By the Time You Read This (19 page)

The day before my birthday, I bounded into the office, anticipating a pyramid of work requiring a clean-up before my day off. I waved to the security/door man as usual, retrieved a fresh mug of coffee from the kitchen and switched on my computer to catch up on the million or so emails. One, purposefully highlighted in blue, immediately caught my eye. An email from the boss. She wanted to see me.

Her office was larger than mine, more plush, two pictures of each of her children gracing a rectangular mahogany desk.

“Sit down, Lois.”

“Good morning,” I began, before noticing the blank but almost sympathetic look on her face. No change there. The boss was hardly a barrel of laughs at the best of times.

“I have some news for you.”

“What is it, Joan?”

“I’m afraid…I’m afraid there are going to be further job losses and I wanted to tell you about them.”

My circulation seemed to stop as I wondered who I had to sack next. Hating—no, make that despising—this side of the job.

“I’m afraid…I’m afraid we are going to have to make you redundant, Lois.”

Her words made a fist of my intestines. “Sorry? I don’t
understand? Are you saying…? Are you saying I don’t have a job?”

“I’m afraid so, Lois.”

I banned any celebration and even told Raymond not to bother me for a while. I needed to find a new job and immediately began an Internet search, trying to ignore the recruitment agency’s spiel:
“The IT industry is not as lucrative as it once was. Jobs are really thin on the ground, Ms. Bates.”
Of course, the redundancy package and savings would allow me a certain amount of breathing space, but could only be temporary. I needed my dad to tell me what to do, how to get out of a hole I never thought I’d find myself in. Besides, he’d never actually thought his precious daughter would ever get made redundant, because the company needed to make savings and I just happened to be one of the “last in.” I had to give up my job and everything that went with it, including the car.
Dad’s favorite car.

Because of unused leave, I was able to leave within weeks as one of the agencies quickly came up with a temporary
post paying less than thirty percent of what I was used to—but it was work, and as my recruitment consultant said, it “would only be temporary.”

A
gainst my wishes, Ray had my very belated birthday card, along with a huge bunch of flowers, delivered to my new workplace. I immediately called him up with a thank you and we decided to meet up at a little restaurant half a mile from the office in High Street Kensington, right near the subway station.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

“I just needed to sort my life out. I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. You’re so thoughtful,” he said, sipping on a glass of wine he’d insisted on ordering.

“Why d’you say that?” I tucked into my usual prawn tempura starter and for the first time noticed a strange glint in Ray’s eye.

“Saying you wanted a Thai restaurant, when you know it’s my favorite food.”

“It was near the subway station.”

“Oh.”

One prickle of guilt. “But Thai being your favorite is a bonus.”

“No, you’re my favorite, Lois.”

His handsome, boyish face seemed to beam.

“I know I haven’t been the best lately…not seeing you and that—” I began.

“That’s okay. I know things have been stressful, what with the job situation. But I want you to know, I’ll be there for you.”

“Thanks.”

The beautifully dressed waitress placed the sticky rice in front of me.

“We’re sharing that,” I said. She ignored me and I looked to Ray, who was smiling like a horny tomcat.

“Have I missed something?”

“Look in the rice,” he commanded quite uncharacteristically.

I peered into it but I couldn’t see anything but rice. Then I noticed it—a slight sparkle from inside the bowl.

“Take it out,” he instructed excitedly. The waitress was on apparent standby beside me.

I picked up the cheap piece of jewelry that had been embedded within the bowl of sticky rice and just stared at it, feeling a little numb.

“It’s an engagement ring,” he said anxiously, his hands tapping nervously on the table.

Bile rose up in my throat.

“That’s…er…” The words wouldn’t come. I felt a little hot and then an urge to leave as I placed the ring on the table and looked at it. Then I took a sip of water, wishing it was alcohol. Ironically, a bottle of house champagne appeared out of nowhere from a second waitress.

“I love you, Lois. So, so much, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He took my hand. “You’re the one.”

