Hot Desk

by Zara Stoneley

  ‘Not your birthday?’

  ‘Nope. Do you mind, I…’ I gesture at my screen and wish he’d shut up. There are no new emails; my screen is still annoyingly blank.

  ‘Wouldn’t like to miss it.’ He’s doing his boyish-grin thing.

  ‘I haven’t died either,’ I say, thinking about ‘always in my heart’.

  ‘I’d be giving you the kiss of life if I thought you were about to.’ His voice drops to a more intimate level, he leans forward slightly.

  I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. I hate the way he flirts like this. It might be fun if I didn’t still have a crush, or if he was interested in me. But he’s not, and I do, and it’s awkward.

  ‘Oh yay! Email!’ He glances down, his attention abruptly diverted.

  ‘What?’ I stare at my monitor, which has finally sprung into life, and click on my emails. You have no new mail. My stomach dives. Has he got an email and I haven’t?

  ‘Kidding!’

  ‘Hilarious.’ Why does he have to be like this? One minute the guy I lust after, the next Mr Jokerman taking the mickey. I refresh the emails, just in case. It’s probably a good thing we’ve moved on from talking about mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. ‘I thought they were sending it straight away?’

  ‘Maybe they’re sending them out in waves, in some kind of order? Most important people first?’

  ‘Oh well, I’m surprised you haven’t got one yet!’ I say as sweetly as I can.

  ‘Dragon Lady is probably testing us out, seeing who cracks first.’

  ‘Shut up, Jamie.’ I stand up, deciding I can risk going to the coffee machine. Anything has to be better than staring at my inbox and listening to Jamie.

  Predictably, the email arrives just as the coffee starts to trickle into my cup. I can sense it from the indrawn breaths and sudden tapping away on keyboards. I stare at the cup. Glance towards my desk. Torn. I can’t leave my coffee, I can’t. I need caffeine for this.

  It drips in so slowwwwwly.

  ‘Well, fuck me.’ I try to ignore the temptation to rush over to Lou and ask her what it says. I have to read my own email. I mean, what if we’ve all got different ones?

  I can’t wait any longer, I dither for a moment, then grab the half-full cup out of the machine and dash back to my desk.

  Thank you for your time and patience, this has not been written by Diane, blah, blah, main overheads are of course staff and premises, blah, blah, major reduction in cost achievable by reducing our office space by half, reducing it by half? Shit! Does this mean half of us are going, not just Darren and the other two? Will they draw a random boundary line and everybody on one side is out? Or will we be jamming our desks together in primary school fashion? We have luckily been able to secure shared tenancy with another company blah blah, and so will be introducing a work-at-home policy…

  What? My throat tightens painfully. I feel sick. Work at home? Oh my God, no. This can’t be happening. Not again.

  I used to dream, no fantasize, about coming back to the office. I had every step of Boris’s roadmap set as a notification on my mobile and would have (if he’d stopped public transport) walked all the way to Downing Street if he’d veered off course.

  I don’t have enough space at home; I have a tiny room. The smallest one in the house. I was the only person who had to prop a big umbrella behind me during zoom calls so that nobody could see my unmade bed and undies that hadn’t made it to the wash basket.

  I also don’t have a decent internet connection. I’ve got noisy housemates. I’ve got (sorry, had) Dave. When I was stuck at home, I couldn’t help myself. I’d end up ringing him in despair, needing somebody to talk it through with.

  My palms are beginning to sweat.

  Every time somebody decided to unmute me on zoom calls, so I could contribute to the meeting, I had to race with them to the mute button so they didn’t hear Dave telling me that I really had to get a grip on putting the coffee back in its new place, and wiping down the shower with his new special squeegee thing. I mean, who has time for that in the morning? I count it a win if I get enough time to dry all the water off myself, let alone the cubicle glass.

  That flaming mute button was on-off-on-off so fast it left me a jittery mess.

  I love my work, but it was just impossible to concentrate, to be my best. I was surrounded by chaos, not my lovely bits and bobs that inspire me. I hated getting up in the morning because I felt like I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t come up with the ideas that would turn my client’s websites from ordinary to attention-grabbing.

