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‘Now if you don’t wipe that up quickly it’ll be stickier than a flypaper!’
‘Sorry?’ I frown at her.
‘The sauce darling! It will set like toffee, you’ll have to scrape it off the sides, oh my goodness, the gravy!’
The rest of Christmas day passes in a bit of a blur. It’s hard to fully appreciate cracker jokes when your future is held in the balance. Although I have to admit I had totally forgotten how much fun pin the tail on the donkey can be after two brandy and Babychams, and a snowball consisting mainly of Advocaat. Maybe retro really is the way to go.
ACT 2 – NEW YEAR, NEW ME (#ulink_58cbaa47-12e3-56ae-a87a-ab10ac502353)
Chapter 7 (#ulink_bbe875c5-ca90-5e1e-9977-f5eccb735899)
11.57 p.m., 21 March 2018
The last few months have been a bit of a nightmare, I feel like I am dangling in hyperspace. My life has been suspended, while I wait to see what Guardian HQ has in store for me.
In January, we were moved into a much smaller office, just up the road from our old office, with a much bigger temporary boss. She’s enormous, has chin hair, and is very stern and serious. I think she’d rather be in Stavington reporting on speeding offences and petty crime, than here featuring the village fête and looking for lost gerbils.
She also isn’t that keen on my funny small ads (‘Is humour really necessary?’) or enquiries about my future (‘We’ve all been there, just cope. Is that really how you spell Chihuahua?’). In fact, let’s face it. She’s a grumpy cow.
I did in fact mention this to Ollie, who has been sending me the odd email (and some of them are very odd) since Uncle T’s party, asking how things are going. It’s a bit like when we were kids and he’d leave a note in my locker saying ‘I’ll beat you next time’ if I’d got a higher test score than him.
Except now he says things like:
Hi, Daisy,
I hope you told her that humour is always necessary. A Daisy without her cheeky, funny side, is like a cow without an udder – there’s something essential and life-affirming missing.
Oll.
Hi, Ollie,
Did you really just liken me to an udderly useless bovine?
Dais
Daisy,
Ha-ha. I did. Did I ever tell you Uncle T used to have a Jersey cow called Daisy? It was a creature of beauty.
Oll
No, but I’m not sure where this is going. I think you should stop before I get moo-dy. Aren’t there any lives you need to rush off and save right now?
Daisy
Daisy,
You’re no fun. If you’d have known her, you’d have loved her. Your namesake. I think I’ll press the mooote button now though!
Oll
You’ve been looking these jokes up on the internet haven’t you? D x
I’ll have you know they’re all my own work! O x’
Followed up swiftly by:
Unlike the list of one-liners you helped me compile in Year 1 so I could woo Jasmine Smith. You’re the only person I’ve ever known who solved everything with a list and a military precision plan! Sorry, bleepers gone off, need to don my cape and save lives. Good luck with the interview, not that you ever needed luck! O x
I think they might have sent the caretaker boss in so that we all quit our jobs, but I am made of sterner stuff.
Okay, I did think about it briefly. But as I’ve only been here a few months, have zilch experience and might appear to be jumping ship before I’m sacked, I have decided that my immediate future might lie with the newspaper. Although if they refuse to give me a better job, I might need a rethink. But I have been gritting my teeth and waiting to see if my new boss, James Masters is going to give me a job. And not just any job, but a better job than I had before. I am going to demand it, and I am going to get it.
All I have to do is survive the small matter of an interview.
After a bottle or three of wine with Frankie this evening, though, I do now know how to sort my life! It’s simple.
1 I must be more organised; and
2 I must try harder; and
3 I must be more like Frankie – who definitely has her shit together. When Frankie decides to go for something, not even an apocalypse would stand in her way.
4 p.m., 22 March
I look down at what I was sure (last night – after rather large quantities of wine) was the solution.
Books.
I have downloaded lots of books.
Now I am not so sure.
I mean, I’m sure about books in general. I have lots of them, I could start a library. But they are fiction. These are different. These are self-help books. I mean, self-help, that’s exactly what I’ve decided to do, isn’t it? Help myself. But this is going to be like scaling Everest when all I need is a few highlights, a few challenging peaks that I can fit into a mini-break.
Reading this lot will take me hours, and that’s before I even start to implement the suggestions.
I drop my e-reader and flop back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Why do non-fiction books have so many words in them? There is obviously a gap in the market, people need How to get your shit together in 3 easy steps – with pictures! If I ever do get my shit together and have time, I will write this book. It will be a bestseller and help millions of people.
These bloody books have actually made my situation worse and I have just wasted another two hours of my life flicking through them on my Kindle, when I could have been planning my interview strategy. According to the books, a strategy is important. I need to write it down and then visualise. I totally get the strategy bit, I’m pretty sure the teenage me had a plan and strategy, as Ollie said, for everything. A subconscious one. But the visualisation is a new one on me.
And on top of the books, yesterday’s email from Ollie didn’t help either. It pushed me to the edge and made me think something more drastic was needed. Well, that and knowing that I would soon have to go for my interview, and then face my family and all their expectations. And Ollie. Who wished me luck at my interview. I’m not sure how he even knew, but you know what my mum is like, she tells Vera everything.
