This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Ten

That has to have been the most boring morning of my life. It trumps even the most painfully slow days at the office staring at the computer screen and wishing for death. I managed to focus on the first five minutes of the first talk, and part of me thought that maybe I might survive this, but then I realised I’d been thinking about the speaker’s earrings, and why she’d chosen them when they kept getting tangled in her hair, and I haven’t tuned back in since. My bum is numb, my hand is possibly permanently paralysed and my ears feel like they’re bleeding from attempting to intake information against such great resistance.

But now it’s lunchtime and although I’m still full from the medieval feast I demolished this morning (and the two cookies I had during the coffee break) I am instantly revived because I can see wine. Time flies when you’re a bit merry, or so I say, so my only hope for surviving the afternoon is to treat the one-hour lunch slot like a brief holiday to Spain. A cool glass of Chardonnay, some people-watching, a semi-comfortable mass-seating chair. Perhaps a sandwich, if I can find the room.

I stride to the buffet table, grab a glass of white and stride outside to the main entrance. I roll and light a cigarette and sip my drink in the afternoon sunlight. Not quite like being in Spain. I’m freezing and this is almost certainly Asda’s table wine, but it’s probably about as good as it gets under the circumstances.

It hits me again (probably at the same time as the alcohol starts to leak into my system) that I really do hate my job. Everyone has bad days at work, when they question whether they’re in the right place, but I can’t even remember the last time I felt properly happy. I feel like I’ve been running along with my eyes squeezed shut, not stopping to wonder why I constantly feel like someone’s died and the world is against me. But what else could I do? I don’t want to do a PhD, which is what all the good scientific positions require as a minimum, and I’m not even sure if I like science anymore anyway. Is everything great until you do it for a job? I feel like that’s a flaw in the school system; they rope you in with the fun stuff — onion skin under the microscope, turning a piece of bread black with iodine — and then, once you’re too far down the career path, you realise it’s not like that at all. They should start with the admin, which is what we all end up doing fresh out of uni anyway. Come, children, here’s a specimen retrieval application form. Complete it while someone blows their nose noisily behind you, and a phone rings incessantly somewhere in the distance. Did you enjoy that? No? Maybe you should think about the arts.

Although... I’m supposed to be changing my job anyway, aren’t I? The list says so.

I just feel disillusioned. Perhaps this is a symptom of entering my late twenties. The shine is gone from everything. I’m not na?ve anymore; my hope has withered. I know that enrolling in the police won’t make me Vicky McClure. I know that going back to uni to study Law won’t be anything like Suits. It’ll be like this, but with Law instead of science.

The only thing I’ve ever actually really wanted to do is write. I’ve been writing since I crawled out of the womb; filling diaries and notebooks with random stories before my mum found them and threatened to book me an appointment with the psychiatrist because of my ‘disturbingly vivid imagination’. I went into science writing because I’m good at stringing a sentence together and it matched my degree pretty well, but I’m so utterly disinterested in it that the idea of jotting down another drug-related sentence makes me want to pack it all in and move to the other side of the world. I take a gulp of my wine.

It’s never really crossed my mind before that I could make money from writing for fun. Although... loads of people try to write books, but there’s only one J.K. Rowling, isn’t there? What are my chances of actually getting something published? I can think right now of a million story ideas, but why put in the effort of getting one written if I’m only going to be rejected?

I’m putting effort into stuff I don’t care about though, aren’t I? Every single day I exert energy (albeit minimal) on drug write-ups, meeting preparations and research, and I don’t even enjoy it. Imagine if I put that energy into doing something I loved; into writing something I cared about. I could actually, maybe, possibly be okay.

I’ve drained the last of my wine so I head back inside for a refill. There’s still 45 minutes before we’re due back in, so I grab myself another glass and sit in the corner to do some Instagram scrolling. Balls to networking — I’d rather make connections with my nana’s boules club than any of these people.

All the skinny girls on social media keep posting about this new tea that’s supposed to help you lose weight and sleep better. I don’t need help sleeping — I take three naps a day sometimes — but weight loss I could certainly do with. Apparently it’s full of antioxidants and mushroom extracts, which hack your neural networks and anaesthetise the nervous system, like some kind of mild spinal tap. It also suppresses appetite like a dream, allegedly. I’m going to ignore the logic alarm going off in my head and imagine for a moment that this could actually be true. I could just drink tea for every meal and perhaps indulge in half a peach in the evening and I’d be sitting pretty in Kelsey’s GymShark bra in no time. It’s ￡20 for a box of twelve tea bags. You’re supposed to drink one cup every morning, noon and night, which by my calculations means that it’ll last me four days. I won’t have to buy food, though, which is a bonus, and maybe four days is all it takes? I pop a box in my basket and set an alarm to remind myself to check out when I get paid tomorrow. I flatten the list on my lap and scribble:

7. Do tea detox.

‘Not indulging in the chicken butties?’ Saffron is back. I bury the list in my pocket.