  Kat saved me. Kat, one of my housemates had made the decision to go out to Spain. She hadn’t been able to see her mum for months. And she saved my life by letting me borrow the desk in her room. Her locked room. Even though it wasn’t my room and the decor was frankly a bit weird, it was still better. It was quiet, there was space. I could hide in there and work even if it wasn’t like having a room of my own.

  Kat is back though now. And I can’t afford to rent an extra room, or office.

  And this sounds worse, this sounds permanent.

  I must not panic. I breathe in and out slowly, and blink to bring the email back into focus.

  ‘and hot-desking.’

  What the fuck? I sit back, my heart pounding even faster than it was a moment ago. Hot-desking? I blink and try to be calm. Must not panic. Must not.

  Even the term sounds horrible. Hot. Desks shouldn’t be hot, they should be warm, and comfortable, and homely. Working at home will be bad enough, but not having my own desk on the days when I am in the office? I realize I’m clutching the edge of mine. My one private space in life.

  A percentage of your working hours will be conducted at home, and a desk-share arrangement will be introduced throughout to cater for the remainder.

  I stop reading, close my eyes and lean back in my seat feeling queasy. Gutted is not the word.

  ‘Wow, result! How good is that? Seemed a bit OTT to make us come in every day when we’d been fine at home for well over a year!’ Jamie’s deep voice breaks through my panic. ‘I need a coffee to celebrate, want one?’

  Been fine at home? Is he mad?

  ‘No thanks.’ I hold up my own cup, then watch his broad back as he heads for the coffee machine, humming. He is happy. In fact, quite a few people are smiling and look relieved. Am I the only one that is horrified by this news? Did some people actually like working at home?

  I straighten up in my seat and glance over the barrier between us at Jamie’s practically bare desk, then lean back and look at my own. Talk about yin and yang, the only common meeting point for us is our lips. Those fit perfectly. From my point of view anyway.

  To some people, like Jamie, I guess my desk is covered in clutter, mess, and would do their head in. But I guess my desk is the space that I’d create if I had my own (as in proper, all to myself – or with somebody I trusted) home, if I could surround myself with things that I love and know they’d be there when I got back.

  I let my finger touch the feather that reminds me of Gran and inspired the design of the ‘Everything Apple’ website. Gran loved baking; when I think of her I smell her apple pies, chutneys and freshly baked bread. I think of her colourful apron, of her floury hands…all things that we fed into the website. ‘You’ve turned home-baking into a hug, I never want to leave this website!’ the client had said. She’d been right. I’d been proud of that, and Gran would have been as well. It was good.

  Where do I put Gran if this isn’t my desk any longer? I can’t carry all these things, all the memories and inspiration with me, can I? And if they’re in my room they’ll be picked up, touched, borrowed, moved. Trampled on. Gahhhh.

  This isn’t just a desk, it’s my breathing space, my thinking space. My escape.

  It was bloody lucky that when I was working at home there wasn’t much demand for inspiration and blue-sky thinking – it was more about bug fixing and maintenance. Without my lovely things around me, my creativity was
at an all-time low.

  I’m being pathetic. This is not a big deal. It’s not. I am a professional and this is just a chunk of fake wood that I sit in front of. It’s not supposed to be a bloody home! I can deal with this; I can come up with a solution. That is what I’m good at. Solutions. Thinking outside the box.

  It’s to my benefit that today is announcement day, and tomorrow, Friday, is judgement day. We get the weekend to recover. To plan. Neat.

  My mobile phone vibrates noisily, and I jump, grabbing it guiltily. I think people are still trying to take it in, just starting to mutter and huddle by the water cooler, but it’s still very quiet.

  Wassup? News??? S xxx

  I will put a positive spin on this.

  I’ve still got a job! A x

  Great!

  Hot-desking and working at home. Best of both worlds! A x

  See? I’ve got this.

  Wow! Cool! S xx

  Soph is definitely a work-to-live person. She’s worked in call-centres, shops, libraries, any casual job that will take her. She doesn’t claim her territory at work, all she is bothered about is somewhere to park her bum and put her handbag.

