We Met in December. Rosie Curtis
a bit. I still reckon I could get lost quite easily, but I’m beginning to join bits of the city up and make sense of it. My first day is next Monday – and I’m being extremely noble about the fact that there’s something going on with him and Emma. Although I’m not sure what that something is – I haven’t heard any more nocturnal happenings but I can’t be sure. I’m just repressing all thoughts about how gorgeous he is.
He gets up to use the loo, climbing out of the tiny space in the corner where our table’s situated. A woman with a baby in a backpack asks him to help reach the highchair that is hanging folded on the wall behind us, and I try very hard not to notice as he reaches up, showing a strip of slightly tanned skin and the edge of his boxers peeking out underneath his jeans. Okay, I’ve repressed almost all thoughts. I am human, after all, and living with the nicest man you could imagine who just happens to be sleeping – on the quiet – with one of your other housemates isn’t quite as easy as you’d think. I grit my teeth and make a face, surprising the waitress, who looks at me with a confused expression.
14th January
The office of Elder Branch Publishing is smaller than I remember from my interview. Or maybe I just expanded it in my imagination in the six long weeks between being offered the job and waiting to start. Anyway, the nice thing is that it’s as bookish as I remember. And when I walk in, an office full of heads shoot up, meerkat-style, and my face goes very red.
‘Ah, Jessica,’ Veronica greets me. Veronica is the publisher, which I’ve learned means she’s basically where the buck stops. She’s very nice, very posh, and very busy. I don’t correct her and tell her it’s Jess, because she’s quite fierce and I’m extremely nervous.
‘So, as you’ll know, as Operations Manager you’re responsible for keeping all the publications on track, but of course you got the job, so we can be certain that you’re going to be absolutely wonderful. This is Sara. She’ll show you the ropes.’
Sara gives me a tour of the office. She’s tall and thin, in a flowery dress, and opaque mustard-yellow tights that match her cardigan. In fact everyone in the office seems to be wearing a variation on the same outfit. Most of them are in a meeting, but the handful I’ve met have that shiny, expensive-looking hair that comes from being well-nourished and brought up with lots of healthy outdoor activities. They’ve all got the same accent too – sort of home counties crossed with London – and I’m feeling distinctly suburban. Sara’s hair is held back from her face with a Kirby grip, which she takes out and puts back in about five times in the process of our conversation.
‘So, basically your job is just to make sure you keep all of us in line, hahaha,’ she snorts, as if the idea is slightly unlikely.
‘Not all of us are as disorganised as you,’ says a voice from the other side of my desk. A head pops up. ‘Hiya. I’m Jav.’
She’s tall and slender in a pair of black trousers and a jade green tunic, her long black hair hanging down her back. Her desk is neatly stacked with books and thick printed manuscripts, a pencil case from The Strand bookstore in New York, and a reusable coffee cup. It looks exactly like you’d expect an editor’s desk to look.
‘Jess,’ I reply, with a little wave.
‘Jav likes to put us all to shame by terrifying her authors into delivering on time.’
Jav raises her eyes skyward. ‘I just happen to be efficient, that’s all.’
Unlike the rest of my colleagues, she’s got an accent from somewhere up north – Manchester or somewhere around there – and I warm to her instantly. Not just because she’s efficient, although I have to be honest and admit that’s a bit of a plus. I’ve been used to working at my own pace in the past, and I’m a bit apprehensive about my work performance now hanging on whether a manuscript gets delivered on time or if a publishing schedule goes awry. I swallow and try and look as if I’m super confident.
Sara steps back and gives a ta-dah sort of wave in the direction of my desk. It’s empty, with a desktop computer and a leftover stack of Post-it Notes sitting beside the keyboard. Someone’s already left me three proof copies of books that aren’t out until next summer. I look at the covers and can’t help thinking how nice it would be to climb into one of them and—
‘Right,’ I say, tapping the top of my desktop monitor in what I hope is an authoritative manner, ‘I better get to work.’
‘I’ve left email logins on a Post-it Note – you can change your password and stuff, obviously, and there’s a meeting about the Tiny Fish publicity campaign at half ten. You should pop in, meet the rest of the team.’
Jav pushes her chair sideways when Sara leaves, and swings herself round.
‘Just shout if there’s anything you need.’ She tucks a stray lock of black hair back behind her ear. ‘I know it’s a bit scary on the first day, especially when you’re not – well—’ she lowers her voice ‘—one of the posh lot, but they’re all very sweet really.’
‘Oh God. How did it go?’ Becky drops her bag beside me on the kitchen table with a crash. I’m sitting with my head in my hands, my hair hiding my face, so I can see why she’s thinking the worst. I lift my face up to see her looking at me, head on one side, like a concerned sparrow.
‘Oh, it was fine. I’m just so tired that I can’t move. You know what it’s like when you start a new job – you’ve got so much stuff to remember and your brain gets overloaded. I could literally fall asleep here.’
‘That’s not a good idea,’ she says, briskly. ‘We’re supposed to be going to Pilates, remember?’
‘Oh my God. I can’t.’
‘It’ll be good for you.’
‘I don’t want to engage my core and strengthen my glutes. I want to lie on the sofa with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s and watch crap on TV.’
‘You can do that afterwards. It’s not on until nine.’
‘You know what I mean.’
She hooks me under the elbow and tugs me up to standing. ‘Come on, I’m not going on my own. Last time I did that creepy Charles tried to hit on me afterwards.’
‘FINE,’ I say, yawning so hard my jaw cracks.
The thing about living in Notting Hill is that even the most basic gym class is super posh. There’s a string of black Range Rovers parked outside the fitness studio, and inside everyone’s Lululemoned from head to toe. I’m in a bog-standard pair of sports leggings from JD Sports and a vest top, so I hide at the back of the room so nobody notices me, taking a yoga mat and parking myself in the corner beside a young mum who has a sleeping baby in a carrier. Becky’s standing at the door answering a last-minute call when the instructor walks in.
‘Hello, everyone.’ She’s a cheerful looking Australian woman of about forty-five, with the figure of an eighteen-year-old. Her buttocks are so perky that they look like they need their own morning TV show. She tosses her water bottle to the side of the room and claps her hands. Her ponytail swings. Oh God, I think, this is shaping up to be a torture session.
‘Now then,’ she says, giving me a welcoming smile. ‘We’re going to shake things up slightly this evening, for those of you who like to hide in the corners. Pull your mats back a couple of feet.’
Everyone does as they’re told. There’s a very quiet murmur of dissent, but nobody’s brave enough to speak up.
‘Excellent. So the back row is now the front row, and the front row is the back.’ She looks very pleased with herself.
I don’t