This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Six

Oh no, I’m going to be sick.

No, no, I’m not. It’s passed. Sort of. Maybe I’ve got the flu? I’ve never had it. People lose weight when they’ve got the flu, though, don’t they? Maybe this is how I lose two stone and become ‘bod goals’. I have been praying for this moment since secondary school. The illness that stops me eating.

Weirdly, though, the flu feels suspiciously like a hangover.

Wait. I’m remembering something... secret Sauvignon? I always keep a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in the back of the wardrobe just in case Martin gives me an iota of time to myself. But no, I don’t remember going in the wardrobe last night. Alvi’s! My brain spits up the memory on request. I went to Alvi’s corner shop and bought... a bottle of rosé. Oh, god. I vaguely remember shaking the last few drops into my mouth, Beyoncé’s Run The World (Girls) on repeat in the background. I polished off the lot. I’m such a mess .

But I never usually drink at home... Martin won’t even let the idea of a calorie into the apartment. I was definitely here, though. So I was able to drink... because Martin wasn’t home. Yes, he wasn’t here, I know he wasn’t. Because he was out? No... he’s never out. No... he wasn’t home because... because I broke up with him! Oh my god, I binned Martin. It’s all flooding back. Oh, thank the Lord Jesus our saviour.

I sprawl my legs across onto the cool side of the bed and sigh. The beer fear is at full throttle — every drop of guilt I had last night has returned, magnified to the power of ten. But I can’t think about that. I have my life back. The world is mine to conquer. There is now literally nothing standing in my way. What shall I do with myself?

My phone buzzes on the bedside table.

I reach out to grab it and wince as pain throbs in my temples. Bile is rising in my stomach in synchrony; a terrible orchestra of suffering. New WhatsApp message. I enter my passcode. My ancient Android is so full of crap it takes about four hours for it to actually unlock and open. ‘Available device storage dangerously low’ has screamed at me from the notifications bar for two months now. How can a lack of available space on my phone be in any way dangerous ? The guy in charge of adverbs at Samsung needs a performance review.

It’s a message from Kelsey. ‘Where the hell are you?’

Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shiiiiiiit.

It’s a Thursday. I have a job. Everyday, mundane facts that normal people don’t forget. Although normal people do not do the things I do.

I throw myself out of bed, shove on my shoes and run.

* * *

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ I sprint into the office and throw myself onto my chair, closing my eyes against the feeling of my own pulse drumming in my skull.

Silence.

I squint across at Kelsey with one eye. She is staring at me, her mouth hanging open.

‘Have you been sick on yourself?’

‘What? No, I don’t think so.’ I look down. I’m covered in reddish brown stains. What? It has just come to my attention that I am wearing yesterday’s clothes. I may also still be drunk.

‘I don’t... I’m... wait.’ I dash out of the office and up the corridor to the bathroom, which is locked.

‘Margaret?’

WHY LORD, WHY?

‘Theo!’ I spin round and smile, exposing my unbrushed hair to the corridor.

He looks me up and down shamelessly and his hand flies to his mouth. Subtlety is not his strong suit.

‘Are you unwell ? ’ He looks panicked, no doubt wondering if Romulus’s condition is somehow transmittable to humans.

Before I have time to assess the situation and formulate a response, the bathroom door clicks open and Rachael steps out.

‘Good morning, Theodore.’ She flits her eyes in my direction and starts to stride towards the stairwell, her heels clipping on the lino. She slows down and stops for a second, before turning slowly and resting her gaze on me.

‘Oh. My. God.’ Her mouth is twitching at the corners.

I’m standing, the smile from earlier still plastered to my face, as they both stare at me in horror.

‘I need to go to the toilet,’ I say unexpectedly, and run into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

Oh god. Oh, help. What is happening? I’m standing next to the toilet and I can hear Theo and Rachael discussing me at length through the locked door.

I turn to face the mirror. Oh sweet baby JESUS. I am wearing the crumpled top and skirt I had on yesterday. More horrifyingly, however, are the smears of reddish brown covering my entire outfit. What is that?! I pull up a piece of the fabric and take a tentative sniff. Hmm. It smells a bit garlicky, a bit coriandery. Oh my god, it’s the curry. I raise my eyes to my face and recoil in horror. Crusty brown flakes are tangled in my hair and there is an unmistakeable ring of lamb madras around my mouth. A smear of yellow korma sauce crumbles off my forehead as I touch it. It hits me that I must have stumbled into Alvi’s dressed like this last night. I’ll have to start forking out for Sainsbury’s essentials from now on.

