by Nina Kaye
‘What’s the number then?’ he prompts me.
I sigh and place my cutlery in the six o’clock position on the plate, my appetite having suddenly scarpered.
‘I make it about twelve weeks. But that’s obviously when I’ve run out completely. I’ll have to start making arrangements well before then.’
‘I was thinking about that myself.’ Dylan gives me a pained look. ‘I even considered offering to move in with you and split the bills, but I’m tied into my lease for another eight months.’
‘Probably for the best.’ I laugh. ‘I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not sure I could live with your stinking trainers.’
‘I would have considered buying a new pair,’ Dylan huffs.
‘Thanks anyway.’ My face softens. ‘Honestly. That was sweet of you.’
‘So, what are you gonna do then?’
‘I don’t actually know.’ I exhale heavily. ‘I’ll probably have to sell up regardless. Unless something comes up in the next couple of weeks. Problem is, I checked with my mortgage provider and it’s borderline whether I’ll be in negative equity. I bought my apartment brand new three years ago, on a ninety per cent mortgage, and unfortunately it hasn’t held its value.’
‘Balls.’ Dylan stabs at his chips, his frustration at being unable to help me evident. ‘What size of hole are you looking at?’
‘Worst-case scenario: a couple of thousand – that I don’t have. Best case: I’ll break even or get a few hundred in equity.’
‘Aww… Squirt. This totally sucks. I’d lend you the money, but me ma needed a loan to pay off some debts, so my money is tied up there for now. Best I can offer is a week or so at mine – on the couch – but my flatmates will kick off if it’s any longer than that.’
‘It’s fine.’ I wave my hand at him. ‘I’ll just need to start looking at other options. On the money I’m bringing in, I’m not sure I’ll be able to afford anything more than a rented flat on the estate – possibly even a flat share. They’ll all love that – I’ll be the talk of the Broken Arms. Seeing me come crashing down. Back to the level I shouldn’t have aspired above in the first place.’
‘No one will be like that,’ says Dylan. ‘No one worth giving a shit about, anyway. Anyone who does will have me to deal with.’
There’s a short pause as a waiter clears our plates away.
‘It’s just so frustrating.’ My voice wobbles and I push my hands through my hair, suddenly succumbing to the stress of it all. ‘If I could even supplement the wage I’m on with something else, then I’d have a chance of keeping my apartment – as long as I budgeted hard in other ways.’
‘Like what?’ Dylan’s interest recovers.
‘That’s the problem. I’m keen to do something, but can’t think of anything. I’m a corporate monkey, not an entrepreneur. I don’t know where to start.’
‘No harm in throwing a few ideas around. Have you got a notepad and pen?’
‘Err… yeah. In my handbag.’ I reach down, dig them out and hand them to him. ‘So, where do we start?’
‘What are you good at?’ Dylan asks.
‘Not much. I have my professional skills, I guess. So… writing communications, managing client relationships, putting a good PR spin on things…’
‘OK, what else?’
‘What do you mean “what else”? That’s it. That’s all I have to offer.’
‘Widen your thinking,’ he encourages me. ‘Give me some off-the-wall stuff.’
‘What? Why? This is pointless, Dylan.’ Again, my voice breaks slightly. ‘I just need to accept that—’
‘Will you just do it!’ Dylan shakes his head at me in frustration. ‘You’re a bloody mare to work with, woman.’
‘OK, OK. Err… I’m good at… drinking champagne. And I know a lot about gin now…’
Dylan scribbles as I talk.
‘Oh, and I have a real talent for reading people – as long as I’m totally removed from the situation. I watch the couples in the bar and make observations about them – and I’m nearly always right. Reyes is well impressed.’
‘Ah, how is Reyes?’ Dylan’s eyes glaze over, leaving me in no doubt that he’s imagining her naked.
‘And you just gave me a mouthful for not focusing on this?’
‘Sorry, you’re right.’ Dylan gathers himself. ‘She is one sexy bit of stuff though.’
‘One married sexy bit of stuff,’ I remind him.
