“Come here,” he orders.
I do as I’m asked and sidle over to his desk. He then beckons me to look at something on his monitor — a photo of a beaten-up mobile home.
“Tell me, Toby,” he says. “Have you ever lived in a mobile home?”
Not understanding the relevance to my pay rise, I return a puzzled frown.
“After I set this business up we hit a rocky patch in the third year and I had to sell our family home to raise capital. I had no choice but to live in this mobile home with my wife and two young sons … for over a year.”
“Oh.”
“And do you have any idea how many hours I worked in those early days?”
“No.”
“Seventy or eighty a week, every week. We didn’t have a family holiday for four years.”
“Right.”
“But you know something: in all that time, every one of my employees received their full pay at the end of the month — including you.”
I’m not sure how to answer him so I remain silent.
He glares up at me.
“Not that I need to explain myself to you or anyone else, but I’ve earned that car a hundred times over. If you want to set up your own business and make the same sacrifices I’ve made, take the risks I’ve taken, fill your boots. But if you want to continue working at Red Rocket, you’ll earn what I deem affordable.”
“But …”
“Close the door on your way out.”
With a resigned sigh, I slink away. That did not go as well as I hoped.
I return to my office and slump down in the chair. Motivation levels at critical; some serious wound licking is in order before I can even think of doing any work.
What is it with men like Graham and my dad? Whenever I question how hard it is for my generation, they always hark back to how tough they had it. Granted, they’ve worked hard, but so do I. Where’s my semi in suburbia, my gilt-edged pension, and flash car?
My thoughts are interrupted when the office door swings open.
“Alright, mate?” Danny chirps, before sauntering over to my desk.
Even in a pair of scruffy jeans and a sweatshirt, Danny still looks like a Hollister model. Bastard.
“No. I’m not alright.”
“Got a dose of the January blues, eh?”
“No. My car failed its MOT and I’ve just received a lecture from Graham.”
“Why?”
“It needed two new tyres …”
“Not the car, bellend. Why did Graham give you a lecture?”
“Oh, right. I had the temerity to ask why we haven’t had a pay rise in two years.”
“What did he say?”
“Usual shit. The company can’t afford it, blah, blah, blah.”
“I take it you didn’t get a bonus then?”
“Eh? What bonus?”
“I got a bonus in my December pay packet.”
“What … why?”
“Because my department crushed its target. I take it yours didn’t?”
Danny heads up the web design department which means he has a vast market of businesses with God-awful websites to target. Factor in his ability to charm the birds from the trees and it’s no surprise almost half of Red Rocket’s income is generated by Danny’s department.
“We made a profit,” I grumble. “But clearly not enough.”
“Never mind, there’s always this year, mate.”
I don’t share his positivity.
“Anyway,” he continues. “I’ve got some news which will cheer you up.”
He takes a seat at my desk and flashes a grin.
“I’ve arranged a double date this evening.”
My fears are realised.
“Really?” I groan.
“It’s just what you need.”
“It really isn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Firstly, I’m skint. Secondly, the last girl you tried setting me up with … what was her name?”
“Chloe.”
“Yes, Chloe. That didn’t end well, did it?”
“I honestly didn’t know, mate.”
The date in question began well enough but, after twenty minutes, I noticed Chloe kept staring over my shoulder. She then got up to visit the loo and delivered a peck to my cheek before trotting away. An encouraging gesture, I thought, but seconds later a random guy came storming over and punched me in the face. It transpired Chloe chose her former boyfriend’s local pub as the venue for our ‘date’ with the sole purpose of making him jealous. It worked.
“Who are you trying to lumber me with this time?” I ask.
“Her name is Kayla, and she definitely hasn’t got a psychopath ex.”
“Good to know. What’s wrong with her then?”
“Nothing. I’ve seen a photo, and she’s cute. And don’t worry about money — I’m paying.”
“How’s that going to look: if you buy all the drinks? She’ll think I’m either a tight-fisted miser, or a loser … which isn’t far from the truth.”
“Stop your whining. I’ll give you some cash so you can stand your round.”
I could concoct a dozen reasons not to go along this evening but I know Danny will counter every one of them. Like every disagreement we ever have, his positivity will eventually steamroller my objections.
“What time, and where?”
“Nice one,” he smiles. “Eight o’clock at The White Swan.”
“Okay. Meet me there at half-seven so I can consume a pint or two of Dutch courage.”
“No worries. I’ll see you later.”
Danny whistles his way out of my office.
Social life sorted, I should get on with doing the job I’m being underpaid to do. Reluctantly, I leave my office for the open plan work space, where the five members of my team are all busy at their desks. They all look up in unison and greet me with nods and half-hearted smiles.
“How’s it going? Any problems?”
