by Anna Bell
He rattles off more than a few reasons why I should be moving postcodes, all of which make me despise him more, so I tune him out. Instead, I start to wonder if Tinder needs to have an outlet to be able to leave Tripadvisor-style reviews. I can imagine what highlights – or lowlights – I’d mention now. He might look great on the outside, but five minutes of interrogation – I mean conversation – and you’ll be wishing you’d swiped left. Egotistical, self-absorbed and darn right dull. Wouldn’t go back to his for coffee. I’m just mentally awarding him one star (well, he was chivalrous enough to not let me pay that extra £1.35 that I would have done if we’d halved the bill), when we arrive at Victoria. Hallelujah.
‘Well, thank you for, um . . . ’ I struggle to finish the sentence. I can’t thank him for the food or drinks as I paid for them, and it’s not like I can lie and say that we had a nice evening. ‘For the company.’ Though that’s also a stretch.
‘Right, well, thank you too,’ he says, grabbing hold of my wrist to give me a kiss. I lean down to him as his lips brush my cheeks and it causes me to full on shiver.
‘Thanks,’ I manage to mutter. I’m about to turn to get off when I hear him speak.
‘So I’ll see you again?’
I look at him in disbelief. Were we on the same date? He was the one swiping potential dates during his smoke breaks.
‘Um, I don’t think so . . .’ I’d usually leave it at that but the Martinis appear to have made me unusually feisty. ‘I don’t want another date, as I have to say that this was probably hands down the worst date I have ever been on.’
Oh good God. Why couldn’t I have just channelled those super polite British manners that made me stick through the whole of dinner? I could have just said I’d see him another time then ignored his phone calls.
‘What’s wrong with me, then?’ he says so loudly that not even the people in the carriage with noise-cancelling headphones fail to look up. ‘Let me guess, you’re too tall for me?’
‘No, of course not,’ I say, shaking my head as if the thought had never entered my mind. ‘It’s just that I don’t think we’ve got any chemistry, do you?’
‘Oh I see. What you’re saying is, “it’s not you, it’s me”,’ he says rolling his eyes.
‘Um, I never said that it’s not you.’
I deliver the news still walking but looking at him, desperate to get off the train and bring this awful evening to a close. When I finish speaking I snap my head forward and go to get off the train, only to find that the doors have already closed and I smack straight into them.
‘Wait,’ I say, clutching my nose and jabbing at the doors, hoping they’ll hear me and magically and swing open. Of course they don’t, and the train lurches away. I grab on to a pole before I fall over. I’m well and truly trapped here with Dominic until the next stop.
*
By the time I make it home, I’ve got a raging headache. It might have only been a minute to the next underground station, but it felt as if the train I was on went all the way out to zone six and back, before we pulled into Sloane Square. I’m desperate to charge my phone up and tell Erica all about it, but even that is too much effort. Instead, I walk into my bedroom and collapse onto my bed fully clothed, pretty sure that the combination of the cocktails, headache and work exhaustion will knock me out any second . . .
Chapter Four
Time Since Last Internet Usage: 14 hours and 25 minutes
I sit down at my desk, careful to remove my sunglasses slowly to allow my eyes to adjust to the harsh fluorescent light. I take a deep breath and exhale.
My phone and its flat battery meant I missed my alarm this morning; I woke up in a panic with a blinding hangover. I had to scramble around trying to find some clean clothes to wear, and ended up raiding Erica’s wardrobe. But I’m slightly impressed that I managed to make it to work only half an hour late, which I think is pretty good going considering. Short of hiring a Boris bike and riding like Chris Froome, there’s no way I could have got here any quicker. I even sprinted from the Tube, so that’s taken care of my weekly exercise too – bonus!
I reach under my desk, plug my phone into a charger and visibly relax as the charging symbol appears, knowing that my baby and I are about to be reunited. I can’t remember the last time I went so long without my phone. I switch on my computer while I wait.
Sara strides across the office with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand and does a double take as she sees me.
