a bit romantic. What if people look?” I tease.
“It’s alright, let them look.”
We walk on in silence through the rush of people hurrying to their next destination, be that home or the pub. We go past the iconic buildings which never fail to inspire me. The Gherkin appears like a black glass giant peeping through the tiny St Mary’s Axe Road. The old grandeur of The Bank of England plays host to many men in black tuxedos, not a brown face among them. We cross over the Bank intersection, where it seems all the power and privilege cross paths. Then we get to the most breath-taking structure of all, the one that means the most to me.
“I see what you’re doing. Smooth,” I say as we walk through the churchyard of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. The powdery white overbearing building is as popular with onlookers and tourists as always. We have to navigate through people and pigeons to get to Millennium Bridge, where this great chapter of my life started seemingly a lifetime ago.
“Don’t worry. I won’t propose again. There’ll be none of this renewing our vows crap. We’re Bengali. One massive wedding is enough.”
“What do you mean? You still owe me a boat ring!” I laugh, remembering the whole traumatic ordeal.
“You were whingeing so I had to get you a diamond ring instead!” M reminds me.
It was such a big deal at the time, yet it feels so small now.
As we reach the south of the river, M’s spontaneity is swept away. “What do you wanna do now?”
“Well, even though I’m freezing my bum off, I really do want to sit down and eat my cupcake.”
“In that case, that bench over there has slightly less bird shit on it.”
Who said chivalry is dead?
The slightly less soiled seating just happens to be a stone’s throw from Shakespeare’s Globe, another of my favourite places.
“You’re happy, right? With the life we have?” he asks.
“Bloody hell, that’s deep for a Friday evening!” I didn’t see that coming.
“Well it’s been a deep day! Or a big one, for you,” says M.
“Okay, I’ll indulge. And of course I’m happy. It’s just...”
“Go on?” says M.
“I just wish I’d secured a job, or something, before my last day. That would have shown them.”
“Shown who?”
“Them! Everyone.” I look down. “And me.”
M takes my leather gloved-hand in his. “You’ve got nothing to prove and you’re worth more than your work.”
“I know. It’s my pride talking. And yeah, I am happy, that aside. Some things have been hard but this has been the best time of my life. The holidays we’ve had. The memories we’ve made. The cupcake I’ve just eaten.”
“Hey, what’s with the past tense? We’re still in this best time! You’ve got three cupcakes left!”
“I know but we are going to have to be grown-ups at some point. I’ll have to get a job. Give it a couple years, we’ll have to start thinking about kids. Then we’ll have to think about moving back up north.”
“Who said we have to start thinking about kids in a couple of years?”
“Well, no one, but... I’ll be 30. I’m not getting younger. And the job thing is inevitable. We need to eat.”
“Don’t worry about all that. These things will work out,” says M. “Remember, my mum said we have good luck together? I think it’s true. We’ll have kids when we’re ready. We don’t have to go by anyone else’s timetable, just because it’s the done thing.”
“You’re looking forward to having kids though, right?”
“Yeah, course I am. But right now, I’m happy just to be here. Think about it. We can eat out every night of the week, holiday whenever, sleep in on weekends...”
“Ooh get you, Mr Modern. People will talk about you. You and your modern Mrs!”
“Then let them talk.”
That’s becoming his mantra.
Scores of couples are making their way to the theatre, clad in scarves, arm in arm, protecting each other from the ravages of winter. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say most of them are in the throes of early romance. That new, unpredictable, exciting phase.
Then I remember, I didn’t find anything exciting about being single and dating. I hated the not knowing. I hated the meetings that came to nothing, even though I’d planned out a whole wedding in my head. I hated the biodatas, the pictures in the park, the forced smiles, the online exchanges. I couldn’t wait to be married, and now I am.
It’s funny, we’re always waiting for the golden era, or thinking it’s already passed. People talk about the golden age like it’s some zeitgeist moment that has long gone. The good old days. The truth is, we’re too busy reminiscing about the good old days to realise we’re actually living in the golden era right now. This is my golden time. No more looking back, no more rose tinted lenses.