Floored

by Sara Barnard

  ‘Sorry about that,’ the receptionist says. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m Margot Delaney’s son,’ I tell her. Enjoying the moment her face changes. When the recognition kicks in. ‘I’m here to do work experience for a week.’

  She sits up in her seat, flicks back her hair, suddenly acting totally competent. ‘Yes, of course! Wow, I didn’t know she had a son.’

  ‘She does, and it’s me.’

  The girl laughs too hard, and I immediately don’t like her very much. She puts up a finger, asking me to wait, then punches some numbers into her phone. ‘Hi, is that Mrs Delaney’s office? I’ve got her son down here . . .’ She looks up at me, realizing her mistake.

  ‘Hugo,’ I provide.

  ‘Hugo. Yes. Brilliant. OK. Thank you. I’ll send him up . . . Right, Hugo. Let’s get you signed in, then you can go on up. She’s on the top floor. Though of course you know that already.’ She laughs like a horse. ‘Um, well, anyway. You won’t be up there for long. Your mum’s assistant said you’ll have to do some compulsory health and safety training.’

  I raise my eyebrows in disgust.

  ‘Totally non-optional, I’m afraid.’ She smiles sympathetically. ‘As you can see, it’s a busy week for us. Work-experience week. We have students from all around the country. They need to know what to do in a fire.’

  There’s no way I’m going to health and safety training. I have better things to do with my time than listening to some self-important milk monitor point out bleeding obvious things like, ‘When there’s a fire, leave the building.’ But I take my lanyard from her and pull it over my neck. The colour matches my suit perfectly.

  ‘Where do I go?’

  ‘Oh, the lifts are right over there. Through the lobby.’ She points with her biro.

  I thank her and can feel her excitement buzzing behind me as I walk away, smirking. I bet that will be her gossip for the day. ‘Did you know her SON is here this week? Yes, yes. Hang on, isn’t she married to . . . ?’

  There’s a cluster of people clogging up the entrance to the lifts, including the sweaty girl with the package, and I try my best to push past them. Ugh, everyone here is just so predictable! It’s like playing Diversity Bingo, and it’s a struggle not to roll my eyes. I’m so sick of everyone telling me how freakin’ privileged I am all the time when it’s quite obviously the opposite these days. Dad always used to wind Mum up by saying you’d have to be a black one-armed lesbian to get a job in television – and now it’s probably even harder than that. Even though I’ve been editor of my school paper for two years now, even though I’m top in all my classes, even though I’ve flogged myself half to death, everyone will look at me and go, ‘Oh well, he’s her son, OF COURSE he got a work placement at the UKB.’ But when the chips are down, when it comes to actually applying for jobs, I bet you I lose out now to some box-ticking gender-fluid Scientologist who has to crawl everywhere on their hands and knees – even if I have better experience. But, nooooooo, I’m the privileged one.

  Dooph. I smash into some girl who isn’t looking where she’s going. Oh God, what if she’s blind? That would just be the icing on the fucking cake, wouldn’t it? But something jogs me out of my bad mood. A flurry of phones being raised above people’s heads, the clicking noise of about a dozen cameras going off. I look over the sea of heads to work out what’s causing the fuss.

  No. Freakin’. Way.

  This is amazing. This is too good. I whip out my phone and use my height to get a good shot. Then I’m sending it to everyone on my contacts book.

  GUESS WHO’S DOING WORK EXPERIENCE WITH HELLFACE???

  My phone buzzes instantly.

  No way!

  Aww bless him. He looks even worse now than he did in that feature last year.

  Ask for his autograph!

  I laugh and tuck my phone back into my pocket. He looks pissed off by the attention. But I’m sorry, mate, that’s just what happens when you go on television. It’s not my fault your face did that to you.

  It’s getting way too busy by the lifts now. What’s taking them so long? Some girl is pushed right into me, and it gives me a stirring. Especially as she’s forced to stand so close. I give her the once-over. She’s a bit sweaty and stressed-looking, but she’s a solid eight, even in her obviously cheap-as-shit outfit. She thinks she’s a five. A brilliant combination. Much better than girls who think they’re an eight but are only a four.