‘Yeah, I noticed that,’ he grumbles and taps the side of his head. ‘Can still enjoy her up here though. Anyway…’
‘Yes, anyway.’ I glare at him. ‘Did you get all that before mentally undressing my married friend?’
‘Sure did.’ He reads down the list. ‘Poncey corporate bollocks, champagne, gin, weird stalker shit.’
‘Doesn’t add up to much, does it?’ I sigh. ‘And don’t call me a stalker. It’s an art.’
‘You’re an idiot.’ Dylan shakes his head at me again, pulls out the piece of paper from the pad and screws it up into a ball. ‘Was worth a try.’
‘Wait a minute.’ A flicker of an idea suddenly flits through my mind. ‘Give me that piece of paper.’
He passes it to me and I flatten it out, reading the words, over and over.
‘I’m really enjoying working in the bar,’ I ponder. ‘But there’s an element of fulfilment that I just don’t get from it, that I got when I was working at McArthur Cohen. This job is not mentally stimulating; doesn’t challenge my mind…’
‘So?’ Dylan prompts me.
‘If I could choose to do anything from my old job again, it would be the writing. I loved nothing more than crafting and polishing the perfect article or communication piece. What if I tired some freelance writing again? But this time not in a professional context. On my observations of other people? Or I could write about gin. Or both? That could be fun! Although… I’ve no idea how I’d make any money from it. Who would pay money for that kind of stuff?’
‘Squirt, you’re a bloody genius!’ Dylan suddenly slams his hand on the table, making me jump.
‘I am?’
‘Yes. You are. Nobody needs to buy it. They just need to read it. Set up a blog online and write about exactly that. People love this shit. If you gain enough followers, you can make a killing from advertising revenue.’
‘What, really?’ I scratch my head. ‘I haven’t the first clue how to go about doing all that.’
‘Good thing I do.’ Dylan looks triumphant. ‘I knew being an admin donkey for a tech start-up would come in handy one day. I work with internet gurus, so I know how it works. A guy on my floor has his own blog and he makes a decent sum on the side.’
‘Really? So, you’ll help me?’
‘Damn sure. We’re gonna get you out of this hole. When’s your next day off?’
‘Tomorrow,’ I confirm. ‘But you’ll be working, surely? We could do it on the weekend, before my shift starts.’
‘No way.’ Dylan shakes his head decisively. ‘Time is ticking down. We can’t afford to lose nearly another week. I’ll get the day off. Start pulling your first blog post together and we’ll get you launched by the end of the day.’
I’m enthused, but overwhelmed by these ideas.
‘But, I don’t know what I’m going to write about yet.’ I suddenly feel panicked. ‘Maybe if we wait a few days, something will come to—’
‘Liv. Stop.’ Dylan silences me. ‘Your confidence is shot, so you’re stalling. I get that. But you just said you need challenge and fulfilment. What could give you more of that than setting up your own money-making operation in the space of a day? Just bloody do it!’
‘I suppose there’s no harm in giving it a try.’ I hesitate slightly. ‘It’s not like it’s going to land me in a worse position than I’m already in.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Dylan thumps me on the back affectionately. ‘What a productive lunch. Now let’s get the bill.’
Chapter 15
I spend the next mor
ning at my breakfast bar, tapping away at my laptop, trying to craft my very first blog post. At first, I struggle, my mind distracted by a persistent, nagging fear that I’ll fail. This triggers a frustrating and seemingly unbreakable cycle: writing a few sentences, reading and deleting them, then starting again. I curse my clumsy prose, and the loss of the flawless, uninterrupted focus my writing used to display.
While wrestling with my wavering self-belief, I realise that, until I left McArthur Cohen, this was a feeling I haven’t experienced significantly since my childhood. A time when my father muttered daily about how working hard at school was a waste of time; that no matter how hard I tried, I would amount to nothing; that ‘folk like us’ were set up to be nobodies and have nothing. His worldly-wise view was that life was unfair: we were the victims of inequality from a rigged system. This was justification for his violent outbursts, his drinking, every job he lost, every custodial sentence he was handed down.