Anyway, seeing his perfect life was made ten tons worse at Christmas. And not only has he totally got his shit together, and it’s not parental exaggeration, he is also still quite nice. If he’d been a twat at Uncle T’s party, I could at least have consoled myself with the fact that being perfect comes at a price.
But he isn’t. And it doesn’t.
I can’t carry on letting everybody, and myself, down though. I am going to do whatever it takes to succeed at something truly boast-worthy!
I am going to stay calm, I am sure that ‘calm’ is key, in my bid to conquer this year (and possibly the rest of my life). It will be my year, the year I stop disappointing everybody (including myself) and be the me I am supposed to be. I am in fact going to conquer the rest of my life.
I’ve realised that I am allowed to fuck up, to be sad, angry or unsure, but I am also going to be a better me. The me I knew I could be when I was still at school – with a few adjustments of course. The one with a flat of her own (or at least a proper sized room), a wardrobe with more than two items that match, tamed hair, and a career plan. I am going to be an adult and commit (where possible, as living on a shoestring because of a crap salary does not help me in being more like Frankie).
I do have the answer to all my problems. The books have indirectly helped, so they weren’t a complete waste of money, as has Ollie.
The answer is simple. It is something I already knew. It is better lists. I have always been a fan of lists and have never been able to break the habit. But I can see now that they need to be more detailed. And I need plans. They will be prioritised and have timescales. This year I will be planning Christmas in July. I will be rediscovering my inner teenage geek – the one who always had a plan, even if she didn’t realise it at the time.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_3c616347-fa98-54a2-92bb-a41780c701e6)
8 a.m., 4 April
The final countdown has started, and I have far too much to do before my very important interview. Once I put my newly purchased interview outfit on, there is No More Time Left.
Things I must do before my interview
My new improved lists are definitely the answer, my brain already feels less scrambled. This is my first significant list, it is phase one of my preparation for the interview. I am already becoming more like Frankie. She is so together even her wardrobe is organised by colour and type. She can actually find co-ordinating stuff and doesn’t have to root in the wash basket, under the bed and through drawers to find the top she’s after. Then iron it. Ever. She also has a good job, and the big room in our flat. Because it is actually her flat, and I rent a corner. I need to work towards a proper flat share.
1 Hair – 1pm, booked
2 Nails and eyebrows – 3pm, booked! These two are very important, because if I look and feel professional and confident, it will come across in my interview. Everybody says this, including my mother
3 Read through CV every day
4 Find photo of James Masters online (done) and visualise interview – visualisation imperative according to books
5 Prepare intelligent questions – done
6 Wash S—
9.00 a.m., 4 April
‘Oh, you are there, Daisy!’ Mum says this as though she’s been desperately trying to reach me for the past few hours, when the truth of the matter is that my phone has rung out six times.
‘I was in the middle of something!’ Point 5 on my list actually, and I’d have forgotten what it was if I’d stopped. The phone ringing was so annoying that I did have to stop in the middle of point 6, but I know I’ll remember what that is.
‘I’m sure it can’t have been that important, dear.’ Mum thinks it’s rude if you don’t answer within three rings. ‘Oh no, I’m not interrupting anything am I?’ She chortles in a horribly suggestive way. Not that I mind people being suggestive, but my mother? ‘You’re not busy with your young man, are you?’ I’ve got a suspicion she’s crossing her fingers and giving Dad the thumbs-up.
‘No, Mother, I was writing a list!’
‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed. Honestly, I know she’s menopausal, but living vicariously through your daughter’s sex life is so not on, is it?
‘Simon and I have consciously uncoupled.’ I say primly. I have to admit at this point that I have not been entirely honest with my mother. After our big argument at Christmas, Simon and I had been on a slow fade. Honestly, that man is such a jerk I don’t know why I dated him at all.
‘You’ve unconsciously what dear? Is that a euphemism for sex with your eyes shut?’
I sigh. ‘We’ve split up.’
‘Oh dear, that’s a shame, but never mind darling I’m sure you’ll find a proper boyfriend one day.’
I am going to ignore that comment, skimming through the free excerpt of How to be the Zen you has taught me that inner calm will help with outer chaos, or something like that. At the moment lists seem more practical though. ‘I don’t want to seem picky, but shouldn’t a girl your age at least be in possession of an en-suite? Delia’s daughter has a lovely two bed roomed flat and they’re both en-suite!’
‘Who is Delia?’ I try not to sigh because that will make her worse. She already thinks I’m dysfunctional, sad and lonely. Incomplete because I am over thirty (just), single, have a crap career and rent a room. I don’t even have my own dog, he just lodges with me.
