SIX

‘Amy!’ Adam barked as I came in that morning. I stopped still, my bag halfway off my shoulder.

He didn’t look up from his phone when I came in. How did he know it was me? Does he just yell at random people until he gets the right one coming through the door?

‘Can you go to an SEO talk this afternoon? Claire was supposed to go, but she’s not coming in.’

‘Sure,’ I said cautiously, sliding my bag onto the desk. ‘When? Where?’

‘Five thirty in Hackney. I can send you the details.’

I did some quick mental calculations. I’m attending a book launch in Bloomsbury tonight. I only know the author via Twitter, where we’ve exchanged a few snide jokes, but Penny always drags me along to these things to try and tempt me away from Steady and to the World of Journalism and Writing – as if I’m not already painfully aware that free Prosecco and fancy crisps are a nicer prospect than fundraising bake sales and having to buy your own teabags. The launch starts at seven. I should just – just – be able to make it.

‘Have you got sign-off yet?’

‘No, we’re finding it hard to get a time to all meet, and …’ Stop talking, Amy. Just stop talking. ‘… it’s hard because it’s Rosie Lucas rather than Joe, and so I don’t know how to play her …’ Seriously, he doesn’t care. ‘… but I’m chasing, and hoping to get sign-off … um, soon.’

‘Fine,’ he said, still staring at his phone. I collapsed into my desk, relieved, and just as I reached for the mouse to wake my computer up, I noticed him shake his head in disbelief. Cold sickness rose up my throat. I swallowed it down, just about managed not to choke on it, and got to work.

By the time we get to 4.45pm and it’s time for me to leave for the talk, my hands are shaking but I’m fairly confident in my evening’s plans. I’ve worked out the journey from the talk to the book launch numerous times, and calculated the timings perfectly. As long as I leave at 6.30pm, I should arrive at the launch for 7.15pm – late enough that Penny will probably have already arrived and I won’t have to talk to strangers, but not so late she’ll be pissed off with me for being rude. And the talk won’t be longer than an hour, will it? How much is there to say about Search Engine Optimisation?

The talk is being held in one of those super-cool co-working spaces. Everything is orange or white and plastic and translucent, every edge curved somehow. I had to walk round the building several times until I could be sure it was the right one. Even then I had to buy a flat white from a cafe across the road and casually hang around until I saw someone else go in so I knew which of the huge glass panes doubled up as a door.

‘Hi! I’m here for the SEO talk,’ I said to the beautiful, crop-top wearing woman behind reception. I tried not to stare at her tiny waist and flat stomach, and pinched my flabby sides hard in punishment when I failed.

‘Name?’ she replied, not unkindly but also not entirely unlike a robot.

‘Amy Jones, from Steady.’

Robo-Lady ran her finger down a list, spotted my name, and highlighted it in orange before plucking a sticker with my name on it from the desk and handing it to me.

‘Just down there,’ she said, waving. ‘And here’s your goodie bag.’ She had slim arms with muscles popping out at the biceps, a thin line of geometric shapes circling her elbow. As she leant back, the light caught the multiple piercings in her ear.

God, she’s cool! I wish I was cool.

Clutching my coffee cup, I followed her vague wave towards the room where the talk was happening. There was a group of men with what my dad would call ‘haircuts’ standing outside, wearing shirts with quirky patterns on them, all chatting and laughing loudly. I pushed my way through the testosterone-fest to the door and was surprised to find that the talk was being held in a room laid out like a cute indie cinema rather than a meeting room. There weren’t many people sat down, yet; most of them were women like me, sitting on their own and studiously examining their phones. I attempted to get myself, my rucksack and my enormous goodie bag into a seat without falling over or getting stuck, and (mostly) succeeded.

My cheeks were hot even though the room was cool. I checked my phone: 5.25pm. Cool. To pass the five minutes before the talk started, I peered inside the goodie bag, rubbed my eyes after being dazzled by the bright orange goodies within, opened my rucksack and started decanting the freebies into it. I made a note to keep the notebook, lip balm and pen, but to chuck the mug, stress toy and bright-orange man-shaped XXL t-shirt as soon as I got home. After folding the bag up, I stashed it under my chair and waited.