  You still up for lunch tomoz? Popped into yours but couldn’t find your blue scarf, have you still got it? S xxxx

  Ahh, so that’s why she’s texted. The scarf, not my mental (or financial) wellbeing.

  Yep I’ve got the scarf, it’s in the top drawer of my desk. Safe.

  This is my space, and now I’m losing it. Maybe I need a lock on my door, like Kat’s got?

  Sure. See you at 12.30?

  Fuck, gotta go, just served something big and meaty to a vegan! Sxxx

  She adds three crying-with-laughter faces, and a big sausage. Another text comes in just as I go to put my phone away.

  Don’t forget the scarf! Luv ya!!!xxx

  ‘What do you think? Better than the big heave-ho, I suppose?’ The weight of Lou’s hand on my shoulder, and her voice in my ear makes me jump. She squeezes. ‘You okay about it?’

  ‘Sure. I mean it’ll take a bit of getting used to because it was so good to be back.’ There’s an understatement if there ever was one.

  ‘God yeah, you’re telling me. I was desperate to get out of the house and see you lot again, it was so frigging boring.’

  ‘It was chaos at ours.’ I sigh, I’m always truthful with Lou, and she knows all about my housemates. ‘A bit gutted I’ll have to try and work at home again, to be honest.’

  ‘I bet. No chance of working at your folks’ place or anything?’

  I shake my head. The thought had briefly crossed my mind, but with Dad retired and pottering about, and Soph often between jobs, I’m not convinced it would work. And I am supposed to have moved out. I’m an independent working woman. I will not run home.

  ‘Can they do this without some kind of consultation process?’ Mollie pauses by my desk, a frown on her normally smiling face. ‘It’s hell with two dogs, three kids and my mother, and even worse if Si takes a day off.’

  We smile sympathetically. ‘Not a clue,’ says Lou, ‘but to be honest I reckon if we said no, they’d shut the whole lot down. What do you think, Jamie?’

  Can they do this? Maybe I should ring Dave, he knows all about employment law – my hand closes over my mobile. Then I snatch it away. I will not call Dave. I don’t need him.

  ‘Extra hour in bed, extra hour on the PlayStation before tea. What’s to not like?’ Jamie grins.

  ‘Unless you’ve got a two year old,’ says Mollie.

  He stops grinning. ‘Tough to concentrate?’

  ‘You bet. Si will see it as an excuse to stop paying for a childminder.’

  A slight air of gloominess descends.

  ‘Maybe they’ll have some flexibility? You know, let some people come in more if they want?’ It won’t solve my problem, but it might help Mollie. ‘I’d ask if I was you. I mean it doesn’t make any difference as long as they can fit people in?’ I smile at her, and she smiles back. We’re all in this together. ‘We can support each other and make this work.’ I must sound convincing, because she grins.

  ‘For sure!’ she says, then wanders back over to her desk.

  ‘I guess I better get some work done.’ Lou takes a step back.

  ‘See you later?’ She nods, and I pull up the spec for the new website I’m supposed to be working on. I have zero ideas, nothing original. Zilch. I might have reassured Mollie, but what if losing my workspace means I lose my inspiration?

  How do I work without the things that inspire me? Maybe I need to take photos of all of them, pin them up like a police incident board. Or a mood board. But that’s not the same as holding them, touching them, is it?

  But I need to work this out. Where do I put my stuff? If it doesn’t belong here, then where does it?

  I glance under my eyelashes at Jamie’s desk again. All his stuff must be at home.

  And then it hits me. That is where I guess mine should be as well. I can bring some things in and leave them in a box, or pedestal, but most of it can’t be here.

  This isn’t a problem; this is an opportunity (as my Gran would say – she was way before her time). I have to stop making work my substitute home.

  I need to make my home, my home.

  Jamie winks at me. ‘Happy? All sorted?’

  I suddenly realize that he’s responding to my smile. I’m actually smiling, possibly for the first time today. ‘For sure.’ Then I pick up the golden-brown conker and roll it between my thumb and forefinger, before clasping it in my hand. I know exactly what the colour theme of the website I’m designing should be. What the heart of it is.