‘Next door, darling. The new people? They’ve got two children and they’ve both got their own places even though they’re single like you are! And as for Oliver, I was talking to Vera only the other day, and did you know he has—’
I might have to scream. ‘Mum. I am rather busy, I’m trying to find you a perfect birthday present.’ I’m not, I haven’t even thought about her present yet. Need to put that on a list, pronto. It’s a ‘significant’ one this year, (but nobody is allowed to mention numbers) and Dad has arranged a party. At Uncle T’s. Partly because Uncle T is much better at arranging things like that than Dad, and partly because it is supposed to be a surprise. But Mum of course found out, because she is exceedingly nosy. ‘Really going to have to go!’ I do not want to hear about the perfect Oliver Cartwright. I like the version I get in the emails he sends me, the non-bragging, funny, sweet Ollie. Not the version our mother’s report back, the blemish free, high achieving Ollie who shows up my imperfections. Well, that’s not entirely true. I am a tiny bit interested in everything he’s been doing since I saw him at Uncle T’s party. But I’m not sure why, I must have inherited the nosy gene from Mum.
‘Oh well, I won’t keep you. I’ll tell you all about Oliver when I see you! You are coming to Uncle Terence’s party in July, aren’t you? I don’t think you’ve RSVP’d!’
‘Yes, Mum.’ Yes has to be the answer, if I said no I’d get the Spanish inquisition. ‘How could I not be coming to your surprise birthday party?’ Why is she talking about this now? It is months off, I have an interview to prepare for!
‘And are you bringing a plus one?’
‘Not yet, but I’ll tell him if I decide to.’
‘If he asks you to bring food, you won’t bring those stuffed dates, will you dear? And I hope you’re not spending too much on my presents, I know you’re hard up!’
‘I won’t, haven’t. But the party is ages away yet!’
‘I know dear. That’s not why I called, you just distracted me! I wanted to make sure you weren’t planning on staying up late on Wednesday, you won’t go out with that Frankie girl, will you? You know you turn into Miss Grumpy, if you’re tired, and you have to be bright and breezy, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘You’ve got your interview!’
‘I know, Mum.’ Does she honestly think I might have forgotten? I go to sleep each night dreaming about my interrogation and wake up each morning feeling slightly sick. I think it’s a bit like when you’re expecting a baby, you’re excited, but just want it to be over, and you wish people would stop asking about it.
I mean, this has been dragging on for ages. According to our regular updates from James Masters things are progressing as envisaged, but in the office we think this is business-speak for, ‘We’ve been waiting until we’ve sorted out all the voluntary redundancies and know how many of you we’ve got left.’ Anyway, Brian-the-pessimist went into a huge slump after the merger was announced and declared he was too old for change and that he’d rather bite the bullet now, rather than be shot with it later, and took what he decided was a rather satisfactory redundancy package (he had been working for the newspaper for eons). Pass-agg-Eva stuck it out for a month, then realised that in our caretaker boss she’d met her match and managed to find a job stacking shelves at the village supermarket, and quite a few other people who didn’t fancy moving to Stavington headed off to pastures new (as Brian called them). So I think the HQ holding-fire strategy has worked out quite well for them.
I’m hoping it has also worked out well for me. I have applied for the job of advertising manager, which is a big step up the ladder – but as Frankie pointed out, it is much better to aim high in the area I already have expertise in, rather than be star struck by some of the roles in journalism, which would mean starting at the bottom again. And now, with so many people leaving, I’m sure I’ve made the right decision to hang on. There is hardly any competition!
‘That’s why I called! Now, you will ring me the instant you come out and let me know what you’ll be doing, won’t you?’
‘It doesn’t work like that, Mum. They won’t tell me on the spot.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll get an inkling! It’s so exciting. Now, I better go, lots to do!’ I love the way she always manages to turn things round, and it’s her who is busy and has to dash. ‘Good luck, darling! Your father says good luck as well, he said you need to picture the interviewer dressed as an Easter bunny and it will work wonders!’
‘Dad really said that?’
‘With ears! Well, not exactly, he said picture them in their undies, but that seems strange to me. Goodness knows how he ever got a job! I’ll speak to you on Thursday, I’ve got flower arranging tomorrow and I’ll be watching my TV series on Wednesday, so I thought I better call now. Love you!’
I put the phone down feeling strangely happy. When I was at school, Mum was never exactly a pushy mother, but I always knew she was there for me, a reassuring voice in the background saying she knew I could do it – where ‘it’ was practically anything and everything. After ‘it all went wrong’, I’d felt only the disappointment, the weight of expectations that were never going to be met. But I’m beginning to wonder if it was all in my head. I’d been disappointed in myself, hadn’t thought I could do anything right, and I think maybe I only let myself hear the bits I wanted to, the ‘could do better’s the ‘not good enough’s (which she never actually said in so many words) and blanked out the tentative encouragement, the support she’d always offered me.
Mum has always had my back, never stopped the hugs even when I had my fingers in my ears and was refusing to listen to her. I mean, yeah, she is always going to be in competition with Vera, but she never actually stopped singing my praises, did she? Even when it was a struggle to find anything – full marks to her for turning my dog-fostering into a Nobel Prize-worthy venture and my small ads into a work of literature.
I do love her. It’s just a shame she’s always going to be disappointed on the man and baby front!
Oh bugger, I have forgotten what I was going to put on my list. What on earth does ‘wash s’ mean? Socks? Shirt? I’m sure it will come to me, after all it must be important, or I wouldn’t have been adding it to my list.