  I forgot how horny I get when I’m hungover. Maybe I can work out where this girl goes to lunch? Make some moves? A week would be long enough to lay the appropriate groundwork, I reckon. Maybe health and safety isn’t such a bad idea after all. We may have to do partner work . . . role play. And I could pretend to rescue her from a burning photocopier or something . . .

  I tell my trousers to calm the hell down, at least until I’ve figured this girl out. Dawson Sharman pushes past us to jab at the lift button, and as the doors open I follow her in, turning to smile at her as they close.

  VELVET

  ‘Velvet?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s an . . . interesting name.’

  I know exactly what that pause means. I’ve been on the receiving end of them all morning. All my life, if we’re being really accurate.

  It means that if I was a posh girl with shiny hair and a double-barrelled surname to go with it, Velvet would be a charming and unusual first name. But I’m not, so I get The Look: almost a sneer, but not quite, because that would be rude.

  I was named after a girl from this old film, National Velvet. In short, it’s about a girl called Velvet who wins a horse in a raffle and enters the Grand National – it’s terrible. Growing up in the mouldy basement of a condemned old hotel in Bridlington, my mum spent her sad childhood wishing she had a horse. So, she saddled me – so to speak, ha ha – with a stupid name that gets you semi-sneered at when you turn up for work experience and have to get your passport photocopied by some bitch wearing basic black trousers that probably cost more than your entire flat and everything in it. Spoiler alert: my mum never won a horse, or anything else, in a raffle.

  I hand my passport over to the receptionist to take a copy, which is the law, apparently. I really, really hope they don’t do any further checks and find out about that caution I got last summer. It wasn’t my fault; it was my cousin Chelsea who bought the vodka and made me carry it in my bag. It wasn’t even that much fun; Chelsea got drunk and puked on my sandals, so I had to wash my feet in the sea. She snogged Jamie King (after she’d been sick – it was vile) and she’d gone off with him down behind the arcade when the police turned up, so I was the only one who got in trouble and had to ring my mum to say I had been taken down to the station.

  It’s funny – when I think of home, I know it doesn’t really sound that great. If I close my eyes, I can imagine I’m eating chips on the seafront with Chelsea, boys shouting stuff at us, the sound of fruit machines, and that rank smell of rotten seaweed you never quite get used to. Yeah, I know it doesn’t really sound that great at all.

  But I want to go home. I don’t fit in here. This isn’t just a ‘face your fears and do it anyway’, ‘challenge yourself and your dreams will eventually come true’ stupid, shitty X Factor sort of a thing. This is an ‘I know I don’t belong here and I never, ever will – and I’m not even sure I want to’ sort of a thing. This is a total identity crisis.

  I look all wrong, for a start. I bought a smart blazer and shiny nude high heels from Primark especially to wear today. Because that’s the sort of thing people wear to work, right? I was feeling pretty fierce about my executive costume realness.

  Until I got here. All the other girls I’ve seen so far are wearing normal stuff. A lot of brogues and cute outfits, satchels swinging, eyeliner perfect. They haven’t come in fancy dress as a middle-aged receptionist from a Travelodge or something. I look like a total idiot. The irony is, if I’d have come in my normal clothes, that might at least have won me a bit of respect. It would
be a bit like the judges calling my play ‘gritty’ and ‘edgy’ and being all pleased with themselves for giving me the award, even though it was just about me and my friends doing normal stuff.

  The jacket’s really sweaty, and the shoes are rubbing my feet. I can’t even take the jacket off because all I’ve got on underneath is a tatty old vest that has a stain under the right boob and shows my bra. I did not think this through. I think I may have only put deodorant on one armpit when I was half asleep this morning, but I can’t be totally sure. These people might be looking at me like I’m scum, but I’m not exactly going to start sniffing my own armpit in public.