He did so little to nurture and prepare me for the real world. But it had the opposite effect to what he assumed. I challenged his self-justification, for which he never forgave me. I fought his sense of inevitability. Instead of ignorantly and naively following him and my mum down the road to misery, I made a pact with myself: no matter what the consequences, I would not turn out like my parents. I put my trust in the belief that others had in me – like Dylan and my favourite teacher, Mrs Patterson. Their encouragement made me think I could achieve something. This cost me the last shred of familial bond, but I have never once regretted my decision.
After an hour of self-torture, and no progress on my first blog post, I decide I need a break. I slide off my bar stool, unlock the door to my balcony, and step outside. The cool, blowy air offers a welcome relief from the stifling suffocation of my own mind. For a few minutes, I just lean on the balcony railing, looking out across north-east Edinburgh, breathing the city air deep into my lungs. It’s far from countryside fresh, but it’s invigorating all the same.
As the calming rhythm of my breathing reaches every part of my body, I begin to relax. I bounce a little on the spot in a bid to get my blood – and my motivation – flowing. Thankfully, it has the desired effect. Encouraged by this, my mind begins to shift to lighter thoughts; curiously, a mantra an old university friend used to repeat to herself before exams randomly pops into my head: my only true barrier is myself.
As her words circle in my mind, and I make the connection with my own self-limiting behaviour, I feel the urge to articulate them – quietly.
‘My only true barrier is myself,’ I murmur.
My words, so delicate and fragile, barely even audible, are instantly whisked away by the whipping wind. Realising that it’s unlikely anyone will hear me, I raise my voice slightly.
‘My only true barrier is myself.’
I’ve never been one to buy into this particular brand of self-help, but I’m surprised by the effect chanting these six words aloud, in this specific setting, has on me. It’s like I’ve created a tiny spark within me, and I’m beginning to come alive. I take it up another notch.
‘My only true barrier is myself.’
A single flame bursts from the rising inner glow.
‘My only true barrier is myself.’
My voice is now close to a shout.
‘MY ONLY TRUE BARRIER IS MYSELF.’
The fire suddenly erupts within me. My mental torture melts and gives way to a surge of power, invigoration and determination. I can do this. I’ve overcome my fears before. I’ve proved how capable I am. McArthur Cohen and my ex-colleagues do not get to take me down. I have a talent for writing: that is the way forward. The only thing that’s getting in the way of that is me.
‘MY ONLY TRUE BARRIER IS MYSELF. MY ONLY TRUE BARRIER IS MYSELF. MY ONLY TRUE BARRIER IS MYSELF.’
I shout the words over and over, allowing them to gallop away into the whooshing and whirling sky. Eventually, a wave of calm and confidence envelops me, and I stop reciting my mantra. I’m ready to write. I enjoy the feelings of tranquillity and anticipation for a few moments longer, then turn to head back indoors.
‘Young lady.’ A faltering elderly male voice suddenly descends from above me. ‘That was quite inspired. Even I want to take over the world now.’
I look up to my right and see an old man sitting on a patio chair on his balcony, puffing on a pipe. Instead of feeling a burning humiliation from being overheard, my inner composure surprisingly holds.
‘I’m glad,’ I call up to him. ‘And you know what? You can if you want to.’
‘Think it’s a bit late for me.’ He chuckles. ‘But it’s definitely not too late for you. Go get ’em, my dear. Goodness, we need more people like you running our country.’
‘Thanks.’ I smile up at him. ‘Enjoy your pipe.’
Laughing to myself, I open the balcony door, and step indoors, and as I do, I hear a hammering on my front door. Glancing at my watch, I curse out loud as I realise that I’ve wasted the whole morning and Dylan’s already here. So much for realising the benefits of my motivational outpouring!
Dylan begins pounding my front door again, just as I open it.
‘Calm yourself,’ I greet him as his knocking fist almost connects with my face.
‘What you been doing, Squirt?’ he complains as he skulks past me, laptop bag slung over his shoulder. ‘I’ve been out here for ages. You got stomach trouble or something?’
‘No, I don’t.’ I eye him disapprovingly. ‘I was on the balcony. Don’t be so grumpy. Why don’t you just use the buzzer like normal people? It’s louder.’
He ignores my question. ‘You got your first blog post ready?’