5.30pm. 5.35pm. 5.38pm … I shifted in my seat uneasily and looked around. The flat white, which I’d finished in a hundred tiny swigs after I’d packed my bag just so I had something to do with my body, was racing round my system and my left leg was jiggling up and down, seemingly of its own accord. The door swung open and shut as the men outside gradually came in and took their seats, but the room was still less than half full. 5.41pm. 5.43pm …

Shit. Fuck. Ballsacks … What do I do?

5.45pm. I need to leave at 6.30pm. I can’t be late for Penny again. 5.46pm. Adam knows I’m here – I can’t say I would come to the talk and then not go, he’ll murder me!

What do I do?

5.47pm. I could just stay until it gets to 6.30pm and then leave? But then I’ll have to walk past everyone in the middle of the talk and this is a really small room. Everyone would see me, and I bet that woman outside isn’t going to leave, I’d have to go past her.

5.48pm. The room was still a third empty. 5.49pm. Fucking shitbags, what do I do? 5.50pm. 5.51pm. 5:52pm … Shit. Shit. Shit. How do I get out of this?

As if someone were watching, I put on a panicked expression and shoved my phone in my pocket. As I stood up, my vision was peppered with little black spots; I ignored them and rushed out of the room, not turning so I couldn’t see the looks of surprise from everyone else – even though, rationally, I knew they were probably totally ignoring me. As I flung open the door, Robo-Lady looked up.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I panted, the wildness in my eyes only slightly put on. ‘My husband … he’s been hurt at work … I have to go.’

‘Oh my God! Okay, of course, no problem,’ she said. She opened her mouth to say more but I was already running away. ‘Can I do anything?’

‘No, no,’ I called over my shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry.’

As I burst out onto the street it occured to me that to Robo-Lady, it looks like I turned up, bagged a load of freebies, and left. Guilt punched me in the stomach. I kept running until I was at the end of the street and round the corner, where I was sure the treacherous building with its glass walls couldn’t betray my lack of actual emergency, and I slowed to a walk.

That couldn’t have gone worse, really. Unless I’d physically vomited in front of everyone, but that’s a bit much, even for me. As I marched through the streets of East London, ignoring the burning in my calves and the stabbing pains in the arches of my feet, I went through my options. I needed to figure out how to stop Adam from finding out that I left early. I could email the organisers directly, maybe get the presentation and some notes from the talk? I needed to do that before the talk ended and they had time to post event admin – okay, I can do that on the bus. I rounded the corner to the bus stop and saw a sign on it that made my heart sink: ‘Bus stop not in use’.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!

Okay, fine. I opened Google Maps, inputted the address of the book launch, and followed the tiny pulsing blue dot that represented my current location until it led me to a different bus stop, to the start of a different route. I’m not going to get there until 7.30pm, now, but that’s still not so late that Penny can be properly annoyed – is it? Is it? I jiggled my legs up and down until the bus arrived, threw myself into the most secluded seat I could find, and opened up my work email.

Hi Ros – I’m so, so sorry I had to leave the talk tonight. I was really looking forward to it. Is there any chance you can send over the presentation or notes on the talk, please? My team were really keen on finding out what you had to say.

I pressed send. As my inbox refreshes, three new emails come through. A cold fist closes around my heart as I see the first one is from Rosie cunting Lucas.

My meeting ended unexpectedly early. Are you around now?

It was sent at 4.49pm, minutes after I’d closed my computer. The next email is from Elias, and was sent two minutes later.

I am! Amy, are you here?

The final email is also from Elias, and sent at 5.03pm.

I think Amy’s left already. Pity! Hopefully see you tomorrow. I’m in and out of meetings all day, but might be able to squeeze you both in.

If I hadn’t had to leave early to go to a panel I didn’t care about and didn’t end up staying for, I might have had the schools’ copy signed off by now. I swore so forcefully the elderly couple in front turned and scowled. I scowled back and they looked away nervously.

Don’t test me, Grandpa. I’m fully in the mood to make someone bleed, and I’m very happy for it to be you rather than me.

