by Luiza Sauma
Everyone murmured – a low-spirited, multi-layered hum of despair.
‘Wow, is that all you got? Here I am, telling you that I’m going to transform your lives in the next few hours, and all you can say is, Uhhh okaaay. This isn’t going to be like other training courses. Mark my words. And if you’re not happy with the outcome, I will personally give you the money back from my own wallet. Now, I’m going to ask the question again, but this time I want more energy. Ready? Does. That. Sound. Good?’
‘YES!’ said everyone, because they had been trained from an early age to obey people who demand more energy – at rock concerts, at work, at home, in bed.
‘That’s more like it!’ Adam Sickler-Jones clapped his meaty hands together. Thick black hair sprouted from the neck of his T-shirt. He pushed his sleeves up to reveal furry arms. He was some sort of gorilla-man. Iris wondered if he had a hairy back, too. Thinking about it made her feel kind of turned on, even though she’d never had a thing for hairy men. It was a biological trick: his high testosterone making her crazy. An image flashed through her mind of Adam Sickler-Jones pummelling himself into her body.
‘Hello?’ he said to her. ‘Are you listening?’
‘Sorry,’ said Iris.
‘Pay attention. You only get one chance to learn this. Now, can each of you introduce yourselves, tell us a bit about your job and why you’re here – starting with you.’ Adam pointed at Iris. He looked super-serious, like a film star pretending to be an angry schoolteacher in a bad film.
‘Hi, I’m Iris. I work as a digital innovation architect at a creative agency, managing digital projects for various clients, delivering strategies on social media, content, marketing and development. I’m here because I’d like to build my confidence as a leader.’
Adam nodded, but his eyes were blank, as though he’d been thinking of something else. Fucking a woman from behind, thought Iris. Pumping weights at the gym. Doing high-fives in the air with his ripped male friends.
‘I’m John, and I manage IT at a mental health charity. Our department has expanded and I don’t have much experience of managing people, so I’m here to learn a few tips.’
‘I’m Amy,’ said a woman with red hair and lipstick, wearing a burgundy skirt suit. Everything about her clothes and demeanour screamed, I’m confident! ‘I’m a marketing manager at a bank. I’ve been managing people for years, but I thought I should freshen up my skills with some new learnings.’
On they went.
‘I’m Ruth.’
‘I’m Steve.’
‘I’m Madeline.’
‘I’m Holly.’
Other names. Other job titles. Other lives.
‘I’m Tom,’ said a good-looking man in his thirties with dark hair. ‘I’m the director of marketing at a film distribution company. I don’t know why I’m here. My boss thought I should come.’
Iris was impressed.
‘Now, Tom,’ said Adam, ‘that’s not really the attitude I’m looking for today.’
‘Isn’t it? Why’s that?’
‘Aren’t you keen to learn something new and find your inner confidence?’
‘My inner confidence?’ Tom looked around the room. ‘Where’s it hiding?’
‘Obviously you already think you’re the big man, I can see that. But what I see, my friend, is something entirely different. I see someone who is afraid of personal growth. But please, if you don’t want to be here, feel free to leave the class.’
Most of them didn’t want to be there, but they couldn’t leave without a good excuse for their bosses, like: ‘The workshop leader said something racist, so I walked out in disgust.’ Better still: ‘I received a text from my mother informing me that my uncle had died, so I had to fly to Australia, immediately.’
‘No, no, I’ll stay,’ said Tom.
‘OK,’ said Adam. ‘Let’s do this.’
First, he ran through a role-playing exercise in which he and Tom pretended to be colleagues. Adam was trying to convince Tom that they should fire their copywriters and replace them with minimum-wage interns.
‘Tom, we’re going to save so much money!’ Adam trilled.
‘But that’s ridiculous. We have so many experienced writers – why would we give the job to a bunch of kids? It’ll be stressful for them and for us.’
‘But writing is just putting a bunch of words together! Anyone can write!’
Tom broke the fourth wall. ‘What is your job title supposed to be?’