‘Err… no. Not yet.’
‘What? Why not?’
‘Because… I had a telephone interview this morning.’ I’m reluctant to share my crisis of confidence. ‘Kind of came out of the blue.’
‘Oh? What’s the job?’ Dylan’s face perks up, leaving me feeling a bit guilty. ‘Did it go well?’
‘Not really.’ I wave my hand dismissively. ‘Crossed wires. Turns out it wasn’t what I thought.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘It’s fine. No biggie. You hungry?’ I gesture towards the fridge, a sure-fire way to distract him. ‘I’ve got a stocked fridge. How about you have something to eat and start setting up my blog site? I’ll see what I can come up with.’
An hour and a half later, I hop off my bar stool, and join Dylan on the couch.
‘I’m done. How are you getting on?’
‘Well done, you.’ Dylan looks impressed. ‘Let’s have a read then.’
We swap laptops and sit in silence for several minutes inspecting each other’s work. I finish first and sit quietly until Dylan’s done too; reading isn’t his biggest strength. After a short while, he sits back thoughtfully.
‘Well?’ I prompt him. ‘What do you think?’
His reaction throws me. My first instinct is that he thinks it’s rubbish but doesn’t know how to tell me. The nagging self-doubt from earlier starts to loom again.
‘Dylan?’ I try again.
‘I think…’ he says eventually. ‘I think it’s bloody amazing.’
‘You do?’
‘Yeah, I do. And that’s coming from someone who’s spent their whole life trying to avoid reading. It’s easy to read, which is high praise coming from me. It’s funny—’
‘You didn’t laugh,’ I jump in.
‘Not out loud. But that’s probably because I was having to concentrate.’
‘So, you like it?’ I smile tentatively.
‘I love it.’ Dylan looks me square in the face. ‘I can’t offer all the poncey review nonsense used by proper critics, but I can say it’s bloody ace. When you said you were going to write about gin and dating at the same time, I did wonder if it would work. But the way you’ve created a story out of the dating side, and then built in a tailored gin recommendation at the end – it’s genius! If we can get you a good following to start you
off, I think this will really take off.’
‘Well… great!’ I feel a surge of enthusiasm. ‘I love the blog site you’ve designed for me too, by the way. It’s so professional-looking.’
‘Great stuff. I made a start last night to get us ahead of the game. Now, we need a name for your blog, then to upload the content, and we’ll get you published. Any thoughts on what you want to call it?’
‘Oh… err… I’ve no idea. You got any thoughts?’
Dylan scratches his head. ‘It needs to be something related to your blogging topic.’
We sit in thoughtful silence for a few minutes.
‘I’m struggling to come up with anything,’ I admit. ‘This seems the hardest bit!’
‘What about something related to gin?’ Dylan suggests. ‘Names of drinks, maybe?’
‘Yes. Gin cocktails. Good thinking!’ I take my laptop from him and do a Google search. ‘There must be something we can use, even just for inspiration.’ I click in and out of some websites. ‘OK… there’s one called an Aviation—’
‘Probably more suitable for a blog about flying,’ Dylan remarks.
‘There’s a Gimlet—’
‘Whoa! Sounds too much like gimp.’
‘Please shut up and listen,’ I instruct him. ‘You don’t need to comment on every single one.’
Dylan smirks like a teenage boy who’s been told off by his teacher.
‘There’s a Tom Collins,’ I continue. ‘Singapore Sling, Pink Gin, Negroni… ooh, I’ve got it! Gin Fizz. That’s perfect! It’s got the gin element; the fizz refers to the romance. And it’s my favourite cocktail!’
‘That’s the balls, Squirt!’ Dylan high-fives me. ‘Nice one. Gin Fizz, it is. Email me your blog post.’
I do as he’s asked while he completes the final touches on my blog site.
‘Nearly done,’ he commentates. ‘I’ve got quite a big Twitter following. I’ll put it out via that and ask some contacts to re-tweet it. I’ll also get my workmates to see how far they can push your traffic using their online marketing skills. They love a challenge. That way you can preserve your anonymity. I’m assuming this is something you don’t want Aaron to see?’