‘You’re here,’ she says, sitting down at her desk.
‘Ha, I know what you’re thinking, you don’t recognise the clothes, but they’re Erica’s. I didn’t run off with Dominic last night. He was definitely not the one.’
I bang my head on the desk as I stand up. If I weren’t so late, I’d have filled her in on the details of the doomed date, but we’ll have to wait until we have a natural lull in the afternoon.
‘No, it’s just . . .’ she starts and then opens and closes her mouth.
‘I’d better do some tweeting in the hope that Andrea won’t notice what time I got in,’ I say, thinking that my all-seeing, all-knowing boss probably isn’t so easily fooled.
‘You’re going to do some tweeting,’ says Sara, looking at me as if I’ve said I’m going to attempt brain surgery.
I generally tweet a few trivial things throughout the day to make it look like we’re a young, dynamic company; it’s no big deal, so why is she turning it into one?
‘What?’ I ask, narrowing my eyes.
‘Um, I’ve got to, um . . .’ She gets up from her desk and abandons the coffee. I’m not sure where she’s off to in such a hurry, and as I watch her dart around the office, I’m not sure she does either.
‘Weird,’ I say, shrugging it off and loading up Twitter. I gasp as I see that we’ve got 2,879 notifications. Wowsers! One of our clients must have tagged us in something and they’re having a really good day.
I click on the tab to see what’s going on and instantly see the tweet I wrote last night about Dickhead Dominic, and I laugh at how I could ever have thought I’d want to sleep with him. I can’t believe that I’d forgotten to log out of my personal twitter at work. I’m a little proud that so many people have liked and retweeted my tweet, and I seem to have loads of new followers, but I really shouldn’t be looking at this at work. I go to click the profile picture to log out and I freeze. Our company logo is where my slutty photo from the hen do should be.
Uh-oh.
My blood starts to run cold. I feel the simultaneous urge to throw up and wee. Neither would be socially acceptable. But then again, neither was the tweet I’d posted.
What the hell have I done?
I panic as I click to view the profile, and there in black and blue is my tweet:
Sexy knickers £25, Brazilian £35, New outfit £170. When your Tinder date is hot as hell & you’re going to f**k his brains out = #priceless
I reread it over and over again as the magnitude of what I’ve done hits me. Why did I have to make a joke out of the MasterCard ad? We have loads of financial clients, and one of them is a rival credit card – surely they’re not going to be impressed with this.
The beads of sweat that were hangover related turn from mild perspiration to full-on drips as I try to come to terms with what I’ve done.
I attempt to force my wrist to work as I hastily try to remember how to delete a tweet. I’m not naive enough to think that’s solved the problem – I saw the look of horror on Sara’s face when I mentioned Twitter. I’m just wondering how I’m going to get rid of the evidence of those who have done the old-fashioned retweet using the words RT, but a shadow falls over my desk and I realise that I’m out of time.
‘Daisy. So glad you can finally join us. My office, I think.’
And there it is. As I do the walk of shame behind Andrea to the other end of our office, people actually stop their work and stare at me as I go by like I’m a dead man walking – which, I’m guessing, afte
r what I’ve done, I am.
*
I don’t hear the voices at first, I’m too busy holding a Twitter vigil in my Harry Potteresque bedroom, but soon they are so loud that I can’t ignore them.
‘I don’t know why it’s such a big deal,’ I hear Erica shout. ‘It’s not like she’s here that much anyway. You stay over most of the time as it is. It’s not going to be that different when you’re living here.’
It takes me a minute or so to process what’s been said, my mind still trying to process the fact that I got fired for the use of 140 ill-advised characters.
Chris is moving in?
It sounds like they’re having quite a heated discussion about me, and I can’t help but eavesdrop. I know that I should go out of the bedroom and let them know that I’m here, only I can’t tear myself away from my screen.
