Hope

by Terry Tyler

  "I don't know if I can do this for much longer," he tells me. "I took this job because I wanted to help people, but it's impossible to do so when my superiors' priorities are completely back to front."

  Like the fire, it doesn't make the national news.

  Nick says, "It's freed up twenty-three beds, that's all."

  June arrives with bad news for Kendall: marching orders from Zest.

  "I said, look, the top I'm wearing right now is a size fourteen, so Marla gave me one of the new uniforms, and okay, I couldn't do the trousers up, but―"

  "Can't you appeal?" Nick asks. "Go above her?"

  "What? You think I'm going to go to the regional manager and say, please can I keep my job even though I'm too fat to wear the uniform? It's shameful enough as it is!"

  "It's not shameful," I say, quietly; to myself, really. "It's just a stupid standard they're imposing on their employees."

  "It's not only that." She begins to cry. "I think they were just looking for an excuse to get rid of me, and I gave them yet another one."

  "What do you mean, 'yet another one'?" Nick grins, suddenly much more interested.

  I touch his arm, to stop him grinning. "Go on. You know we won't think badly of you."

  She wipes her tears, and looks at the floor. "It's just stuff. Two things."

  Nick laughs. "What have you done, stripped off naked behind the counter?"

  Her cheeks flush. "No! It was Dallas's SneekPeek. When I was drunk, on my birthday. I was eating white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake, and Dallas was laughing at me stuffing it in, so I started mucking about, going OTT, and I got cream all round my mouth and in my hair―we were just having a laugh―and she uploaded that little bit onto LifeShare. She could have asked me first, couldn't she? Anyway, it's got over a thousand likes, and bloody Marla saw it, didn't she?" She looks so woebegone, poor thing. "She's such a bitch, she brought it up on her phone at the assessment, passed it round to the others, and said, 'This isn't really the Zest image, is it?' She was loving every minute."

  I wonder what the other thing was. I won't ask.

  Nick says, "Well, you never have to see her again, now."

  "I know, but what do I do for money?"

  We look on the job sites; we spend two days helping her apply for every job she is either qualified for or could bear to do, then sit back and hope something will materialise.

  "I don't know what I would do without you two," Kendall says tearfully, after we've sent off seventeen applications. "I'd be on my own and in the gutter."

  "You wouldn't," says Nick. "You’ve got mates. And your mum would help you out if you were in deep shit, wouldn't she?"

  "Yeah, right," she mutters, which is when I remember that Mumsy didn't get in touch on her birthday. I didn't think much of it at the time, but I suppose birthdays are a big deal if you have parents.

  My father is unknown (yes, I do wonder about him), and my mother was a coke addict, now dead. I was taken from her by the authorities when I was two; my grandparents were ageing stoners who were not considered suitable guardians, and weren't interested, anyway. On good days, my lack of parentage gives me a sense of freedom. I'm not a mish-mash mix of a mother and a father, I'm just me, and I have no one to answer or live up to.

  On bad days it makes me feel terrified, all alone in the big wide scary world, but they're few and far between these days.

  I have a family now, though, which means give as well as take. Kendall is relying on me. I don't know if that gives me a warm feeling of being needed, or makes me want to run away.

  13

  Brick Walls

  Kendall does not get so much as an acknowledgement for any of the job applications.

  She applies online for Work Ready Credit, because, yes, she's work ready, as long as she is not required to squeeze into clothes that are too small for her.

  I accompany her to the personal interview. The first thing she has to do is sign permission for her DNA and fingerprints to be held on record, once she's had her medical; this 'permission' is not an option, because without it her claim won't be processed.

  "It's up to her," says the DSC clerk, when I mention this. "She can withdraw her claim, if she doesn't like it."

  The place is jam-packed, and smells of hopelessness. Of poor people. A vague waft of cheap tobacco and fried food. The slight fustiness of clothes that have been worn once too often before washing, bodies that have gone one day too long without a bath. Saving on those water bills, no doubt.