*

When I arrived at the independent bookshop in the heart of Bloomsbury, I was soaked in sweat. I don’t mean this in the way a lot of people mean it – when they’ve maybe got sweaty armpits and a sweaty upper lip and need a spritz of perfume to feel fresh again. I mean, I was soaked in sweat. I have always been a sweaty person, but when training for a 10k a few years ago, I unlocked the ability to sweat in new and exciting parts of my body such as my shins and the backs of my hands. Having raced across London, I was utterly drenched. I touched my back and found my dress was sopping. My underarms would be the same, I knew. Christ, I could smell my boobs!

And this bookshop, though beautiful, was far too tiny to hold the 75 people that Ivy had invited to the launch of her critically acclaimed debut novel. Everyone was packed in like commuters at 8.45am on the Northern Line, only it’s acceptable to be a sweaty mess on the Tube but not really The Done Thing at a book launch in an bijou independent bookshop, especially when you’re a fat charity pleb rather than a fabulous new connection people can use to get commissions.

‘There you are!’ Penny said, sweeping down on me. ‘You gorgeous girl, how are you?’ As she pulled me into a one-armed hug, I angled my body so she didn’t get an armful of cold sweat.

‘I’m okay, how are you?’ I said pulling back and holding her at arm’s length – also sweat-smell’s length, I hoped. ‘You look incredible.’

I always say this to Penny at parties, but it’s because she does indeed always look incredible. She’d clearly had a blow-dry because her thick blonde hair was gleaming and bouncy. She was wearing a floor-length, floral dress in clashing pastels, cut so low at the back you could just see a line of lace from her knickers. If I’d worn it, I’d look like a mental patient on day release. Penny resembled a character from an indie rom-com.

‘So do you!’ she lied brightly.

I suddenly spot Janae – who met Ivy through Tumblr back when she was starting out as an artist and Ivy was posting Star Trek fan fiction – walking towards me and waving. Since I saw her last she’d swapped her blue braids for violet twists drawn into an elaborate bun on top of her head. She looked gorgeous. As she hugged me, pressing me against the clingy red dress she was wearing, I felt a wave of nausea and self-hatred that was almost comforting in its familiarity.

God, I’m shit. I don’t deserve to be here.

I picked up a flute of Prosecco, sipped it gamely and tried to hide the face I pulled afterwards. Penny, Janae and I squeezed through the packed shop in search of Ivy, whose novel, We Told You So, we are celebrating. A Times reviewer described it as being like if ‘Nora Ephron tried to write a Wes Anderson film, but met Stephen King on the way,’ and no one could tell if it was a compliment or not. Either way, the publishers were very excited about the comparison and had put the quote on all the posters.

Ivy was standing by a tower of books, holding court with a group of people, including a couple who must have been her parents because they were the (a) oldest, (b) most nervous and (c) the only other non-white people in the room other than Janae. Ivy wasn’t listening to them, though. Instead, she was gesturing with her wine and laughing.

‘… it was such a lovely weekend, but now I’ve got the worst case of cystitis, like peeing razorblades. I’m mainlining cranberry juice, but I fucking hate the stuff! Reminds me of getting pissed on two-for-one vodka cranberries at uni and going home to someone’s crappy dorm room to do second-rate drugs,’ she drolled to peals of laughter. Her father looked very uncomfortable.

‘Did those memories make it into the book, darling?’ said Penny, pushing forward through the crowd. Ivy saw her and beamed, her arms opening to embrace her like she was an old friend even though Penny had only met her once before and they loathed each other.

‘Penny, gorgeous girl!’ said Ivy, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’

‘Awww, thank you for inviting me!’ Penny replied sweetly, even though she was only invited because they share an editor. ‘And what a fantastic book! Really, it’s so thought provoking. I loved it.’

If this writing thing ever fell through, Penny should become an actress. Only last week she was WhatsApping me about how it was the biggest load of shite she’d ever read and she was going to recycle it rather than give it to a charity shop so that no one else would be subjected to it.

‘You’re so sweet,’ Ivy purred, just as disingenuously. ‘Oh, we must get a selfie with Lily.’ She turned to grab the arm of the red-headed woman I knew was the aforementioned editor. ‘Lily, Lily, come on, let’s get a photo with Penny!’

‘Let me take it,’ I said, reaching for Ivy’s phone. She looked me up and down, smiled sweetly, and handed me her phone. I took several photos, their heads tilting this way and that, and handed it back. Penny and Lily crowded round the phone to find the most flattering picture while Janae teased them loudly, her grin wide and completely lacking in malice. I felt suddenly awkward, in the way, so melted backwards into the crowd.