I’m met with a chorus of murmurs to suggest there are no problems. My team comprises Archie, Ella, Lucas, Freya, and Jaxon — ranging in age from twenty-one to twenty-four. All five of them graduated university, like me, with a degree in digital marketing, and they’re all at various stages of discovering the reality of our industry. Only Ella, who joined us three months ago, still harbours some semblance of enthusiasm for her job.
I can’t say I blame them for lacking motivation.
You invest three years of your life and amass huge debts to discover the career you chose is respected by no one; least of all, your employer. The pay isn’t great on account there’s always a steady stream of new graduates looking for work in a saturated market, and the job can be tedious. We all naively thought a career in digital marketing would be glamorous and well paid; working with major brands and visiting clients across Europe to discuss six-figure marketing budgets. I didn’t envisage working in a featureless office building on the edge of an industrial estate in Surrey.
Rather than major brands, our client base comprises scores of dull companies selling dull products and services. Our job is to promote these companies through the medium of social media. One of our largest clients is a commercial cleaning company and poor Lucas has the unenviable task of making their company appear interesting. He spends his day composing posts about sanitary waste, janitorial supplies, and graffiti removal. That is the reality of what my department has to contend with on a daily basis.
“So, we’re all good?” I confirm.
More nodding ensues and I’m about to return to my office when Freya pipes up.
“Actually, Toby, I’ve got a slight issue with a client’s campaign.”
Due to her obsessive selfie habit, Freya is always preened to within an inch of her life. She flicks a strand of honey-blonde hair from her face and gazes up at me expectantly.
“Do you want to come and talk me through it?”
Freya follows me back to my office. I leave the door open because we live in an age where e
ven the most innocuous of comments or actions can be misconstrued as inappropriate.
Last year, the head of the analytics department, Steve, lost his job after putting his arm around a female subordinate once too often. In fairness to Graham, he tried to defuse the situation but the female member of staff delivered an ultimatum: Steve had to go or the company would face a sexual harassment suit. Steve resigned and his former female subordinate ended the day with his job. The incident sparked a passionate debate amongst my colleagues but most concluded no person should be made to feel uncomfortable in the work place.
“What’s the problem?” I ask, as Freya takes a seat on the opposite side of my desk.
“It’s the Etondale Facebook campaign.”
“Specifically?”
“I’ve run two adverts this morning and both received a barrage of negative comments from former customers.”
Etondale sell used cars from five different locations across the county. They’re a new, and fairly large, client so this isn’t a great start.
“Just delete them.”
“I’ve tried, and so far I’ve blocked over thirty users from adding comments, but they keep coming.”
“Let me have a look.”
I open our master account in a browser and click through to the section detailing the comments on the Etondale adverts.
Freya is right. Not only are there a huge number of damning comments, but the venom aimed at our client is unlike anything I’ve seen before. I click through to their Facebook page and it’s no better reading; littered with negative reviews. It appears Etondale’s customer service standards leave a lot to be desired.
“Suspend the campaign please, Freya. I need to discuss this with the client.”
“Sure.”
With her workload eased, she skips back to her desk.
I return my attention to the screen, and Facebook. At the top of the page a tiny red bubble signifies I have notifications. Immediately my brain triggers a release of dopamine; not unlike a gambling addict before they spin the reels of a fruit machine. And like most addicts, I can’t resist and check my notifications.
There is a good reason my therapist advised me not to check my personal Facebook page more than once a week, and that one notification substantiates her advice. An old school friend, Connor Banks, has just posted a photo of his recently purchased house — a double-fronted stone cottage which must have set him back at least half-a-million quid. We were once good friends so I should be pleased for Connor, but a pang of envy suggests I'm jealous rather than pleased.
The problem with social media — according to my therapist — is that it doesn’t offer a balanced reflection of the lives your friends are actually leading. Everyone is keen to show photos of their latest holiday or new car but not so many are keen to share photos of their bathroom scales post-holiday, or the final demand from the car finance company. For all I know, Connor sold a kidney to buy the house, or at very least tied himself into a crippling mortgage. My brain isn’t wired that way though, and I feel inadequate. It’s that inadequacy which contributed to the depression episode.
If it wasn’t so tragic I’d laugh — I spend my days selling the social media dream but I’ve lost count how many nights it’s kept me awake.
I close the browser.
3.
After a day of abject tedium, I have to face the sub-arctic conditions and walk back to the garage.
The gammon-faced man is busy with another customer so I take a seat in the waiting area.
Someone has left a newspaper on the chair next to me and for a fleeting second I consider reading it in lieu of checking my mobile phone for the umpteenth time today. The headline on the front page proves a deterrent: UK house prices rise at fastest rate in almost two years.
For many of my generation, myself included, the dream of home ownership remains exactly that. We're forever being told home ownership is not a right and those doing the telling are usually those who hopped on the property ladder when you could buy your first home for less than six figures.
They’re missing the point.
It has nothing to do with a misguided sense of entitlement, but the need to put down roots. Security is a basic human right and the problem with renting is you never have that security — you live in a constant state of dependence on the landlord and we’re subject to their rules, their whims. It’s not that much different from the dependence we all had on our parents as kids. I swapped a bedroom for a flat, and my parent’s rules for my landlord’s rules.