  After an hour or so we get to see an advisor, whose name badge announces her as Angie Burrows. She warns that Kendall may not qualify for WRC due to the reasons why she lost her last job.

  "I've sent details of positions you can apply for, to your device," she says. Kendall's phone pings, and she scrolls through the list, biting her lip.

  "I've never done care work." She looks up. "Old people―I don't know if I can do that. The personal care side of it, I mean."

  The stern Ms Burrows shrugs. "You're physically able, aren't you? Then you can do it. No point in putting you forward for hospitality or retail, not with your reference from Zest."

  "What do you mean?" I ask.

  She glances at me as if to say, 'Who the fuck are you?', then turns back to Kendall and says, "As ambassadors for the brand, Zest employees are required to maintain a body weight within the medically acceptable range for their height. Nutricorp's response to our enquiry about the reasons for your termination was that you refused to comply with this. Not only that, but you were seen out in public behaving in a fashion unacceptable to Nutricorp, evidence of which was displayed on social media."

  She turns back to her keyboard, brings up another screen, and swings the monitor round so that we can see it.

  I expect to see the cheesecake episode, but it's not that. It's the other thing.

  Now I understand why Kendall blushed when we quizzed her.

  The screen shows her friend Suze's LifeShare profile. There, courtesy of Suze's SneekPeek, I see the latter part of the birthday booze-up. After the cheesecake, I mean.

  Oh Kendall, Kendall. She's at a club. In a short but oh-so-damning video, she's pulled down the top of her dress―and her bra―to flash her tits, then collapsed on the floor. Her skirt has ridden up, her legs apart; oh dear, and her thong is so tiny that she might as well not be wearing it; it's a full-on crotch shot. You can hear the squeals of laughter, and Dallas egging Suze on to put it on LifeShare. Evil bitch; was her own Peek angle not quite so revealing, or what? It's just a silly drunken night, but for the first time I fully understand why so many people refuse to socialise with anyone who uses that horrible app.

  If I were Kendall I'd have insisted that Suze took it down, immediately, but Kendall is so lacking in self-esteem; maybe she worried they would think she was no fun.

  I am sure, though, that Zest just wanted to get rid of her. I was out on their Christmas booze-up, remember; nobody got their tits out, at least not while I was there, but it wasn't exactly a nuns' tea party.

  Angie Burrows reiterates Kendall's crimes. "This particular profile is not set to private, so it can be viewed by anyone, including prospective employers, who can afford to be picky these days. However, with the ever-ageing population, there are always openings in senior care."

  Kendall looks at her, pleadingly. "I can't. I really can't. Not the toilet stuff. I'd throw up."

  I am not allowed to accompany her into the medical, but she comes out looking most subdued.

  "Come on." I tuck her arm through mine. "Let's go and have a drink, shall we?"

  "I can't afford it."

  Nor can I, but never mind. "It's on me."

  On the way to the pub, we pass the queues outside the food bank.

  "That'll be me, soon," Kendall mutters.

  "Don't be daft. You've got me and Nick, right? We'll be okay, the three of us."

  I wonder, though. I can only just afford my own share of the rent and bills, these days.

 
The DSC decides that Kendall is not eligible for WRC because she lost her job due to circumstances within her own control, and she refused to apply for positions in aged care. This suspension will last for six months, after which her case will be reviewed.

  "But what am I supposed to do for money?" she hollers down the phone to them. She can apply for Hardship Supplement, they say. She does, but it's seriously meagre, as is her Rent Allowance; the DSC (Housing) will only pay an amount equivalent to one-room accommodation, i.e. a grotty bedsit or a room in a hostel.

  The job agencies say she has few 'marketable skills'. Fashion shops say that her BMI exceeds their required limits.

  She sells her car, though this depresses her even further.

  I daren't tell her that I'm worried about my own circumstances, too.