‘Still full from breakfast.’ I puff out my cheeks. ‘Reckon I could wrap one in a napkin and shove it in my bag for later?’

‘Don’t see why not.’ She laughs. ‘This wine is going down a treat.’

‘I’m using it as a sedative so I can sleep for the rest of the day.’

‘Don’t you have to take minutes?’

Shit. Forgot about that. ‘It’s fine, I’ll just type up the slides tomorrow.’ I lift up the huge plastic wallet of PowerPoint printouts we’ve all been gifted with.

‘Plan. Another glass?’ I nod and she goes to grab us another round. ‘Bloody hell, this is my second already.’ She plonks the glasses on the table.

‘This is my third!’ I say a little too loudly, and take a huge gulp.

‘Oh my god.’ She’s laughing her head off. ‘You’re hilarious.’

‘It has been said.’ I’m really feeling it now. I must have drunk more than half a bottle in twenty-five minutes. Not quite reaching my record, but pretty damn close.

‘So what do you want to do?’ She looks at me inquisitively.

‘What?’

‘What do you want to do? When you eventually quit?’

‘For a job, you mean?’

‘Yeah. I think I’d like to paint, probably.’

‘How do you know I want to quit?’ I lean forward and stare at her. Has she been following me? Outside, did I say all the things I thought out loud?

She cackles. ‘Relax, I’m not psychic. You’ve just been making it pretty clear how shit you find it all — and hey, I don’t blame you — so there must be something else you want to do.’

‘I think I want to write something. Not minutes. No more minutes.’ I lean back in my chair and sigh. ‘I’ll write, you do the illustrations.’

‘So we’re going into children’s books?’

‘God, no. Why can’t adult books have pictures? I don’t get that, why are we not allowed to look at pictures when we’re older?’ This thought has just occurred to me and it’s distressing me hugely. ‘How unfair is that?’

‘You’re so pissed!’ She grins.

‘Not pissed enough.’ I down the rest of my glass and walk over to the food table, grabbing three thick chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches and wrapping them in a napkin.

‘Hey, sorry, you can’t do that...’ A floppy-haired teenage waiter approaches me nervously.

‘Why not? I haven’t eaten anything and I’ll be starving later.’

‘I don’t think you will,’ he frowns.

‘What? How would you know?’

‘It’s just... we all saw how much you had for breakfast. We’re supposed to look out for people who take portions home with them. We don’t make enough to cater for someone’s lunch the next day.’

‘Excuse me ?’ I am outraged. ‘I’ll have you know I’m quite peckish, actually . I’ve been allocated a lunch and I’ll take one, thank you very much.’

He’s silent, so I hold his gaze while I slowly lower the sandwiches into my handbag.

I turn on my heel and grab another glass of wine, sassing back to my table feeling very proud of myself and only mildly humiliated.

Saffron is in bits.

‘You are something else.’ She dabs at the corner of her eye and takes a deep breath to calm herself.

‘I think I’m a bit fucked. Did Theo see me? My boss?’

‘Nah. He’s too busy schmoozing the woman from that regulatory authority thing.’

I close one eye and squint into the corner of the room, where Theo has backed a woman against the wall and is talking animatedly. Her eyes are flicking around her in search of an escape.

‘Ladies and gentlemen! I hope you all enjoyed our famous sandwiches and are feeling refreshed and ready for some more fascinating talks! Once again can I ask that you make your way into the conference suite. Presentations will resume in ten minutes.’

I say goodbye to Saffron, grab another glass of wine and sway into the room, smacking my shoulder on the doorframe as I do so. I vaguely register people glancing at me as the wine sloshes over the side of my glass, and I give a dramatic ‘whoops!’, raise my drink and laugh. I’m so fun.

I find my way back to the round table I have called home for the past three hours of my life. We all had assigned seats so I didn’t manage to escape Theo, but we are at the back. Small mercies.

It turns out that my plan has worked incredibly well. I’ve had several glasses of wine and I am basically sozzled, which means I don’t actually have the mental capacity to dwell on how much time is left before I can go home. The heating is cranked up in here, though, which is making it really, really difficult to stay awake.