  I can’t help thinking: my mum’s bloody useless. All these other girls probably have mums who can tell them this sort of stuff, so they know what to do and what they’re supposed to wear. I know it’s not Mum’s fault; she’s even more clueless than I am, so I shouldn’t blame her.

  In fact, I kind of wish she was here right now. She’d make me a cup of tea with three sugars, and tell me to hold my head up and remember I’m from a long line of staunch women. My mum, it is fair to say, has had tougher things to deal with than an office full of swishy-haired private school girls called Sophie and Francesca looking at her a bit funny.

  Still, my mum never put herself out there to have to deal with this sort of thing. Easy for her to talk big from the sofa. It’s like complaining, ‘But I was going to say that!’ when someone’s already told you the right answer – everyone knows it doesn’t count.

  The thing is, it’s struck me today – if I’m going to be somewhere like this, it would be easier if I was completely different from my family. If I was the intellectual type who was desperate to get away from my ordinary life in a flat by the seaside. But I’m not. I’m just like them, and mostly I’m glad I am.

  I like hanging out with Chelsea and spending hours doing nothing more taxing than painting our nails and bitching about our friends. I like giggling over the Daily Mail sidebar of shame with my mum and watching Love Island. I genuinely care about the love lives of Z-list celebrities.

  I just happen to be really good at writing. I wrote a play that won this award last year. I didn’t even want to enter, but my English teacher Ms Parsons took it and ran with it. I think she was trying to inspire me or something, which is so deluded it’s actually kind of cute. I should probably paint her as some amazing saintly character who came along to my shit school and changed my life, and I suppose she kind of is, but she’s also pretty annoying.

  Anyway, it was her that got me to apply to do this work-experience thing, and I didn’t think I’d even get in, but now it all seems to have spiralled out of control. I mean, I’m at the UKB. British broadcasting giant, household name, et cetera. Not only that, but I’m in Manchester by myself. It felt so strange staying in the Premier Inn last night, which Ms Parsons had organized for me through some funding programme thing, and getting the bus in rush hour with the other commuters this morning like a real adult human. It just made me feel like an imposter.

  It’s like, I know this is a good opportunity. I know I should be grateful. But I kind of hate that.

  ‘Don’t go getting all up yourself,’ Chelsea’s always saying, helpfully. I hate it that she thinks she needs to, that everyone might start thinking I’m different – sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in anywhere.

  I gave in to Ms Parsons’ nagging, so I’m here. But there’s a big part of me that wishes I was just the beach with my friends like everyone else, helping out in my nan’s hotel, and hoping that Griffin Collins might try and snog me again. Just normal stuff.

  Instead I’m . . . here.

  ‘Well, Velvet, here’s your security pass and handbook. Now you need to go to the health and safety induction. Ninth floor.’

  ‘OK. Thanks. Where are the . . . ?’

  She’s already walked off, so I guess I’ll have to figure out where the stairs are for myself. My left shoe is totally crippling me, sweat and possibly blood squishing damply with every step. I should’ve broken them in at home first.

  The reception area is getting busier. It was practically deserted when I got here stupidly early this morning because I was worried about messing up the bus times and being late. No wonder I feel so crap; I’m knackered already.

  I catch sight of my own reflection in a glass door and instantly wish I hadn’t. I look like I’m in bad fancy dress as a greasy-haired teenage version of Theresa May. Theresa Maybe-not.

  Sod this. I can’t be the only person here who doesn’t have a clue. At least I can be safe in the knowledge that I could probably take any of them in a fight, if it came to it. Hopefully it won’t, but it’s always good to have a Plan B.

  ‘’Scuse me?’

  I picked out a girl who looked about my age and equally lost, but I quickly realize this was a mistake.

  ‘Yes?’ She looks up twitchily, as though she genuinely believes I’m going to stab her or something.

  ‘Are you going to this induction thing? Do you know which way it is?’

  ‘Yes. I mean . . . Are you? No, I’m not sure . . . Sorry.’