  Some of the companies who pay me for advertising space have not renewed their regular spots: an editing and proofreading agency, a guy who does book cover artwork, and a couple of small publishers. When I don't receive their usual monthly payments, I contact them in a casual, matey sort of way, like I think it's just an oversight on their part, and say I'm holding the space open for them.

  The agency says that enough work comes via word of mouth rather than advertising, these days, and the cover art guy and publishers don't reply.

  I'm sick with worry. Is this a trend? Should I slash my prices, or will that make me look desperate?

  Review requests are keeping me afloat, so I hide my fears from Nick and Kendall, and live as frugally as possible. I can cover July, but unless it picks up, August is going to be hard.

  I pay the July bills, and breathe a sigh of relief.

  Too soon.

  The 100 Best Blogs, the blogging giant that used to feature links to several of my posts each month, suddenly drops me. I've been a favourite of theirs since that first Offline Day post, and thought we had a great online relationship. Overnight, though, I disappear.

  I email to ask why, and receive a polite, formal reply, noticeably less chummy than our usual correspondence.

  'Inclusion on The 100 Best Blogs is constantly reviewed; a placing is not guaranteed. All posts are assessed on their individual merit, and I am sure you understand that competition is of a very high standard. Please do resubmit any future content, and we will be happy to consider its suitability for the site.'

  I know when I'm being given the brush-off. I also know that personal submissions rarely get looked at; most of those they feature come via publicity agents or reader recommendation.

  Without their reach and endorsement, my view count plummets.

  Without this exposure, I have no chance of attracting more advertisers.

  Without regular advertisers, my monthly income is halved.

  All I have left are the little sidebar spaces that authors and other bloggers pay for on a month-to-month basis.

  Nick notices; Widow Skanky's pieces are featured on 100 Best now and again, put forward by his fans.

  "It's so weird," I say, as we sit on my bed and stare at my layout page with its vacant ad spaces. "It's like, one day everything was ticking along nicely, then I just hit a brick wall."

  "When?"

  "What?"

  "When did it happen? What was the last post you wrote before the advertisers fucked off, and 100 Best blanked you?"

  "Hmm. Not sure." I scroll down my posts.

  Oh yeah.

  The Flower Power reviews.

  I wrote them up and put them in the auto-schedule weeks ago; I'd forgotten about them, but the reviews popped up on the blog two days before that brick wall loomed up, as did the tweets to promote them; I've been so concerned with Kendall that I haven't been paying attention to my own social media streams.

  "That's your answer," says Nick, yawning and stretching. "You've pissed off Nutricorp."

  I feel my face go hot, my chest uncomfortably tight. If he's right, this is frightening.

  "Do you really think so? Why would they bother, though? They're a massive corporation, and I'm just a daft little blogger."

  "A daft little blogger with a huge influence on the public. Social media has as big an effect on sales as TV advertising." He takes my mouse from me and clicks onto my blog dashboard to see how many people have looked at the reviews. "Basically, you've told the world―or at least these twenty-odd thousand people―not to buy Flower Power because Nutricorp are lying bastards. That all you get for your four quid-fifty is a gut full of sugar and a nice bottle."

  I crawl back up my bed, hugging my knees to my chest.

  "Yeah, but presumably that Orla woman looked at my other reviews, so she must have known I don't just say, wow, tastes yummy, and give everything five stars? That I get professional opinions?"

  Nick shakes his head. "I doubt it. I imagine she just looked on 100 Best to find out who the current influencers are, and fired off her requests."

  "But they're not totally negative, they're balanced reviews, I say that Rose and Turmeric taste great―"

  "Sure you do, and yeah, yeah, the bottles are awesome. But look at it this way; never mind the groovy video, if you read that review of Violet Underground, would you buy it? Shit, Lita, why couldn't you have just said they were fab?"

  "Because that's not what my blog's about. It's authentic. That's why it's a success. If I covered up that the nutritional claims were rubbish, I'd be lying to the people who read me, wouldn't I?"