  I’ve missed the obvious all along. We need warmth. Autumn.

  Chapter Five

  I didn’t pick my house because of its fabulous views, spacious dining area or amazingly well-equipped kitchen. I picked it for convenience, and cost. Mainly cost.

  When I was at university, I dreamed that once I graduated, I would waltz effortlessly into a job that would mean I could rent my own lovely flat or share a place with a boyfriend. My fantasy did not involve communal living with a random selection of strangers.

  I had it in my head that it would be a world away from life as a student. I wouldn’t have to hide my coffee, or hold my nose in the bathroom, or spend twenty minutes trying to find my mug, or have to use noise-cancelling headphones to block out the sound of the guy in the next room shagging (it wasn’t just the headboard banging, or the grunts of satisfaction, it was the way he announced his coming as though he was some kind of Messiah. For a few months I actually thought he was shouting ‘Hallelujah’, then realized it was actually I’m going to Yabba dabba doo-ya! Yuk. How is anybody supposed to revise with that going on?).

  Anyway, seems I was wrong about my new fancy working life. The reality check came about the same time as the job offer. I’d misjudged the job market, and starting salaries, and rental costs.

  I also discovered that the moment any vaguely nice and affordable place came on the market, it was snapped up within hours.

  Unless it was a house share in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of welly-wearing eccentrics.

  Okay, I’m exaggerating. Only one guy, Harry, wears wellies, and he’s a gardener. Not necessarily an eccentric. But he never seems to take them off, I don’t think he can be bothered. I strongly suspect he even wears them in the shower. He does wipe them on the mat, says ‘how do’ if there’s anybody in the communal lounge or kitchen, grabs a beer from the fridge and goes for a smoke in the garden. The only other time I see him is when he’s making a bacon sandwich in the morning. I have never ever seen him eat anything other than bacon sandwiches, which are always accompanied by a massive mug of coffee.

  The nearest equivalent to Yabba-guy from my student days, is Della. I think she’s a sex addict. She never bloody stops. The first few days I was here, I did honestly worry that I’d moved into a brothel by mistake, and ‘shared communal areas’ was a euphemism for something I�
�d rather not dwell on. But it turned out Della is a sex therapist, who likes to keep her hand in on the practical side and says experience counts for everything. There’s also Kat the actress, who likes to practise her lines by wandering round semi-naked at all times of the day and night, Jack who likes to hog the lounge and play Xbox games, and Zoe who is a mobile hairdresser.

  The only thing we all have in common is that we’re broke. Even if some of them would prefer to pretend they’re not and they’re here for ‘the community vibe’. Yeah, sure.

  When I first saw the place advertised, I thought it was a steal. It was a bit more remote than I’d intended, but being surrounded by fields has to be better than roads, yes? And there’s a bus stop at the bottom of the lane, a railway station within walking distance, and a pub that’s staggering distance away (if you’re wearing flats). And the convenience store up the road does stock all the essentials you need. Even if they are twice the price of the supermarket near work – so it’s not for convenience at all, it’s for emergencies only.

  But, hey, I thought, all the walking will do me good. Fresh air is ace. Lugging shopping bags on and off the bus and carrying them for miles is a good workout. Better than the gym, which I can’t afford.

  It’s also not remote-remote. Our place is a barn conversion, and there’s another one next to it. Then, where I guess the original farmhouse used to be, there’s a new housing estate in the making. I think ‘new town’ was in the developers’ minds when they started this (along with big bucks) and then there was that ‘economic downturn’ that has given Steven nightmares. ‘Town’ is currently a show house, two ‘affordable’ homes and a lot of concrete foundations.

  Anyhow, when I’d seen this place on the estate agent’s website, I’d convinced myself that rural was fine. Commuting was fine. That was before I saw ‘house share’ in the small print. But then I thought, why not? It had to be better than a studio flat where the sofa was under the bunk bed, and you could boil the kettle, answer the door and open the window without having to stand up.