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Having driven everywhere in Manchester it’s a dream being able to walk to work. I’ve always been a nervous driver and I used to dread my commute on snowy days or in heavy rain. I’d be the only one repeatedly checking the weather forecast when there were flood warnings, in the hope that my old boss, Maggie, would send us all home. Oh, how I prayed for her bad weather-induced mercy. She rarely gave it. My current boss, Bernadette, is the total opposite. She’s rarely in so wouldn’t know or care if we were to work from home, come snow or sunshine. Not that I’d ever take the piss.
My new walk to work is easy. It’s less than ten minutes from the flat. And, luck would have it, it’s en route to M’s work. So he walked me there for my first day, not that I’m feeble or anything.
“Do you have your pass to get in?” M asks.
“Yeah, it’s right here.” I wave my plastic photo ID in front of his face.
“Good. See if they can give you a lanyard so you can keep it around your neck. It’s a bit safer that way.”
“It’s fine. I don’t make the same mistake twice,” I reply, acutely aware of my Oyster card fail, which is no doubt the inspiration for M’s advice.
“Alright, just saying. Anyway, have a good day,” he says, hugging me goodbye.
Before he walks away, I shout back: “What do you want to eat tonight?”
“I don’t mind, really. What do you fancy? Do you want me to pick something up on the way home?”
“No, I’ll cook. Let me know if you have any requests.”
“Just keep it easy. It’s a weeknight, after all.” And with that, my easy-going husband walks away.
As I step through the expansive revolving doors of my new office, I can see that it’s so much sleeker than my old base. The lobby is pristine white and there’s a huge screen on the wall in front of us displaying the company logo in bright blue. There’s even a concierge. Though, to be fair, we had a reception desk at the regional office, it’s just that nobody was ever there. The days I’d forget my pass were a nightmare as I’d be standing outside in the rain, waiting for Bushra to finally report for duty and let me in.
Here, the concierge is suited and booted in a black uniform and matching cap. I shouldn’t really be surprised by this, it is the company headquarters after all.
I head up to the third floor in the lift. The silver metal doors open out into a room that’s bigger than any other office I’ve worked at. Huge steel pipes snake across the echoey, high ceiling. I hope there are no socially awkward questions pinged my way, like they were at workplaces of old, as they’d reverberate across the entire office.
A few faces look up, before immediately looking down as I make my way through the rows of tables to the PR hub. Instinctively, I play a game of spot the brownie. I can’t help myself. It’s what I do when surveying new territory. I can see one guy who looks to be in his thirties and is likely Pakistani, and another young guy who could be Indian, who’s sat next to an older woman who may also be Indian. I hope that wasn’t deliberate.
Julia once asked me, whilst trying to avoid being overtly racist, how I could tell the difference. Without going into specifics, I said that just like other races, there were some broad identifying factors - darker skin, lighter skin, big noses, short stature, dark under eyes - that sort of thing. I didn’t tell her which attribute was typical of which ethnicity. She then started her own game of guess who. It was a fun afternoon.
I wish my new team wasn’t housed at the very end of the huge space. I’m feeling a bit self-conscious about these eyes being fleetingly on me. Though I’ve been to HQ a few times, there are many faces here I don’t recognise that are having a good old nosey at the new girl.
Delilah, the head of PR, looks like she’s putting the world to rights with Jerome, one of the IT guys.
“It’s not as simple as that,” she says, swinging her brunette ponytail back over her shoulder. “These things are never as black and white as you say.”
“Unfortunate turn of phrase!” A small, dark-haired guy sat opposite her says, before settling back down behind his grey fabric desk screen. He grimaces at a guy sat next to him, who has jaw-length curly hair and quirky glasses that suggests his job is creative.
“Stop! You know what I mean! Boys, come on. Help me out here,” Delilah pleads, mockingly putting her hands together.
“Soz mate, I think we’ll sit this one out,” the dark haired guy says, apparently speaking for his curly-haired colleague, too.
“I’m just saying, if it was a Muslim guy who done it, it would’ve been on the national news. Instead, it died a death on the regional telly because it was some white guy. Sorry, I mean lone wolf.” Jerome does a finger wiggle quotation.
Oh God, what’s this? What are they talking about?
“I’m sorry but I disagree. It wasn’t a terrorist attack. The man wasn’t doing it for a fundamental cause. He was just a nut job.” Delilah scoops up a spoon of her muesli and looks back at her screen, seemingly putting the matter to bed.
“You see! That’s the problem right there. Who’s to say these boys that shout ‘Allah Akhbar’ and set a bomb off aren’t nut jobs? Yet some guy called Dave who goes on a stabbing spree through Tottenham is? What’s the difference?”