“I didn’t…I didn’t think you were into all that.” I shook my hand away. “Plus you’ve only just turned twenty-three. Aren’t twenty-three-year-olds supposed to be out partying?”

“Not this one. I’m ready.”

A movie reel of pros flashed in my mind for a total of six seconds, followed by a rush of cons:

• The L word (and never actually having said it to him).
  
• My total inability to give up space in my apartment.
  
• My lack of faith in long-term relationships.
  
• My total inability to give up any part of my life for a man (Oliver, case in point).
  

Especially a man who, without warning, suddenly dropped to his knees in a begging pose, right there in the restaurant.

“Marry me, please. I love you, Lois.” His eyes were wide open and I thought I could see tears. I looked down at the ring and then around the restaurant in total amazement-cum-embarrassment, unable to match the looks of complete excitement etched on the faces of people who clearly needed to get a life.

I looked back at the man who had just asked me to marry him. And I closed my eyes, not wanting him to see my thoughts.

“Well?” asked Ray, with the look of Oliver Twist pleading for a bowl of porridge. I opened my eyes to yet another beautifully dressed waitress standing beaming behind him, ready to attack with full applause. I felt as if I was suffocating. My blouse began to stick to me like glue; the air around me felt tight.

“I need the loo,” I said, jumping out of my seat, much to the thorough disappointment of three beaming waitresses.

I hunched over the freestanding sink in a vomit pose, but knowing I hadn’t reached that stage yet. This was all too much, though. I mean, in normal circumstances it
would be too much, but in the current climate it just about made my bad day/week/month/life seem that bit worse. Ray was a good man, but I didn’t want this. I didn’t want
him.
The only man I wanted was dead. Staring at my reflection, mascara halfway down my cheeks, suitcase-sized bags under my eyes, I knew I was in a giant, humungous mess.

O
f course, I turned down Ray’s proposal, which he took a tad better than when I told him we were over.

For good.

I reeled off a mass of “It’s not you, it’s me” clichés borrowed from the TV, but it seemed I’d underestimated Ray once more. The calls, texts and emails were at first relentless, slowly petering away in time.

Of course there were the expected recriminations from Carla, painting me as the wicked witch from the south. Even Mom wanted to know why I’d dumped a perfect man. But I simply told them all to mind their own business. Especially Markus, who one evening had the audacity to confront me, just as Carla disappeared into the bathroom of the bar where we were having drinks.

“I don’t like the way you treated my brother,” he said with obvious venom.

“And I don’t like the way you talk to Carla,” I responded defiantly.

“Lois, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s like you don’t have any respect for her. It’s sick. Just…just tone it down, okay? She doesn’t deserve this…or you.”

The huge lips my best friend found so irresistible curved into a crude, creepy smile.

“Want me for yourself, do you?” he said quietly.

I felt waves of revulsion. “Are you mad?”

“Is that why you dumped my little brother? Wanted me all to yourself?”

I uttered some obscenity and he retaliated with firm, confident words.

“At the end of the day, who will she believe when I tell her? You, or me? Want to take the risk? After the way you’ve behaved lately, I doubt she’ll believe anything you say anyway.”

When Carla returned, I was all smiles. I decided Markus would keep.

I
didn’t miss Ray as much as Carla insisted I would. And that was a plus.

The temporary contract ended and I waited for the next job. It gave me the space to think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life, but each time I drew a blank. Computers were all I knew.

As usual, the employment agency offered me the world and delivered nothing more than a crumbling town center in the form of a one-month contract at a steel firm along with constant negative references about the IT sector. This just made it easier to plunge into a dark, dark place I didn’t recognize.

After the job ended, I spent most of my days lounging about, ingesting bad daytime television, my hand buried within huge packets of chips. The phone hardly rang, except for Mom inquiring about my health or Carla, as usual occupying her own little world, which didn’t include my current plight. I was jobless and, worst of all, felt really hopeless, sometimes without enough will to step out of
my sagging jogging bottoms or to tidy myself up. I just couldn’t give a damn. And, after paying the bills I often couldn’t afford to get my hair fixed at the usual plush salon, so made do with hair bands—tying it up and forgetting about it, just like the IT world had done with me.