“Mr Grant.”
I slope over to the counter.
I’m handed my car keys and an invoice three quid short of two hundred — small mercies, I guess. Once I’ve settled the invoice, I collect my car and head home.
For the last two years I’ve rented a flat in Stratfield House; a development of almost one-hundred flats arranged in Lego-like blocks around a central courtyard. With seventy percent of the flats now owned by buy-to-let landlords, resident turnover is high and communal cohesion negligible.
I pull into the car park and make my way up the stairs to the second floor.
After a stroll along two featureless corridors, I reach the door to number sixty-three. Four envelopes greet me on the mat, along with the lingering odour of last night’s chicken Balti. I snatch up the letters and head into the kitchen to open them: two bills, an invitation to upgrade my iPad, and an offer of a free consultation with a firm of solicitors to plan my will. With nothing to leave and no one to leave it to, it gets filed in the bin.
The delay at the garage has scuppered my plans for a long soak in the bath so I throw a ready meal in the microwave and wander through to the bedroom while radiation does its job. I open the wardrobe door and inspect the meagre collection of garments. Not that I care what my date thinks, but I should make some effort. I plumb for a pair of dark-blue jeans and a pastel-blue shirt — humdrum, but fuck it. I’ve given up trying to compete with Danny in the fashion stakes on account I have little taste and even less money to waste on designer clothes.
The microwave pings and my heart sinks. There is nothing like eating a ready meal from a plastic tray while slumped in front of the TV to prompt questions about your life choices. I’m halfway to the kitchen when my phone rings. Even without taking it from my pocket, I know it won’t be anyone interesting — it’s never anyone interesting. I check the screen, and I’m right.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Alright, Son,” he bellows in his usual blusterous manner.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Just thought I’d see how it went at work today.”
I pause for a second to consider why today would be of any significance.
“You were going to ask for a pay rise,” he reminds me.
“Oh, yes.”
In one of the most tragic scenes of the last twenty-nine years, I had Christmas lunch at my parent’s house: just the three of us. During that lunch I must have mentioned my New Year’s resolution to earn more without working more.
“Well?”
“The business isn’t making enough profit.”
I can almost hear the circuits in his brain firing up for a lecture.
“You know what I think, Son?”
Pretty much, but you’ll remind me, anyway.
“You should tell him to shove his job where the sun don’t shine and set up on your own. Best thing I ever did; starting my own business.”
One of six children, Dad grew up in a council house and left school at fifteen with just two O-levels to his name. Six years later he married my mother before setting up his plumbing business. He’s no Richard Branson but I can’t deny we enjoyed a comfortable, lower middle-class lifestyle growing up.
“As I’ve said countless times before, Dad: setting up a business requires money, and I don’t have any.”
“That’s the problem with your generation — if it ain’t handed to you on a plate, you’re not interested. I started off in a crummy
bedsit with next-to-nothing and still built a successful business so don’t be giving me excuses about money.”
“Yes, Dad, but you were paying about fifty pence rent a week. Do you have any idea how much of my salary goes on rent and household bills?”
“You could always move back home for a while. That’ll free up a bit of cash.”
“I appreciate the offer but I don’t want to move back home. I’m nearly thirty and need my independence.”
“And that sums up your problem,” he scoffs. “You’re not willing to make sacrifices. One step back to take two forward.”
I’ve had this argument too many times and there’s no winning it.
“I’ll think about it but I’m just heading out. Give Mum my love.”
He grunts a goodbye and I end the call. I’m sure it’s not intentional but every time we discuss my career, and indeed my life, I can’t help but feel I’m a disappointment to my dad. The reason, I’m sure, is because I cost my parents a small fortune.
After my elder brother arrived they tried for years to produce a sibling but the stork refused to pay another visit. In an act of desperation they turned to fertility treatment. Nine years after Stephen entered the world, I finally came along and, to this day, I wonder if they consider the investment money well spent.
Stephen — conceived without the intervention of science — is now a Detective Inspector with Kent Constabulary. He’s forged the kind of career to make any parent proud. He’s also married to the lovely Sarah and they’ve spawned two cute grandchildren for my parents to dote upon. I have a useless degree, copious amounts of debt and, as it stands, zero prospect of adding to the grandchildren tally.
I need to stop this. I’m drifting too close to the kind of negative thoughts my therapist warned me about. Fortunately, my rumbling stomach reminds me I have a lasagne festering in the microwave. Time to shelve my insecurities for now.
Plastic tray and fork in hand, I retire to the sofa and switch on the TV. I rarely watch terrestrial channels these days; preferring to binge on box sets from either Amazon, Netflix, or a dodgy download service a guy at work introduced me to.
My latest addiction provides an escape while I eat. The show is compelling; the food insipid.
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