Delilah looks up to see me hovering beside her. “Oh hey! You’re here! Welcome to your new base!” she says a little too enthusiastically, no doubt glad to be saved by the bell.
“There we go, let’s hear your take.” Jerome asks me, the Muslim girl, to see what I think of this lone wolf whom I’d not even heard about. He’s right, it barely made a dent on the news agenda. Which reminds me, I really ought to start watching the regional news more regularly. Granted, I’ll still be covering the north of England, but given that my office base is now in London, I should at least be informed about what’s going on in the capital.
I’m not touching this one with a barge pole. I’ve long learnt that politics shouldn’t be discussed in the workplace, particularly when it’s the delicate conversation around terrorism, or what constitutes a terrorist. Being a Muslim woman, I feel I have to bite my tongue and not say anything too contentious, even though I share his exact sentiments. If a white person argues the same case they’re a leftie, or at worst a terrorist sympathiser. What would it make me if I dared take such a stance?
I wonder if Jerome, being the only black guy in the office, feels the same discomfort when conversations are sparked about his community. I wonder if that’s what makes him see things the way I do. Maybe we’re bonded by the same feeling of being a bit different. Sitting on the outside, looking in, while everyone else discusses us.
“Leave her alone, it’s her first day here. Let’s at least give her a chance to get her coat off. We don’t want word getting back to the north region that we’re not good hosts.” Delilah stands up. “You’ve obviously met Jerome the last time you were here and we did that marketing presentation. Thanks for making sure our computers worked.”
Jerome raises a hand as if to say, you’re welcome.
“These two that are sat on the fence are John and Rick, our graphic designers...”
The guys who sensibly eschewed the political debate offer some hushed hellos.
“Right, so now you’ve met the trouble, here’s the rest.” Delilah takes me by the arm and hurries me away from any further questions from Jerome. “I don’t think you know everyone so I’ll do a quick walk around, but before that do you want to put your things down?”
“That would be great. I walked here, so I need to set this laptop down before I lose the feeling in my shoulder.” I slide the bag strap down and place it on an empty desk near Delilah.
“Oh, sorry. That’s where Bryony will be sitting. The new PR exec I mentioned at our last meeting? She’s starting on Wednesday,” says Delilah.
That was terribly presumptuous of me, expecting to be sat next to the head of PR.
“Follow me and I’ll show you to your desk. It’s temporary at the moment while we sort out some logistics.”
Delilah leads me to an empty row of desks, with one guy sat opposite, seemingly in deep thought as he stares at his screen. He doesn’t look like he’ll be up to much on the conversation front.
“This is Eric, he works in market research.” Delilah gestures towards my new desk mate.
I say hi. Eric barely looks up and instead makes some kind of noise. It sounded like a grunt.
“Anyway, the marketing girls go for lunch around 12.30pm, you should join them. They’re a really cool bunch.”
I’m sure they are, though I wouldn’t know as I’m not sitting on the PR and marketing hub, I think.
Glass half full, glass half full. I should just be grateful for a seat at HQ. At least I haven’t come to London jobless. Plus, it’s not like they’ve shoved me in a broom cupboard. I’m just with a very, very, boring man.
Again, glass half full.
***
“Hiya girly, I didn’t expect to hear from you. Mum told me about the phone palaver,” middle sis laughs down the phone. “Trust you to leave your most important thing behind.”
“What do you mean, trust me? It’s not like I’ve ever done that before.”
“It’s not like you’ve ever left home before. Apart from when you went to uni, and didn’t you forget your new bedsheets and mum had to post them?”
Bitch got me there.
“Anyway, I just called to let you know I’m being organised in other ways. I’ve registered with a doctor and I’m on my way to see them to talk about the pill.”
“Glad to hear it. I was worried you’d be one of those that gets pregnant within the first week of marriage.” Middle sis huffs.
“I would’ve done it before the wedding itself but, if you remember, I was having something of a nervous breakdown trying to sort everything out and my sisters were missing in action for a lot of it.”
“Oh, come on! I thought you were over that? I was pregnant and knackered. And I’m still pregnant and knackered!”
I laugh. “I’m just winding you up. Anyway, how are you?”
“I’m fed up. I just want this baby out. I’m a real treat right now. Big sis was right about popping later. I thought it’d be a slim pregnancy third time round, too, but no such luck. Plus, I’m getting all these horrible symptoms.”
“You mean morning sickness?” I ask.
“No. Pregnancy farts.”
Nice. I love the fact that I can have such gross conversations with my sisters that I couldn’t with anyone else, including M. We’ve only been married a week. I’ve not even gone on honeymoon yet, so the last thing I want to do is bring flatulence to the table. I’ll break him in gently.