I came to work covered in curry. This is the absolute low point of my life. It cannot get any worse than this.

What am I supposed to do? How didn’t I realise that I was wearing yesterday’s clothes? How didn’t I remember that my bed was full of curry? How didn’t I notice ?

Okay. Right. No time to wallow, must problem-solve. I can’t sit in these clothes all day; that is not an option if I want to remain in employment long enough to file my personal injury claim. I can’t go home again, not after I did absolutely nothing yesterday.

There’s only one thing for it. I pull out my phone and fire off a text. Ten seconds later, no doubt fuelled out of her chair by the promise of hearing the details of my latest drama, Kelsey knocks on the door.

‘Maggie? Are you OK?’

I unlock the door and open it an inch.

‘I need your gym gear,’ I whisper.

‘What? No! Theodore says you’ve had an accident. I don’t really want that on my gym clothes...’

‘I haven’t had an accident!’ I hiss. ‘It’s curry. I slept in curry.’

‘You slept in curry?’ She presses her face to the gap in the door and scans me up and down with one bulging eyeball.

‘Yes! I don’t have time to explain, I need clothes. Give me your gym stuff.’

‘I ran six miles in it this morning, it’s all sweaty.’ She grimaces, but I catch the slight smugness on her face as she basks in her glowy, post-run freshness and compares it to my current situation. Oh, good for you, Kelsey. You ran. You pumped your legs up and down like every human ever. Whoop-de-fucking-do.

Oh my god, this is not the point. Stop being a jealous, malicious cow and problem-solve, Maggie! ‘I don’t care. Please, Kelsey? I’ll buy you new stuff!’

‘God.’ She sighs. ‘It’s all right, I don’t want Primark’s finest. Just wash them and give them back as soon as possible, OK?’

* * *

This is absolutely horrific. I have squeezed my size fourteen body into size eight GymShark leggings and an XS sports bra. Both are white and my exposed flab is almost indistinguishable from the fabric. I look like a multipack of kitchen roll. There also does not appear to be a t-shirt or vest of any kind. I can’t bear to go out there; my boobs have been squished so much that they are threatening to burst out from under my armpits. I am almost certain I will need the fire brigade to get me out of this.

What with the curry and Kelsey’s gym gear not exactly being fresh from the wash, this bathroom is a hotbox of pain. I am so tempted to shove my curry clothes back on and run home. I could put on fresh pyjamas and just start again tomorrow. An image of my empty money sock swims into my mind. I can’t risk taking another day off and losing this job. No. I have to suck it up (in, actually) and get on with it. Confidence is key.

I yank the window open and pull my cigarettes from my pocket. Something twitches at the back of my mind — another memory from last night — but I can’t grab it. I smoke quickly, sticking my head out of the window and gulping in the cold morning air.

Before I can think, I bundle up my soiled clothes, hold them over my stomach to cover what little remains of my dignity and unlock the door. The musty air of the basement wafts through and I stop for a second, trying one last time to stuff my boobs into the bra, before striding down the corridor with purpose.

I make it back into the office and ignore Kelsey’s sniggering as I plonk my blindingly white arse into my chair. I shovel my stinking clothes into my backpack and turn on my computer, feeling the unyielding Lycra pushing on my vital organs and threatening to cause internal bleeding. Just five hours and forty-six more minutes of this and I get to go home and wash another woman’s sweat out of my armpit stubble.

The latest paradigm-shifting item to land on my to-do list is a product called ‘NestWell’, which promises pregnant women clear skin, heightened energy and improved mental capacity so that they can continue to function at 100per cent efficiency while they casually reorganise billions of cells into a brand-new human being. Studies (funded by the not-quite pharmaceutical company who make NestWell) have found the drug to be 78 per cent effective in 59 per cent of cases. This maths is too much for me, both numerically and in terms of how utterly dire it sounds, so I transform it into ‘ NestWell has been tested on hundreds of women, with life-changing results. ’ I don’t feel too much guilt writing this one, because a side-effect of chronic diarrhoea really could change your life for a while.