‘What do you mean, Tom? You know I’m the vice-president of digital marketing and communications.’
‘It’s just that I can’t imagine why someone in your position with your level of expertise would ever say such a thing.’
‘And cut.’ Adam clapped his hands. ‘You have to stay in the moment for this to work, for the learnings to get in here.’ He pointed at Tom’s head. ‘Good job, overall, but don’t be afraid to stand your ground. Don’t just explain why the person is wrong; be firm and tell them that you’re not going to kowtow to their demands. Have confidence in yourself.’
‘But what if they have confidence in themselves, too? At some point, someone has to give in.’
‘But do you want to win?’
‘Win at what?’
‘At life, motherfucker, at life!’
‘What the –?’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘Jesus. Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘I suppose so?’
Amy raised her right hand, jittery with excitement. Iris noticed that her nails were painted red, too. It must be her favourite colour.
‘I want to win,’ she said.
‘What do you want to win at?’
‘Life!’
‘What do you want to win at?’ Adam said, looking at Tom.
‘Life,’ he said, giving in.
‘And you?’ said Adam to Iris.
‘Um, life,’ she said, though she was fairly certain that she didn’t want to win. How does one win, anyway? What are the telltale signs of winning? Wealth, fame, popularity, high status, regular sex with an attractive person – but Iris knew that people could be unhappy even with all of those things.
‘Everyone repeat after me,’ said Adam. ‘I want to win! I want to win!’
‘I want to win, I want to win,’ they said, in varying tones of boredom and enthusiasm.
‘This is your new mantra, people. Mantras have been absolutely crucial to my progression as a business leader and self-improvement activist. Believe it or not, I was once like you: a middle manager stuck in a boring job, coasting through life, choosing the easy route, rather than asserting myself. I knew, deep down, that I was capable of more, if only I pushed myself harder. One day I woke up and thought: What the hell am I doing? I was a loser. I looked in the mirror and said, “I want to win.” That’s how it began. Just that simple mantra can do so much for your self-esteem.’
He paused and an embarrassing silence washed over the group. Iris looked at the other participants. Unease rippled through her body, from her head to her toes. She looked around the room, at the windows speckled with city dirt, at the floor, at her fellow future leaders, from the sincere ones, who were taking copious notes, to the uninterested, who were slumped in their chairs, rolling their eyes. The only sign of hope was the water cooler in the corner – the simple promise of cold, fresh water. Apart from that, it was so undignified. Better to be a strong, silent gorilla, striding through the jungle with a baby clinging to its back.
Her mind had gone for a walk. It felt calming and peaceful to let it go where it wanted. She was like a reed being blown about by the wind. Somewhere in the distance, Adam was talking – for hours, it seemed – about his journey to leadership, which mostly seemed to consist of screaming ‘I want to win!’ at the mirror and quitting his job. There was more role play, though Iris wasn’t called on to perform, thank God. She was just a reed by the sea, listening to the crash of the ocean, the rustle of the pines, the cries of seagulls. But then Ad
am did a double clap and said it was time for lunch. They moved their green plastic chairs to the green plastic tables by the window and were presented with a selection of sandwiches, snacks and drinks.
‘What’s your job like?’ said Tom.
It was like coming to after blacking out. She looked up at him. They were eating sandwiches at a table, each with an open packet of crisps and a box of apple juice. A meal for children. There were two other people at the table, eating but not talking. People look so vulnerable when they’re eating, thought Iris. Like cows in a field, nibbling on grass, waiting to be taken away and slaughtered.
‘It’s OK,’ she said.
‘Just OK?’
‘It’s, you know, just a job. Jobs are only ever OK, unless you’re an astronaut or a movie star or an artist who can shit on the floor and sell it for a million pounds.’
He pulled back in surprise, and then crunched a crisp between his teeth. ‘Wow, I like my job.’
‘What do you like about it?’
‘I like films. I like my colleagues.’
‘Fair enough. Films are important. I help companies to sell shampoo and yogurt.’