It was time to face facts: at twenty-six, I was on the scrapheap. Without a job, with paltry severance pay and with a mortgage I could only just about afford thanks to my savings and help from the DSS. My life had sunk to such depths and I didn’t even have the strength to begin to pull myself up and out of it.

I looked out of my window, but all I saw was the gray of the sky and spots of sleet falling heavily from it.

I wish you could, Dad. Why aren’t you here? With me? Protecting me from all this stuff? Shielding me from the disappointment? The hurt?

I asked these questions the minute I opened my eyes each morning to drawn curtains and the rancid smell of hopelessness, until that last moment at night as I chased sleep. I’m ashamed to say this next bit—even think it—but waking up sometimes equaled instant disappointment.
I’d wish I’d just forgotten to wake up that morning. I craved my dad more than ever. Needed, wanted to see that beautiful smile, freeze-frame it in my mind and refer back to it whenever I needed to. I’d close my eyes, imagine his face. The mole. Did he snort when he laughed at something funny? Did he have smelly feet after a hard day of soccer? Did he hate raw onions like I did? Where are you, Dad? Where are you?

I opened up
The Manual,
hugging it close to me in desperation. I fell to my knees, my chest heaving, needing to feel him. But it was like the most fragile part of me could not connect with him any more. He was only available to me when I was happy and following
The Manual.
When everything was on track. Now I’d deviated from that neat route and I couldn’t feel my dad’s presence any more.

T
wo months into unemployment and the night after a bad dream (involving me as a homeless woman scouring the streets of Barcelona) a shiny prospectus for the local college was delivered to my door instead of a neighbor’s, finding its way onto my mat underneath the mountain of bills that had quadrupled over the last few weeks.

I scanned the courses on offer: Spanish, cookery, Japanese, singing, photography, then glanced toward the expensive camera purchased at the height of my career, a lasting memory of my one stab at frivolity.

The smarmy jerk behind the computer screen at the dole office smirked as he “assessed” my claim with the enthusiasm of a tortoise.

“So you’re a computer person, are you?”

“I’ve been working with computers for years. So, yes.”

He couldn’t have been more than twelve. “We have loads of jobs working with computers. Have you looked at the five on offer? They’re on the display board.” His voice was loaded with sarcasm.

“I thought I’d seen all the jobs…” I said, responding to this new ray of hope, suddenly awakened.

“Here, I’ll bring one up…” he said, tapping wildly at the keys. “This one.” He turned the screen to face me.

“Data inputter?” I said.

“Why not?”

“Well, the wages are a—”

“Works out to just over the five pounds and five pence minimum wage. What more do you want? Unless you are prepared to go back to college…”

“I was thinking about starting a photography course.”

“Why?”

“I…I like pictures…”

He snorted at that and urged me to look closer at his screen; to the long hours and wages that would barely cover the mortgage, let alone basic food portions. The little weed went on to explain that my refusal to go for jobs could result in any benefit being stopped, and while his voice droned on and on, all I could hear was
blah, blah, blah
as the clutches of despair actually tightened its grip on me.

I
spent most of my time refusing to answer the phone to anyone and leaving the house merely to visit the dole office and sign on, a move I was forced to take for fear of losing the apartment. But I just couldn’t find anything permanent job-wise, while my savings had begun to dwindle down to meager portions.

I decided to enroll at the local college to study photography. At first it was to get me out of the house, but the twice-weekly class preserved what little sanity I had left as it allowed me to pretend, at least to the outside world, a reason for my existence.