It was very hot. And there were a lot of people. Even without the sweaty back, I’d be uncomfortable. Eventually I found a place to stand, back to the wall, and watched the crowd. They were all talking, smiling and laughing like they were having the time of their lives; Plato’s Form of cool, cultured, successful people.

God, how do they do it? How can they go into a room and be charming and confident and chatty? Are they all on cocaine, is that it? I know cocaine used to be big in the publishing and writing worlds, but I thought it had died out a bit now, what with the recession and everything. How did they even afford cocaine, along with those lovely dresses? And I know from Instagram that loads of these people have bought their own flats; how did they afford drugs and to save up a £30,000 deposit? I can’t even save up for a new pair of Doc Martens. Is this the level of success they’re operating at? Am I really so far behind?

When I felt a gentle tap on my arm, I turned to see a familiar face beaming at me: Claire Winters, aka Little Claire, aka the junior content producer (Youth) at Steady, who was replaced by Fee a year or so ago.

‘Claire!’ I said in genuine delight, hugging her tightly. She hugged me back, arms wrapping all the way round me. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Amy! I’m so happy to see you.’ She beamed. I noticed the gap she used to have in her teeth is slowly being closed by a pair of braces she didn’t have 18 months ago. ‘I work with Ivy at Nouveau Femme.’

‘But I thought you left to go to Mind …?’

‘I did, but the job at Nouveau came up pretty quickly so I just went for it,’ she said. The longer I looked at her, the more differences I saw – her eyebrows were more neatly shaped, her lips a beautiful bright red when she always used to protest her mouth was too big to wear lipstick.

‘That’s great! How’s it going?’ I managed to keep my voice excited and happy, even though I could feel panic and envy seeping up my throat.

I am happy for her, I am. But fuck. Fuck.

‘Really well, actually. I’ve just been promoted to senior writer.’ She looked down modestly, but was flushed with pleasure. I squealed in a delight I definitely did feel, but perhaps not as much as I felt seething, sickening jealousy.

‘That’s so great! Well done you!’ I said, grabbing her shoulder in what I hoped was an affectionate way.

‘Thanks. Hey, how’s Steady going?’

‘Yeah, it’s okay,’ I said brightly, trying to add something that wasn’t a lie or would make me burst into tears in the middle of a room full of successful people, but I was spared. Little Claire immediately shook her head.

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. I saw Nish the other day …’ When? Where? Why wasn’t I invited? ‘… and he said the same thing. Whenever I speak to people still at Steady, it’s like I’m talking to prisoners. “Oh, you know, it’s fine. The food’s okay, now. Hardly any broken glass in the beans”.’ We both laughed, and I hoped the sound wasn’t as hollow as it felt. ‘Honestly, Ames, you’re so good, so talented. You deserve better than that place. Are you still doing your freelance stuff on the side?’

‘I haven’t in a while,’ I admitted. ‘Just been busy, I guess.’

‘That’s a shame. You’re such a good writer. Hey, why don’t you email me tomorrow and I can put you in touch with my editor, see if I can help you out?’

Wait, what? I had to spend six months getting you to stop putting apostrophes whenever there was a word with an ‘s’ at the end because ‘it was just easier that way’. What the fuck are you doing, telling me you can help me out?

‘That sounds lovely, I’ll definitely do that,’ I said.

At that point, Lily dinged a fork against a glass and started to make a speech. I grinned through it, and the agent’s speech, and Ivy’s, clapping at all the right places and taking lots of photos dutifully posted to Instagram later. Then, as soon as was decent, I found Penny and Janae, told them a lie neither of them believed about needing to be home to feed the cat, and escaped.

The cool air outside shook me out of the fuzzy blur I was in inside the bookshop – like getting into a hot bath on a winter’s day, but in reverse. I gulped in its cool, admittedly pollution-ridden freshness as if I’d been drowning. I put my headphones on, switched on a podcast, and spent the rest of my journey home ignoring it. Instead, I stared at my reflection in the bus window, at the familiar angles and curves of my eyes and my cheeks, at the shadows which moved over my face as the bus drove through the night, and wondered how exactly everything went so wrong.