‘Why don’t you leave?’
‘I need the money. I don’t know what else to do.’
‘Something you’re passionate about?’
‘Passionate?’ said Iris, as if hearing the word for the first time. It had become diluted through overuse – so many job applications, so many presentations. ‘Passion’ was a homeopathic remedy, a placebo.
‘What do you love?’ said Tom. ‘There must be something.’
Drinking outdoors on a sunny day, thinks Iris. Jumping into ponds. Coming.
‘Just ignore me,’ she said. ‘I’m having an existential crisis.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘Ah, you’re having your Saturn Return,’ said Tom, smiling.
‘My what?’
‘It’s an astrological thing.’ His face flushed and he laughed. He was extremely cute. ‘No, I don’t believe in astrology – I’m not crazy! – but that’s what they call it. When Saturn returns to where it was when you were born, you’re supposed to experience some kind of crisis or change. It happens every twenty-nine years.’
Iris sipped her apple juice. ‘I’ll blame it on Saturn, then.’
They both laughed and Iris thought: Is he better-looking than Eddie?
‘You’ll feel better after you hit thirty.’
Yes, he is.
‘I hope so,’ said Iris.
‘Or you’ll care less about your own unhappiness.’ Tom raised his carton of apple juice. ‘Cheers.’
After the workshop, Iris wondered whether Tom might ask for her number, but he didn’t. They said goodbye on the street and he walked off in another direction, looking at his phone. The sky was a pale, queasy grey. She walked away from the building, whispering, ‘I want to win, I want to win, I want to win,’ so quietly that she could barely hear it herself, but she hoped it would be enough to scare the Smog away. She became so focused on the mantra that she ended up walking in the wrong direction, finding herself at the entrance to Regent’s Park.
That’s what I need, she thought: fresh air, trees, grass.
The park was busy with dog walkers, mums and babies, tourists admiring the flowers, and several attractive young people, enjoying the beginning of the weekend, walking hand in hand, drinking beer, smoking, laughing and talking. How do they do it? thought Iris. How did they get so good at performing their lives? She didn’t feel human, or like a gorilla. She felt like a mad, stupid monkey wearing human skin, barely passing.
The weather was mild, but there was an autumnal stiffness in the air. As she walked, the sun began to glow soft and peachy through the clouds, casting a pink light across the sky. It was glorious. Even in her gloomy state, Iris could see that. Earth was magnificent, it was undeniable. But the planet had been doing just fine before we came along, performing its wild loveliness – sunsets, sunrises, rivers, mountains, jungles, beaches – for dinosaurs and Neanderthals. In the pictures Iris had seen, Nyx was not nearly as interesting as Earth. Miles of bland pink sand. Not enough oxygen. She would stay indoors for the rest of her life, would never feel the sun on her skin again.
Among the various groups of people in the park, she spotted someone she vaguely knew – a girl from one of her university seminars. Anne, Annie, Anna, Hannah? She had wavy dark hair, green eyes and was absurdly beautiful, like a Disney princess. Sometimes, in seminars, Iris had found herself staring at her in awe. How did it feel, to be so attractive that you made people feel demented? But now she couldn’t remember her name. The girl was a bit older and heavier now, but still gorgeous. She had her arms around a man, both of them laughing. What does she do, these days? Even if it was unimpressive, she would always be impressive because she had that face. Iris looked at her phone, so the girl wouldn’t be able to catch her eye. She liked her face, but didn’t want to talk to her. This was the problem with London: everyone was there. Even if Iris moved to another city, another country, she could still run into people she knew. She wouldn’t know anyone if she left Earth.
She scrolled through Twitter. Someone had blown themselves up in another country. Dozens of people had been killed. My life is full of embarrassing comforts, she thought. Look at this city. Look at my charmed life. Then she checked her emails. The shoe shop had emailed her again, even though she had unsubscribed twice: ‘We miss you.’