“Speaking of bum-based issues, did you find that after getting married you were too shy to go to the toilet with your hubby around?” I ask.
“I can’t remember. It’s been nearly 10 years now. I probably couldn’t go, especially at the beginning. Tell you what, though, that quickly goes out the window, especially as you start having kids. Like I say, your poor brother-in-law is putting up with all my windy problems. That’s why I’ve been on your case about contraception. Try not to get up the duff for at least two years. Get to know him before kids take over and you lose control of your pelvic floor.”
Middle sis lets out a small belch which doesn’t go unnoticed. She really is letting loose. You’d never know by looking at her pretty, delicate features that she’d become such a vulgar beast during pregnancy.
“Don’t you dare judge me.” She reads my thoughts. “You just wait ‘til you’re pregnant. Every ounce of femininity and dignity you had will be gone.”
“You know me, I’m a career girl and I don’t have any plans to get pregnant anytime soon.”
“Good. In which case, you might want to consider the implant.”
“Oh no, is that the nasty corkscrew one?” Just thinking about it makes me wince and cross my legs.
“Huh? No, you’re thinking of the coil. The implant is what you put in your arm, not your vag. It lasts for three years so you don’t have to even think about it. That’s what I’m going to do after this one.”
I’m not sure if I like the idea of having something inserted in my arm, or anywhere else for that matter. “Hmm. I think I’ll stick to regular pills. It feels less invasive.”
“That’s what I was on. You just need to remember to keep taking them every day, otherwise you’ll end up having a whoopsie, like me.”
“I thought yours was planned?”
“This one was. I always said three is the magic number. I’m talking about first time round. And the second. Though don’t ever tell any of my kids they were whoopsies. We’ll just call them happy accidents. Actually, no. Let’s say they were nice surprises. And if you have a whoopsie, you should say the same to your kids when they grow up.”
Sound advice.
“Right, well I’m nearly there now, so let’s chat later,” I say.
“Good. I need a wee anyway.”
On that lovely note, middle sis hangs up without saying goodbye.
As I arrive at the GP surgery, I see that I have the working professionals’ slot, as everybody around me is dressed in office attire. Nobody is daring to make eye contact. Instead, a row of eyelashes are lowered to almost the exact degree, towards either a phone, a book, or the outdated waiting room magazines. They look like soulless mannequins, not real people with ailments, worries and responsibilities.
As I’m filling out the lengthy forms which provide a shopping list of conditions (I feel healthy as I tick none of the boxes, not even the drinking or smoking), a woman in a navy blue skirt suit and Nike trainers sits next to me. I’ve noticed many women combine suits with trainers in London. The look takes smart casual to a whole new level. M keeps telling me that I’ll have to do the same. He reminds me that it’s not Manchester, where you drive everywhere. You’re on foot most of the time, not to mention the steep steps of the underground stations. Luckily, I’ve not had to do much of the latter as everything is within walking distance. For now, I’m sticking to my wedge-heeled boots and I will never, I repeat never, pair trainers with a skirt. I just can’t.
A long screech on the tannoy interrupts my judgement and form filling. I’m summoned.
“I want to talk you through a few options.” Dr Priti Jenkins is more like a saleswoman than a GP, rattling through a list of contraceptive solutions, all of which sound the same. She runs her fingers through her short, salt and pepper hair, while using the other hand to hold her pen pointedly in my direction. There’s talk of blocking, preventing and obstructing, while she details scary symptoms like clots and such like, emphasising each point with a stab of her pen in my face. It’s unnerving.
“But the one I’d really like to talk to you about is the coil,” she says, punctuating her final point by tapping the nib of her pen on her writing pad.
Just the word coil itself is enough to make me recoil in my chair.
“Oh, well I’d rather look into the pill. I’m not really interested in the coil.”
“Why’s that?” Dr Nosey asks.
“Well, it’s just that I’m not keen on the idea of having anything inserted. And, as I work in healthcare, I’ve heard better things about the pill.” I hope pulling out my healthcare card will put paid to her pushing the coil.
“What is it that you do?” she asks.
“I work in PR for a private hospital group. I speak with clinicians everyday and -”
“Okay, right. So... admin. Well, anyway, I think the coil gets an unfair rep. And the truth is...”
The rest was a blur about how convenient, easy and generally fantastic the coil is. You’d think she was on commission. I can’t shake off her first comment: So... admin. So dismissive. So curt. So rude. Dr Priti Jenkins thinks she’s better than me.
After a couple of rebuttals from myself as I veer towards the pill option, Dr Jenkins gives in and writes me a prescription.