And I soon began to enjoy it. Learning about angles, lighting and how Photoshop could transform pictures. Speaking to people who shared a passion—one that soon began to surface in me. Conversing and laughing with those who had no idea of what a failure I had become. Biyi, one of my classmates, and I seemed to bond quickly after pairing up for a class exercise. About my age, tall, gangly and with the girliest eyelashes I’d ever seen, he was quiet but at the same time had this ability to pull me into a conversation, allowing me to warm to him instantly. In no time I’d learned the basics of digital photography, and unlike many in the class I had a top-of-the-range camera, housing just a few pictures of Abbi, gathering dust at home.

Biyi liked to walk me home from college most nights, and one evening decided to plant me with a wet smacker of a kiss. He also said I was beautiful, which (judging by my current lack of care and hygiene) was probably a lie but sounded like the most natural comment in the whole world. Admittedly, hearing this felt good, just like kissing him felt good. And just like waking up in his arms did, the following morning.

Because photography was the one thing we had in common, this dominated our times together outside the classroom. Reading photography books in the library; aiming the camera at anything that moved in the park; or drink
ing coffee in the bookshop as we scoured the shelves for new publications.

Biyi was so sweet, and as well as
The Manual,
I suppose, he kept me going. Though he never asked me for anything, content to see me whenever he could. I never disclosed much about myself—I guess old habits are hard to break. Although once I did tell him about my dire financial affairs, which merely left him impressed that I’d amassed so much at an early age. Yet his admiration of me still seemed misplaced. Hadn’t I screwed up on a huge level by losing my job? Hadn’t I let myself and, worst of all, my dad down? To Biyi, the answer would be no. He called me his whiz kid, his jetsetter, when all I saw staring back at me in the mirror was a failure.

Biyi and I hardly went anywhere, happy to stay at my apartment, taking endless pictures of one another. Biyi, lounging in bed on a late sunny morning as the light through the blind captured his smile; me, arched over the sink brushing my teeth, pretending to be angry as he snapped away. Loving the thought of capturing a moment in time that could never be repeated, but could be kept forever. Like I had done clumsily with my last picture of my dad. And just like Dad had done with
The Manual.

Gradually, I slithered out of self-imposed purgatory, ready to face the world again. I sold the MG and noted my savings had now dwindled to just under fifty pounds. The course was also nearing the end, and I felt enough had been soaked up to take things to that all-important next level: starting up my own photography business.

“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” said Mom right on cue as I succumbed to a rare visit to my childhood
home, this time with my camera, ready to snap every moment. It had been Biyi’s idea to take it with me wherever I went.

“Yes, it is, Mom. It’s what I want to do,” I said, a picture of Corey flickering through my mind. He’d found his creative calling and now I’d found mine. I pinched a piece of cold toast as Abbi ran into the kitchen faster than the speed of light.

“Hey, Abbs!” I said as she planted a soft kiss onto my cheek—spontaneously, unasked for, but absolutely and without doubt very welcome.

“We’ve missed you!” she said.

“I’ve been a bit busy.”

“I just hope you’ve really thought about this. Starting your own business isn’t easy. And how will you find the money?”

“That’s the best bit. I’ve sold the car and all I had to find out of that is a month’s rent and money for paint.”

“Paint?”

“For the shop.”

“You still need the customers, though. You would have been better off staying in computers…”

“Perhaps,” I said, through gritted teeth and pursed lips. Of course, Mom had no idea of my life over the past few months. And her reaction now proved I was right not to mention it.

“If it’s what you want…then it’s worth a try. But you know you won’t be earning like you did in the city,” said Mom, who I think had enjoyed telling the neighbors about her high-flying daughter.

A petite Abbi jumped on my knee and wriggled about, beady eyes suddenly locating my camera beside us.

“Leave it!” I ordered just as she jumped off my lap and, yes, headed straight for the camera.