‘Ladies!’ Theo is at the door, clapping his hands like he’s summoning a pack of huskies. ‘Conference room, now, please.’

Calling a windowless cell containing a chipped IKEA table and several chairs with missing legs a ‘conference room’ is an outrageous overstatement that I believe Theo has employed to help himself sleep at night. But this is beside the point; I now have to walk into a room full of people while dressed like the Michelin man after an over-indulgent Christmas.

Kelsey and I make our way down the corridor and into the conference room, where Ben, Mohammed and Rachael are sat idly tapping on their phone screens. Theo is wrestling with the projector remote in the corner, stabbing it aggressively and waving it in the air. The projector begins to screech ominously.

Mohammed looks up. ‘Christ on a bike.’

Ben and Rachael flick their eyes up from their screens and do a quick double take when they see me.

‘Erm... Maggie?’ Ben’s mouth is hanging open and he looks quite concerned.

‘Oh, come on, guys!’ I laugh shrilly. ‘Don’t you like it? It’s GymShark!’ I aim this last comment at Rachael — I’ve seen her Instagram feed.

She shoots a pointed glance at my crotch. I look down. Oh no. I’m rocking the world’s most hideous camel toe. Kelsey has taken a seat and is eyeing me with horror, Mohammed is clearly trying not to laugh, and Ben is staring wide-eyed at anything but me.

I make a horrified attempt to cover myself, dignity now absolutely out of the window, and scurry to the last empty seat between Rachael and Mohammed. Theo, who is unaware of my recent show of public indecency, makes his way to the front of the room.

‘Right, the projector isn’t working so I’m afraid I’ll have to do some on-the-spot stuff for you!’ He titters, ‘I knew my improv classes would come in handy one day; “nothing is for nothing”, as Professor Aldman used to say!’

‘Oh my god.’ Rachael is leaning back in her chair with her hand over her mouth. ‘What is that smell ?’

‘Yeah, it stinks.’ Mohammed is sniffing the air like a dog. ‘Jesus, who is that?’

For fuck’s sake.

‘It’s these clothes, they’re not mine, they’re—’

‘Ew, yeah, it smells like pasties!’ Kelsey screeches, flashing me a half-apologetic look.

Bitch! That’s her B.O. they’re all inhaling, and she’s just dropped me in it! She looks around the room nervously, checking that no one suspects her in the body odour witch-hunt she has inadvertently created. I’ve been framed.

‘Okay, people! Let’s calm down please!’ Theo taps his pen on the table like an angry schoolteacher.

We all fall silent, and Rachael makes a show of wrapping her pashmina scarf around her face like she’s fleeing a burning building.

‘Now,’ Theo sucks in through his nose, ‘you’re probably wondering why I gathered you all here today.’ Seriously, he thinks he’s in a film. ‘Before we get to the point, though, I’d like to thank you all for your well-wishes regarding Romulus and his current... condition.’ He lets his gaze wander over to a card that he has displayed on the table, the words IGUANA WISH YOU A SPEEDY RECOVERY! emblazoned on the front. I don’t get it.

‘You’re welcome, Theodore. I wish him all the best,’ Kelsey simpers. That girl really will do anything to get to the top.

‘He’s stabilised slightly, you’ll all be glad to hear, and ate three Brazilian vine leaves this morning.’ Theo gives a watery smile to the room. ‘As much as it pains me to move on, however, I need to discuss an upcoming event. As you are aware, we have a big client hoping to work with us on selling their newest range of post-menopausal drugs. This is obviously very exciting.’ Is it, though? ‘Coincidentally, there is a conference at the Wilcoxon Hotel next week to discuss the regulatory strategies and consumer behaviours of over-the-counter post-menopausal medication. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how useful this could be to us moving forward. Attending this conference and gaining the expertise of the attending speakers will give us a huge advantage, and will help us in proving to our new client that we have the knowledge to carry this partnership forward into the future.’

Oh my god, I’m so bored. Perhaps I’d feel differently if any of the ‘medications’ we worked on actually made any significant difference to anyone’s lives aside from taking a chunk out of the number on their bank balance — and if I was less hungover. I feel like someone has buried razorblades in my brain. My stomach gurgles ominously. Theo is absolutely loving the news he’s sharing with us — he gets to go to a conference once every millennium, usually getting the information packs sent down afterwards from the big bosses, and he treats every invite like he’s visiting Pierce Brosnan for Martinis and nibbles. The next week leading up to this is going to be hell. He’s pausing now, revving us up into his big reveal.