With another stroke of her choppy greying hair, she has further wisdom to impart: “Just make sure you remember to take them. It’s so easy to forget when you have other priorities, in-laws, cooking and all the rest of it. But if you forget even once or twice, it won’t do its job.”
I do what I always do in the situation, put my PR politeness forward and smile gratefully. Grateful to grab my flimsy prescription for my pills that I will likely forget because of the burden of being an Asian housewife. That’s it. That’s what she meant, isn’t it? I don’t think that comment about in-laws and cooking would’ve been made to anyone who wasn’t brown. I don’t think she’d have been so dismissive about my beloved PR career, one of my proudest achievements that I’d spent years cultivating, had I been white.
Dr Jenkins, with her very un-Indian surname, clearly thinks she’s different. Dr Jenkins clearly thinks she’s better.
I clutch the paper bag carrying my packet of pills for dear life as I walk home. Fearful of dropping them. Fearful of forgetting to take them. Fearful of ending up another statistic in the eyes of Priti Jenkins.
***
“Just don’t think about it,” says M.
He has played the consolatory role on four occasions in less than a week, though I won’t labour on my first boo-boo about leaving my phone in Manchester. If I include that, then the argument that I’m needy and riddled with issues really racks up.
This latest effort is to stop my ranting about the ugly judgement of Priti Jenkins. I have been banging on about it for 10 solid minutes now. I hope I’m not coming across as over-sensitive.
“I know I shouldn’t care but it’s just pissed me off so much. The way she was so patronising about my work. She was definitely talking down to me.” And I’m definitely being repetitive.
“And you’re going to get that here - people thinking they’re better,” says M. “I meet a lot of pretentious Asians, too.”
“That’s happened to you before?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think so,” he replies, offering zero reassurance. “But yeah, most of the Asians at work drink -”
“Even the Muslim ones?”
“Yeah. To be honest with ya, pretty much all the guys at work do. I think that’s finance for you. They don’t act like they’re better but they do their best to get in with the white guys in the office. It’s like they feel they have to overcompensate or something.”
Overcompensate. It’s something I’ve been doing all my life, though my methods are different. I overcompensate with my work, rather than trying to drink colleagues under the table. If I’m to be honest, truly honest, I’ve been overcompensating in all aspects of my life. Overcompensating for not being as fair as my sisters by being funny instead. Or being a good daughter you couldn’t fault in any other way. A dead cert for all things. It’s sad, really.
I keep these thoughts to myself as I don’t want M to know quite how deep my feelings go. I don’t want to let him in on my secret complex just yet.
However, there is one thing I have to ask, one wall I have to break down.
“You are proud of me, aren’t you?” I ask, looking away as I feel rather stupid for being so desperately in need of validation.
M takes me gently by the chin and turns my face towards him.
“Are you serious? Course I’m proud of you! Your job is amazing, working with the media, managing so many hospitals. I don’t know any other girls who do your job.”
“No, but other girls have jobs that you recognise. Like teachers, lawyers, or... doctors.” I feel a bad taste in my mouth as I go to the last profession, the gold standard for all Asians and the job held by the pretentious cow who triggered this whole conversation.
There is another chat that springs to mind, too. My first proper chat with M’s mum, where she quizzed me about my work. Again, I jumped into overcompensating mode, over-explaining my career and causing further confusion. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why I care so much that people know I’ve done well in my work. Maybe it’s because it’s all I have. The badge of honour, which I can wear and say: “Look I’ve done good!” Despite it all, despite being a second-generation immigrant, I’ve done good. I was the only brownie in the village and the only dark-skinned girl in my house. I had a lifetime of feeling like the odd one out. The one who’d find it harder to get ahead in life. The one who would find it harder to get married. Against such drawbacks, my career is like my big fuck you to it all.
“I don’t care about any of that stuff.” M interrupts my thoughts. “Neither should you. At the end of the day, I know you work hard and you’re not going to get pregnant straight away. It’s not in our plan. We’re going to have this amazing life in London, go on amazing holidays - of which our honeymoon is coming - and kids will come when we’re both ready. So sod what that GP said. I know you, that’s all that matters. Anyway, speaking of assumptions, remember you thought I was lying about working in finance and I was actually a chicken shop boy?”
“God, I’d forgotten about that,” I laugh. “To be fair, we met online so you could be anybody you wanted to be. And it all did sound a bit too good to be true. I figured there had to be a catch.”
M rests his hands on my shoulders. “That’s where we’re different. I take things more as they are. You have to remember, just because things are good it doesn’t mean there’s going to be a catch. Maybe you just deserve good. Why is that so hard to believe?”
It’s a good question and the first time I’ve been asked it.