  Well, I’ll just go die under a sheet of burning plastic then, shall I? I can’t figure out if she’s just shy or what, but the way she turns her back on me has got to be unnecessary.

  Actually, it kind of strengthens my resolve. I am from a line of staunch women. I may look crap and feel totally out of place, but I’m here because I deserve to be, and these people are no better than me. For a second, I even kind of half believe it.

  I don’t bother asking anyone else for advice on where the hell I’m supposed to be going. I just walk like I know. This place is huge, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out.

  At the end of the corridor, I spot a group of people who look like they know what they’re doing, so I kind of casually tag along at the back. I feel shifty, like I’m stalking them or something; they probably think I’m going to try and rob them for their phones.

  I follow them to a bank of lifts, keeping my head down. I’m not really a fan of confined spaces – I prefer to be able to run away whenever I need to. Number one rule in life: always have an escape route planned. Still, I guess this is my best option right now.

  I simultaneously try to disappear and hope that someone might talk to me, as we all awkwardly stand there. I half smile at the girl next to me, who’s clutching a parcel and looking panicked, then remember that my bitchy resting face means my idea of a half-smile is most people’s idea of a death stare. Too late.

  I swear it’s taking the piss, how long it takes the lift to turn up. I could have walked it by now, even in these evil shoes from hell. If I knew where the stairs were.

  The longer I stand there, the weirder I start to feel. I’m not sure if it’s the shoes, plus the no breakfast and being on the second day of my period (which is always a total horror show), but I start to feel a bit dizzy and sick. I can feel epic levels of sweat trickling down my back, even grossing me out – no wonder nobody else wants to talk to me. I wipe my forehead with one hand, and don’t even care as I transfer the resulting mess of sweat and foundation on to the side of my skirt.

  I’m going to pass out . . .

  ‘Are you all right?’

  It’s a deep male voice – very posh and weirdly sexy. I try to pull myself together, but all I can see are the buttons of his shirt right up in my face. I think I manage to say I’m fine, just so he’ll leave me alone and not look at me, but he’s standing so close to me it’s suffocating.

  Luckily, I don’t think he’s paying much attention to me. The mass of faces around me are swimming; conversations are buzzing over my head. For a second, I swear I see a kid that looks like Dawson Sharman talking to some girl with a blue stripe in her hair, but I really must be hallucinating. I have got to get out of here.

  I hear a ding, which brings me back to reality. Instead of running away, I go against every instinct and let the crowd hustle me along with them towards the lift.

  Just because I�
��m getting in, doesn’t mean I’m staying, I tell myself. I still feel like doing a runner. As the lift doors close, a weird thought comes into my head out of nowhere: stay or go . . . ? I ask the universe to give me a sign.

  JOE

  ‘You all right, Mum?’ I ask.

  My mum, dressed in her morning uniform of dusky-pink quilted dressing gown and matching slippers, swivels her head in my direction.

  ‘Oh, Joe, I can’t get the thingamajig to work,’ she says, motioning at the microwave in front of her. She jabs at the buttons as if to demonstrate, her eyes watery with frustration.

  ‘You need to press “power” first, like I showed you the other day,’ I say gently. ‘Then you just set the time and press “start”.’

  I show her. As the microwave whirrs into action, she gets me to repeat my instructions, scribbling them down on a Post-it note. She peels it from the block and sticks it to the microwave door.

  There are Post-its all over our house, stuck to doors and window frames and electrical appliances, each of them filled with Mum’s old-fashioned loopy handwriting.

  At fifty-nine, my mum and dad are older than everyone else’s parents at school by miles. My big brother, Craig, was twenty-one when I was born and already engaged to Faye. Mum and Dad tried to have another baby for years and had given up hope when they got pregnant with me at forty-three.

  ‘What are you doing up so early?’ Mum asks, peering through the glass at her revolving bowl of porridge.

  ‘School trip, remember?’ I say, sticking a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. ‘The coach leaves at eight.’

  Mum looks blank.

  ‘To the UKB,’ I prompt.

  Her face lights up at the sound of those magical letters.