  "Perhaps brutal honesty is a luxury you can't afford, when you're dealing with a titan like Nutricorp." He scrolls down the text; I can't bear to look at it. "It's how you've phrased it―like you're pleased to have caught them out. Yeah, I know you are, and I am too, but―look, you could have said that whether or not Rose is nutritionally sound wasn't an issue for you because it was totally de-lish; like, implied it without actually calling them out for bullshit. Instead, you've said, look at me, aren't I clever, I've sent these to a nutritional analyst. You made them look like dickheads, after they sent you sixteen fucking free bottles. That's seventy-two quids' worth, retail. How much did you charge for the reviews?"

  "Three hundred."

  "There you go, then. Your pal Orla has paid you three hundred and seventy-two quid to slag off her company, and she's not happy."

  I shut my eyes, and hug my knees closer. "You're right. God, you're right. Why didn't they just ask me to remove them, or ask to see the reviews first?"

  "She wouldn't have thought she needed to; she'll be used to people currying favour to get more free stuff. All she could do is damage limitation; you know, a quick call to 100 Best, and your advertisers―you said she seemed like a right bitch, so it was probably personal vengeance, too. 'Specially if she got it in the neck from the boss for choosing you in the first place."

  I lean forward, and click delete, four times; the reviews are gone. Even though I know it's too late.

  14

  Fog

  Esme once said to me that when you have either financial or health problems, nothing else matters.

  Brody is back, but I almost don't want to see him, because I'm so preoccupied; I don't want to be crap company when I'm with him. As it is, he has friends and family to see, and wants to crack on with the research for a novel that's been swirling around his head for the past year. It's an historical epic set in Kansas during the Depression. I don't know if he can write or not, and nor does he, yet. Meanwhile, we're getting together a couple of times a week. I live on rice and beans, so I can save up my money and make us a decent dinner when he comes round. I don't want him to know how desperate my situation is.

  In the back of my mind I've always been waiting for him to meet someone from whom he can't bear to be parted, and want to call time on our semi-relationship.

  I would hate for him to feel guilty about leaving me because I'm in dire straits, you see.

  So much for summer. The weather's disappointing, on the whole, but last weekend was sunny and glorious, and Brody took me for a weekend in Brancaster in Norfolk, where there is the most fabu
lous, unspoiled beach.

  I loved those two days, though all the time that sense of impending doom lurked beneath. Like that gloom you feel from three p.m. onwards on a Sunday when you hate your job, or the last few days of the summer holidays when you're a kid, when you're so aware of the end being nigh that you can hardly enjoy what's left.

  It was good to be away from the internet, though of course I didn't mention this, because I felt paranoid about him wondering why. Brody is not an online person, by which I mean that he uses apps, messaging, alerts and emails in his daily life like the rest of the developed world, but he doesn't spend an hour on social media before work, is one of the three people in the UK who don't have a LifeShare profile, and thinks Imagio is for the psychopathically self-obsessed.

  Back home, I try to write stunning articles that will bring the viewers back, but I'm so depressed about the whole bloody thing that I have nothing to say, and without 100 Best Blogs endorsing me, my online visibility is equivalent to standing in a thick fog dressed in head-to-toe grey.

  Maybe I should chuck it all in and start up a GoFundMe, along with the thousands of jobless and almost-homeless giving it their best shot. Every story more heartrending than the last, every child/dog with bigger eyes and a more pathetic expression. I wonder if any of them actually make any money.

  The fact that I wonder about this is a worry.

  #OfflineDay blogger Lita Stone starts a GoFundMe.

  No freakin' way.

  A chilly, rainy Friday night comes around, and Nick goes out to buy several bottles of wine and some garlic bread to go with the bean and vegetable stew; I invite Brody to join us. It's a good night. We play board games and get drunk, and forget our troubles and the state of the nation for a few hours. Not that the state of the nation has been on my mind for the last couple of months, which is perhaps why I can't think of anything to write about.