On the Tube from Great Portland Street, she listened to music and stared at the adverts for hair loss remedies and vitamins. A middle-aged couple got on: a chic, blonde woman with her craggy husband. There was something curious and pleading about the woman’s damp, pale eyes, as she looked around the carriage. A tear ran down her cheek to her painted red mouth. Soon she was silently weeping, while her husband looked ahead, ignoring her. Jesus, thought Iris. The couple got off. The train ran alongside another train; both of them going the same way, sharing the tunnel for two seconds. Iris always loved it when that happened. She could see people on the other train, sitting, standing, being carried along. And wait, no – that man again, the Orthodox Jew she’d seen on the bus, who reminded her of her father, reading the Evening Standard. He was gone now. The train had passed. Don’t be silly, thought Iris, closing her eyes. He was just some guy.
10.
Robert Who?
On Sunday she went to her parents’ house to celebrate Jack White’s birthday. She hadn’t seen her family in a while. Eleanor wasn’t one of those mothers who test their children’s patience with constant phone calls. Instead, she tested Iris’s love by rarely getting in touch. It seemed impossible that Iris had grown inside her, that they had once shared a body.
The previous night, Iris had gone to a party with Eddie. They had drunk a thousand beers and now she felt like sour blood was running through her veins.
Mona opened the door. The house smelled like roast chicken and potatoes. (What Iris would give now, to eat a single crisp roast potato.) Mona was wearing a blue hoodie, with her thumbs poking out through holes in the sleeves, her curly hair pinned back. Iris leaned in for a hug.
‘How’s it going?’ said Iris. ‘School OK?’
‘Yeah.’
What else do you say to a thirteen-year-old? They walked to the living room, where the table was set for four.
‘Where are they?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘So you’re OK?’
‘You already asked that.’
‘We should go swimming sometime. It’s still quite warm.’
Mona seemed to brighten up. ‘Yeah, OK.’
‘Next weekend?’
Eleanor walked into the room, followed by Jack. In contrast to Eleanor’s glossy hair and pearls, Jack was portly and casually dressed, with untamed, curly hair. Iris greeted them with a nod and a smile, rather than bodily contact. As she did, she recalled a memory from her childhood – how she would curl up in her father’s lap a
nd he would put his arms around her. How he kissed her on the forehead before turning the lights off. She had forgotten about that.
‘I’ve brought you a present,’ said Iris, giving Jack a wrapped package.
‘Ah, thank you. How kind.’ He unwrapped it and nodded when he saw the label of the whisky. ‘It’s a good one.’
‘My … my boyfriend recommended it.’
‘You have a boyfriend?’ He raised his eyebrows, impressed.
‘Yes, he’s called Eddie. I met him at work.’
Eleanor nodded and smiled. ‘That’s good. Shall we eat?’
They didn’t ask anything else about Eddie: what he did at Freedom & Co, how old he was, how long they had been dating, where he was from. Instead, they ate lunch over a conversation that skated over the surface of things, never breaking through. The weather’s nice, the news is bad, this food is good. Moments of silence were punctuated by knives and forks clanking on plates – but lightly, as though even these inanimate objects were too embarrassed to pierce the turgid atmosphere. Iris and Mona cleared the table and brought in a chocolate cake that Mona had made, but they didn’t sing ‘Happy Birthday’, because Eleanor thought it was only acceptable for children. ‘So silly,’ she would say, when people started singing in restaurants. The cake was decent but dry, a tad over-baked.
After the table was cleared, Jack retreated to his man cave on the top floor and Eleanor stayed in the kitchen, cleaning up. Iris followed Mona to her bedroom, which had once been hers, and sat on her single bed – the same one she had lain on while waiting to die, twelve years earlier. But the rest of Iris’s room had more or less disappeared – the heavy curtains had been replaced by blinds, the pale green walls had been painted white, the posters of New Rave bands had been recycled. Instead of bands, Mona had posters of Jupiter, Saturn, the Milky Way and a basket of yellow Labrador puppies.
‘Can I tell you something?’ said Mona.
