Chloe

Chloe.

Balls. Balls in a f*****g sack. My phone is dead. My phone is my alarm and my phone is dead. I am thirty three minutes late for my s****y job in a s****y call centre. I know I shouldn’t have gone out last night but it’s happy hour all night on Wednesdays in Pica Pica. Who the f**k can turn down a half price cocktail served by a bartender who’s abs you can see through his shirt? Evidently not me. Now I’m sprinting down the stairs in last night’s heels, almost breaking my fake tan streaked ankles and stuffing my face with dry toast. As I’m falling out of the door I have a thought that makes me stop. I give in and run to my car. Balls to it, the bartender can let himself out.

After one episode with my car and a lot of smoke on the side of the M4 and another with the passenger seat of an RAC van I’m slipping through the glass door of the office behind fat Phil while he sucks off a churro. I sink into a very low crouch behind the cubicle walls until I’m at my own desk and looking at a smirk that reminds me of some of last night’s more embarrassing events.

“How was he?” She said with a wink.

Lily sat at her desk wearing the exact same shade of red lippy she had on last night. She pulls of ‘morning after chic’ like no one else can. Her hair still has a post waking-up-in-someone-else’s-hotel look that leaves it voluminous and sexy. It’s falling around her blouse and hiding the champagne stains that I know were there when I left her.

“That good.” I throw down his I.D badge from the bar and she laughs loud enough to make Phil turn around and gawp at her for a good ten seconds. Poor Lily. Must be s**t hard work being a flat out, drop dead eleven on the nought to ten beautiful scale. She licks her lips at him and returns her hazel gaze to me. If she wasn’t my best friend I’d hate her for sure. Fortunately our appearances have blagged us into many a VIP party and out of many a taxi fare.

“Where did you end up last night?” I raise my eyebrows and point to the lace knickers I can see tucked into her coat pocket. We both pretend to be hard at work while the manager, John walks behind our desks but Lily deliberately types out on her screen ‘Hilton. Networking ;)’ I laugh out loud and receive a crooked smile from John that says he thinks I did it to get his attention and he’s fully prepared to take my mischievous expression as a hint. He calls me into his office.

I haven’t had the chance to explain why I’m laughing before he closes the blinds and locks the door. I’m already on probation for ‘not being a team player’. Looks like I’m going to have to do some team building if I want to avoid any awkwardness around the Christmas bonus season.

 I’ve not even sat down when Lily slides a compact mirror onto my desk and says

“I was going to tell you before John had you to inspect his hardware but I didn’t get the chance.”

I look down and notice a light ring around the inside of my right nostril.

“S**t.” The only way coming out of your manager’s office brushing dust bunnies off your knees can be any less classy is with last night’s Charlie on your face.

The day in the office is gruelling and would be totally intolerable if it weren’t for Lily showing me the obscene pictures she found on her phone on her way to work. We drink free mimosas in the sun at lunch courtesy of the barman at Peppermint who’s an old friend. By two pm I’ve sworn I’ll never drink again and taken far too many paracetamol for it to be in any way beneficial to my health. The comedown is excruciating. I can feel my brain fruitlessly searching for endorphins it won’t find for the next twenty four to thirty six hours while I’m sucking on a ‘Freddo’ I used to stir my coffee. Lily deals with it much better than me, she takes a tablet she stole from her depressive step father and paints her nails while Phil fetches her her faxes. At some blurry point in the day my nan calls me to tell me that my wonderful cousin Donna-so-talented-that-her-arse-smells-like-success-Johnson has just got engaged and hopes that my job is going well.

“Where is it you work again, Chlo?”

“Lloyds call centre, Nan.”

“I said that but Donna says that the bit of Lloyds that had any money turned into TSB in the New Year.”

“Yeah they didn’t stop employing people though, Nan.”

“Oh. Well Donna says TSB would probably pay more.”

Well Donna can suck my dick, Nan.

“Probably, Nan.”

The whole time I’m on the phone my feet are up on my desk, my head is hanging over the back of my chair and my fingers are pressing my eyelids shut. I can hear Lily sniggering at my exasperated responses.

“I don’t know why you bother answering.” She says.

My mother phones and tells me to ignore the old hag.

Nine cigarette breaks later I’m definitely ready to go home and spend the night watching ‘Stardust’ and singing the soundtrack into this week’s ‘Graze’ box. Lily’s already planning her adventure for the evening and trying to get me involved. I can’t imagine anything more excruciating. I don’t worry about getting any sleazy texts from the bartender because I gave him the standard old-phone-number-that-I-memorised-years-ago-and-got-rid-of. Usually it’s just a note on the kitchen counter or a pile of toast crumbs to clean up after they’ve cooked themselves breakfast before strolling out of the door. They never have stable day jobs to get to so they can have a snoop around in peace while I sit at my desk, chewing my pen and worrying that they’ll find my Ann Summers drawer.

Nan’s phone calls usually have me wondering if I should be doing something more with my life. Not today though. I won’t think about the empty feeling that crept over me this morning when I searched for the bartender’s work badge to find his name. I won’t think of the cold lonely feeling that made the skin on my bare shoulders prickle while I sat and stared at it. Or the fact that I think the reason I slipped the badge into my handbag was to feel like there was some kind of intimacy, some kind of connection between myself and the bartender. To pretend I meant something to him. Was somebody to him.  I won’t think of Donna, waiting at home for her fiancé who loves her. I won’t let it get to me. Shut up. I won’t. I catch myself rubbing the badge between my fingers. That’s it. F**k it. I can’t do this anymore.  Maybe it’s the comedown but I don’t want to wake up like this tomorrow. Random guy in my bed, walking into the office with no underwear on, getting down on my knees in a draughty office for some perverted jobs-worth just to feel like someone looks forward to seeing me on a daily basis.

I’m better than this. I deserve better. F**k, I might even be able to get some kind of promotion if I actually put more than 3% effort into my job. Then maybe Nan would call Donna and boast about me for a change. My mother wouldn’t have to make me feel better. I would never have that prickling on my skin again. As I’m thinking it I can feel myself sitting up a little straighter in my swivel chair. My chin slightly higher. I’m typing faster and I can feel the corners of my mouth tilting up towards my cheeks. Maybe I’ll save up and get my car fixed, meet people in coffee shops instead of bars, go on dates instead of one night stands. We’d know each other’s names and we’d say goodbye with a kiss in the morning.

When I’m walking in through the front door I’ve got a headache but I’ve got a plan, I’m going to shower, eat and then look for job opportunities in the city. If only the headache would go away I’d be able to concentrate. A while later I’m clean and my hair is dry, I walk through the kitchen and swing open the fridge door. My headache intensifies when I smell something sweet and intoxicating. A familiar smell which has me leaning further into the cold air. That’s what the headache is. F**k. The pink liquid is sloshing pleasantly around the glass bottle. Making an innocent tinkling sound. like a whisper. That’s why the paracetamol didn’t work. Not the kind of drug I needed. S**t. My resolve washes away with the smell of strawberry and grape. The feel of cold liquid trickling down my dry throat. The bittersweet taste at the back of my tongue. My phone is ringing on the counter. Not ringing. A text. Lily: ‘Live Lounge, one hour. See you there ;)’ Balls.