‘Of course it’s going to be different,’ he says sighing. ‘I want to feel comfortable in my own home. I want to walk around naked. Hell, I want you to walk around naked. I don’t want us to be constantly checking to see if Daisy’s in before we strip off.’ He sighs loudly. ‘It’s just not what I had in mind when we talked about moving in together. It’s bad enough on the few nights I stay over having to remember to put boxers on in the middle of the night when I need a wee, let alone doing it every night. It’s not like we need the money and have to have a lodger.’
I can’t believe this, not only is Chris moving in, but he also wants to evict me!
Great, first I get fired, then I become homeless.
‘It’s not about the money,’ says Erica. ‘She needs a place to stay at the moment. It’s not going to be forever. She’s just under so much pressure. I can’t add to that by telling her she’s got to move out. She’s my best friend and I know that she would do anything for me.’
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why she’s my bestie.
‘I know she is,’ says Chris. ‘And I have nothing against her. You know I like her a lot, and really, as housemates go, she’s perfect as we rarely see her, but it’s not the same. I want it to be our place, just you and me.
‘Think about it. I want to know that if I want to have you right here and right now on the sofa that I can, that you’re not going to be panicking that Daisy will walk in while we’re doing it.’
‘But you know I can always check to see where she is on the Find My Friends app.’
Chris laughs. ‘How romantic slash borderline stalker.’
‘Well, I can promise you she’ll be at work now. There’s no fear she’ll interrupt.’
Oh God. I can hear them kissing, and very soon I think I’m going to be hearing a whole lot more. I really wish I’d at least shut my door, but it has the worst creak on it, and they’d definitely have known I was here.
I stare at my bedroom window for a second and wonder if I can escape. But assuming I’d be able to fit through it, which is questionable with my hips, where do I think I’m going to go? We’re on the top floor of a large Victorian town house, and unless I’ve got some previously undetected Spiderman skills, I’d be like a cat stuck on a roof.
I’ll just have to hide out here and hope that they go to the bedroom after and I can sneak out of the flat.
I try to block out the smooching sounds and focus on what they’d been discussing. Even in my emotionally heightened state I can’t blame Chris. If I was shacking up with someone I’d want the freedom he craves too; surely that’s part of the appeal of living together. I know it’s not really about me, it’s about them taking the next step of their relationship and wanting it to be perfect, but it just couldn’t have come at a worse time. Losing my job and where I’m living in one day: talk about brutal.
But this was only supposed to be a temporary arrangement and I know I’ve been here way longer than I should have been already, and in the grand scheme of things finding somewhere to live is going to be a lot less difficult than finding a new job.
‘Hold that thought,’ says Erica. ‘I’m just nipping to the loo.’
For a second I’m relieved that they’ve stopped their sexy time before I realise that she’s heading my way. My room’s on the way to the bathroom and with the door wide open, and it being too small to swing a cat, I’ve got nowhere to hide. I launch myself off the bed in a bid to roll under it but she catches me mid-jump.
She shrieks at first before clasping her hand to her heart.
‘Daisy, you scared the crap out of me! What are you doing here?’
I attempt to ignore the pain of landing in a heap on the floor and I stand up, trying to pretend that it’s totally normal behaviour.
‘I, um, finished work early,’ I say. She looks up and down as I crawl back sheepishly onto the bed.
‘You’ll have to fill me in in a minute, I need a wee.’
I’m just refreshing my twitter stream again when Chris pokes his head round the door, presumably having heard the commotion as clearly as I heard their conversation.
‘Hiya, Daisy, you all right? You’re looking . . .’ he says, squinting at me as if he’s trying to find the right words.
‘Like shit,’ says Erica, walking in behind him. Trust her to say it like it is. Although, being my best friend, she can get away with it. She sits down on the bed beside me and Chris offers to go and make us a cup of tea.
‘What’s going on? Why do you look so bad? Are those my clothes?’ she asks, pulling at the shirt I’m wearing.
‘They are,’ I say wincing. I’d hoped that I’d have been able to catch up on the much-needed laundry and hang them back up in her room without her noticing. ‘Sorry. I was desperate, I had no clean clothes and you weren’t here to ask.’