Some woman gets up on stage and starts droning on about her life and how she came to be here, which no one cares about, before delving into the world’s most boring speech, titled ‘Applying New Metrics for Measuring R meditating on the wisdom of efficiency optimisation. I’m actually thinking about the chicken butties in my handbag.

‘Margaret!’ Theo is hissing in my ear.

I peel one eye open and see that the woman on stage is still going on, speaking animatedly about performance measures. She is ten times more enthusiastic now than she was when she was speaking about her background and personal life at the start, which is really, really depressing.

‘What?’ I squint at Theo.

‘Are you sleeping?!’ He’s livid. ‘You haven’t made a single note since we came back from lunch!’

‘I was internalising the information.’ I’m slurring a bit, which I’m sure isn’t helping my case. I’m acutely aware that I’m behaving completely unprofessionally. I’m also acutely aware that I couldn’t give a shit.

‘Write down what she’s bloody saying!’

‘It’s all in the pack they gave us.’ I slide it across to him. God, I’ve never been so cheeky in my entire life. What has gotten into me? Is this what happens when you really, really hate your job? I’ll have so much more sympathy for those people on those YouTube CCTV videos trashing their offices in future. You’re just not yourself when you’re trapped in hell, are you?

‘Only the generic stuff! Not the details ! For god’s sake, I didn’t ask you to come here so you could eat all the breakfast food and have a nap!’

Right. If one more person comments on how much I ate for breakfast I will really lose my rag.

‘I was hungry. ’

‘Write!’ He turns back to the front and clasps his hands in his lap, nodding earnestly at the presenter.

I take out my pen and write very, very slowly. I start writing what’s being said, but it’s so boring that my hand physically will not commit it to paper, so I write a background story for the woman on stage instead.

Susan, 43. Lives with her husband, Derek, and silently resents him for spending so much time making Star Wars Legos in the garage instead of being with her. Likes to think she can cook, but only succeeds at bland pies and stews which Derek says he likes but secretly he wishes he married someone who made fajitas and was adventurous in the bedroom. Two children, both at university, who rarely come home because the atmosphere is as lively as a wet flannel and they’re sick of hearing their Mum talk about efficiency and optimisation. She looks forward to Christmas because everyone is together, but she orchestrates it to such an extent that it becomes stifled and she always finds herself weeping on Boxing Day. Only ever has one glass of wine on a Saturday when she watches Countdown. Often masturbates over research and development policies.

‘Okay, I think that’s all I had to say today. Does anyone have any questions?’ Susan (real name Julie, just checked the agenda) scans the room hopefully.

Oh, this moment. The moment the most hated person in the room makes themselves known. How can anyone possibly have a question about this? The only query I have is whether I’ll ever be the same again after enduring it.

The keen bean next to me raises her hand.

Oh, fuck off.

‘Yes, you at the back?’

‘Thanks, Julie. I was just wondering if you could clarify what role a research manager could play in increasing the efficiency of an R most of them are gazing down into their laps.

‘While I’m reluctant to waste my breath explaining this to you... Margaret, was it?’ Julie purses her lips. ‘What we do is actually very important. Perhaps if you looked outside your immediate little bubble you’d see that all of this has an effect on everything else that happens in the pharmaceutical industry.’

Murmurs of agreement ripple around the room.

‘Pfft.’ My ability to generate philosophical rhetorical questions has now deserted me, so after a brief pause, I settle on, ‘You’re all a bunch of squares.’

‘You’re incredibly rude. Nobody is forcing you to be here. Feel free to leave and let everyone else get the most out of the day.’ Julie’s eyes bore into me.

There are two of her up there now. I should have stopped at three glasses. I slide down into my seat, defeated.

‘No you don’t.’ Theo stands up and grabs me by the elbow, hoisting me up onto my feet. ‘I’m so sorry, everyone. I’ll remove her now.’

‘ Remove me?!’ I screech as he drags me towards the door, bashing me into people’s chairs and knocking glasses of water over. ‘I will not be removed! I’m leaving of my own accord!’

This statement might be more profound were I not being forcibly yanked across the room in front of everyone.

I point my free hand at the keen bean at my table. ‘You need to get a life! Go get laid and take a pottery class!’

Theo hurls me through the door and I stand on the other side, breathing heavily.

‘Nine a.m. tomorrow. I’ll have a HR rep present,’ he says.

He pushes the door and as it closes I catch sight of Saffron, slumped in her chair, holding her stomach and absolutely pissing herself.