I do wonder how PowerPoint could have come in useful during this meeting. Thank god the projector’s broken.

‘Now, I’m afraid I only have two tickets to this prestigious event.’ He’s wiggling with glee. Rachael sits up straighter and lowers the pashmina from her face, nodding interestedly. Rachael lives for networking opportunities. ‘I have thought long and hard about this decision, and although this may surprise you, I have decided that the person I will be bringing along is...’ He points his finger around the room like a radar, making a rising ‘oooooooooooo’ noise for suspense. Rachael, Ben and Mohammed are sitting forward in their chairs, practically wagging their tails and slobbering all over the table. Kelsey is filing her nails. I am trying to simultaneously remove my camel toe and not throw up. ‘Margaret!’ Theo’s finger lands on me and everyone turns.

‘What?’ I look up from inspecting my crotch.

‘I know, I know, this is surprising! Margaret is the last person any of us would expect to be asked to attend an event of this calibre.’ Everyone nods in agreement.

‘She’s not out in the field, Theodore. She wouldn’t even understand any of it.’ Ben pipes up helpfully.

‘Yes I would!’ I lean forward. ‘I would! I’ve got a Biology degree.’

I’m quite excited by this — I’ve been chosen! Despite everything I said to Kelsey yesterday about not wanting to progress here, it does feel quite nice to be given a chance to do something different. Maybe Theo has picked me out as the next rising star! I try not to think too much about whether that’s actually what I want. Just enjoy the moment, Maggie.

‘No, I didn’t mean that.’ Ben shakes his head. ‘I’m sure you’d understand it, it’s just... how would you use it?’

Is Ben aware that every word that comes out of his mouth at meetings with retailers is crafted by me? No, of course he isn’t. Thinking about it, I’m really the only logical choice for this.

‘Yes, yes, I know, an unusual choice!’ Theo squawks dramatically, desperately trying to reclaim the attention of the room. ‘But Maggie has very neat handwriting and I need precise minutes of every second of this. It’s a huge deal.’

Oh. Right, good. How silly of me to think that Theo was handing me an actual opportunity. Educational certificates mean nothing when you can produce legible notes.

‘Kelsey’s your PA, isn’t this something she should be doing?’ I must get out of this. Now that I’ve been branded note-taker, my enthusiasm has gone straight back out of the window.

‘Oh my god, she doesn’t even want to go.’ Rachael is looking at me like I’m a particularly nasty smear on the wall of a public bathroom. How I would love to find something to feel so passionately about. ‘I’ll take notes! I can write neatly!’

‘Yep, I’m happy for Rachael to go.’ I smile at her. She gapes back at me.

‘Excellent.’ Rachael smiles and nods. ‘She said I could go, Theo, did you hear that?’

Wow, it’s quite a thrill having all this power.

‘Unless Ben or Mohammed fancy a shot at it—’ I start.

‘No, no, I’ll go! It’s no problem, I’ll go.’ She scrabbles on the desk for a pen. ‘What date was it, did he say?’

‘LADIES!’ Theo’s voice has risen to a panicked shriek, such is his despair that we are not all riveted by his performance. ‘My decision is final! Margaret, the conference is next Tuesday. I’ll email you the itinerary when it comes through and you’ll need to bring three large notebooks and eight pens. At least. Actually, make that nine.’

The sales team slump back in their chairs, Mohammed muttering under his breath about the ‘injustice’ of it all. I do not get paid enough for this shit.

‘Right,’ Theo is resigned now; his act has flopped. ‘I’ll be at my neonatal first-aid class this afternoon so just get on with whatever you’re doing.’ He shuffles dejectedly out of the room.

‘Neonatal first aid?’ Ben frowns. ‘I didn’t know he was having a baby.’

‘It’s for that bloody iguana.’ Rachael is winding her pashmina around her neck with such force I’m surprised she can still breathe.

‘Margaret,’ Theo pokes his head back round the door. ‘When we’re all finished in here, would you freshen it up a bit?’ He throws a bottle of Febreze onto the table. ‘It absolutely reeks.’