‘It doesn’t matter. So why did you leave work?’
‘Because they made me,’ I say, focusing on my computer screen rather than Erica.
‘They made you . . . as in you got fired?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘For what?’
‘There was this tweet, and I thought I’d sent it from my personal account but I’d accidentally sent it from my work one.’
‘A tweet? You got fired for a tweet? Surely they can’t do that. I mean, how bad could it have been?’
I look up at her and pull a face and she gasps as if my expression tells her exactly how bad it could be.
‘What did it say?’
I turn my laptop round and let Erica read it. It’s still being retweeted, as even though it had been deleted, so many people had been talking about it that others have pulled off the screen shot of it. Not to mention the fact that people are taking the piss out of my tweet, and using the same hashtag, meaning priceless is currently trending in the UK.
‘Holy shit, Daisy, did you actually write this?’
‘It was meant to be a joke on my personal twitter, mainly for you and Amelie,’ I say trailing off. ‘It certainly wasn’t supposed to come from my work account. I mean, I work in marketing, for God’s sake. Who in their right mind is going to hire me now? I’ve got no job, no hope of ever getting another one, and I’ll be looking for a new place to live too.’
‘Oh, you heard,’ says Erica, giving Chris a scowl as he brings us in two cups of tea. He hangs his head a little sheepishly.
‘You don’t have to go anywhere,’ he says. ‘You know, what with you leaving your job. You can stay here as long as you need to sort yourself out.’
I see Erica’s scowl disintegrate into a smile at his change of heart, and instantly I know I can’t stay.
‘Thanks. I just don’t know what I’m going to do. I mean, how am I going to recover from this? This screen shot of my tweet has been retweeted over a thousand times, and the original tweet, before I deleted it, was retweeted over two thousand times. Everyone in the industry is going to know what I did.’
‘Well, no one knows it’s you, do they? I mean, it was your company feed. Maybe when you go to interviews no one will put two and two together,’ says Erica, trying to exude positivity.
I sigh. ‘Too late fo
r that. Someone’s done their homework and I’ve already been named and shamed.’
I look back at the Twitter stream.
‘It’s now about to hit one thousand five hundred. What are these people doing? Does everyone just spend all day on Twitter? Why aren’t they doing actual work?’
I ignore the fact that if I was still gainfully employed I’d be keeping abreast of what was going on in social-media land.
‘Look, it’s bound to be bad today, but I’m sure in a day or two Twitter will be going nuts over something Donald Trump has tweeted. You’ll be yesterday’s news.’
I’m not so sure. I look at the columns of searches I’ve got on Tweetdeck, one for those that mention my old company’s name, and the other for #priceless. Both are going crazy.
‘First off, you’ve got to step away from the computer; it’s not going to do you any favours staring at that all day. Why don’t you go away for a few days? Have a break.’
‘Go away? Where? And with whom?’
‘You could go over to Vegas for Helen’s wedding.’
‘That’s not for another three weeks and I couldn’t afford to go before, let alone now I’ve just been fired.’
‘Ah,’ says Erica nodding. ‘What about going to your mum’s?’
‘Oh, she’d do that disappointed-in-me voice that she does. I can’t tell her that I’ve lost my job. I mean that would send her into overdrive: no husband and no job. Nu-uh, I can’t tell her.’ I try and take a deep breath to calm myself down, only it’s not working. ‘Why are you at home during the day anyway? You weren’t fired too, were you?’ I ask.
‘Afraid not. Chris and I have tickets to a matinee; I’m just home to change before we go off. Of course, we’ll cancel that and stay here with you,’ she says hurriedly.
‘You can’t miss it for me. I’ll be fine here on my own, I’ll be –’
I drift off as I stare at the screen in disbelief at what’s happening. My eyes are practically turning square at keeping up with the ever-changing stream. I shouldn’t be watching. It’s as if I’m rubbernecking at an accident, only the casualty is my life.