“I just wanna look. Take one of me!” whined Abbi. I rescued the camera from Abbi’s reach and stuck my tongue out in glee. But, of course, I began to snap a delighted Abbi in various rugratty poses around the house as Mom busied herself elsewhere. The kid was vain, insisting I photograph her in every party outfit she owned. Ballerina, princess, Harry Potter. Kissing Doll, posing on the pink bike with yellow tassels she couldn’t actually ride without wobbling like a mound of blancmange. Kicking her legs in the air with chocolate (quite disgustingly) smeared over her cheeks. Her curt insistence on proofing every shot (once she’d found out my “magic” camera could do such things) didn’t help. The last set I took was with Mom beside Abbi on the sofa. Mom, staring back at Abbi as if she were the most precious thing in her world. I found myself overwhelmingly moved by this and also filled with sadness. It was time to leave.

As I headed toward the door, the Bingo Caller walked in.

“Hello girls,” he beamed, his face beaded with sweat. He looked slightly out of breath as he carefully attempted to pick his daughter off the floor.

“Get down, you’re too old for all that!” insisted Mom as Abbi crumpled to the floor with full melodramatic/spoiled-brat gusto.

“That’s not fair!” she wailed.

“You okay?” Mom asked the Bingo Caller.

“Yes. Don’t fuss…! How are you, Lois?”

“Good,” I replied, trying my best to stay polite. I gathered my things.

“See you soon?” sang Mom, as I kissed her and Abbi on their cheeks and rushed out the door.

I inched toward the bus stop, glad I’d done my twice-monthly duty AND gotten some great snaps in the process. But ten minutes later, the bus was officially late. Bad. Then I heard my name being called. Very bad. Because the voice belonged to Corey.

Got any advice for this sort of situation, Dad? No? Thought so. Great.

“Hi, Corey!”

“Lo Bag!”

I wished he wouldn’t call me that.

“I am now twenty-seven years old, Corey!”

“Oh yeah, happy belated birthday!”

“Didn’t feel like celebrating this year.” Even Dad’s message had been brief; A quick
“Have a happy birthday Lowey! And don’t forget to enjoy it!”

Corey kissed each of my cheeks and his lips felt really soft, like warm caramel. He was also clean-shaven and smelled of fresh soap.

“Now that’s a shame. Feeling a bit old are we?”

“You could say that.”

“Why?”

“Too old to start modeling if I had the looks. Too old to hold on to a young person’s railcard—if I wanted one. And too old to be called Lo Bag.”

His smile straightened. “You definitely have the looks.”

“Anyway…it’s…it’s nice to see you again,” I stuttered, unsure as to where my embarrassment had sprung from. “I knocked on your door earlier, to say hi to Calvin and your mom, but no one was home.”

“They’ve gone to some dodgy fetish exhibition—don’t ask—and won’t be back till much later.”

“So how long are you in town for?” I asked, not quite sure where the word “town” had sprung from.

“Funny you should ask that, but I’m going to be here indefinitely. I’m moving to Greenwich, didn’t Mom tell you?”

The insides of my tummy began to swirl without permission. “She did say you and your fiancée were coming.” The word fiancée just didn’t sound right coming out of my mouth.

“Here’s your bus.”

The bus! I shook my head brazenly, determined to wait for the next one.

“You sure?” he asked.

I nodded my head as the bus shot past, beckoning for him to sit on a graffitied bench, noticing “Carla, Lois and Corey was ’ere ’91” carved onto the armrest. Faded so much it was barely legible. The swishing in my tummy was immediately replaced by a feeling of warmth and familiarity.

“You look fabulous,” said Corey.

“I look the same as always!”

“Yeah, right! The last time I saw you, you were all businesslike.”

My head turned away in shyness. “And now?”

“Beautiful.”

No one had ever called me that before. Except Dad. “You should have seen me a few weeks ago, Corey.”

“Well, you look great. A lot more relaxed. Carla tells me you’re studying photography.”

“She has a big mouth.”

“For once, my little sis isn’t to blame. I’m always asking her about you. Even in France when I’d call home, I was always asking about my Lo Bag.” This disclosure shocked me. “Especially when you ignored my postcards…”