Chapter Twenty-Eight

I’ve been practising walking in my new shoes all morning, wobbling across the living room carpet with my arms outstretched as though I’m tentatively making my way across a tightrope without the security of a harness or safety net. And it isn’t as though I’ve gone for full-on needle-thin heels; the shoes I’m sporting have a reasonable two-and-a-half-inch heel, yet I’m stumbling about the place as though I’ve been on an all-day bender. I need to concentrate, put one foot confidently in front of the other and walk like a normal person, because my interview is in an hour.

My stomach churns at the thought and if I’d been able to face breakfast this morning, I’m sure it’d be coming back up again right about now. I’ve never actually had a proper job interview before – I’d simply popped into The Fish & Chip Shop Around The Corner after seeing the notice for Saturday staff in the window, declared my interest and started my employment a few days later. I’ve been googling interview techniques ever since it was arranged so I can be as prepared as possible, and I’m wearing a brand-new non-leggings-and-hoodie outfit that is smart but comfortable (wobbly shoes aside). I’ve gone with classic black trousers with a soft grey sweater over a white blouse and I’ve pulled my hair back into a simple but sleek ponytail. It was as I was tying it back in front of the bathroom mirror that I thought a haircut was probably due, because faded pink tips hardly scream professionalism. I should have them chopped off and go for a sophisticated jaw-length bob, but it’s too late for today’s interview so the trousers and sweater will have to do.

I pause halfway across the rug, wobbling slightly but managing to keep upright. Why didn’t it occur to me yesterday, as I stood in front of the mirror in the changing room pre-purchase, that it looks like I’m wearing my old school uniform? All I need is a horrible red-and-gold striped tie and a bulging backpack to complete the look. Why do I always seem to go backwards while everyone else is moving forwards? My friends all moved away while I ended up back in Clifton-on-Sea, and even now, when I’m taking a massive, scary leap, I’ve ended up looking like my sixteen-year-old self again. I bought more clothes yesterday, but do I have time to change? My train leaves in twenty minutes and, if I miss it, there isn’t another one for forty-five minutes, meaning I’d end up missing the interview. A full outfit change is probably pushing it, so I peel off the sweater and throw on a single-breasted blazer. It has sharp shoulders and pointy lapels and is definitely the most sophisticated item of clothing I’ve ever owned. I can feel myself standing taller as I observe myself in the full-length mirror in Russell and Jed’s bedroom, and it has nothing to do with the heels.

Satisfied I no longer look like a schoolkid, I shuffle back into the living room and make sure I have everything I need for my interview: handbag with purse (double-check I have enough for train fare and the fanciest coffee treat I can find afterwards), a copy of my not-very-extensive CV, and my phone so I can message Claire as soon as it’s over. I have one more practice lap of the living room before I set off for the station, my stomach a riot of nerves while my head screams at me to kick off the shoes and run back home.

I make it on to the train and log on to Instagram on my phone, scrolling through Paul’s feed in the hope it will distract me from my churning stomach as we set off. Paul’s face is a comfort as I slowly move from a gym selfie he took earlier this morning to a selfie he took post-shower. I’ll be looking at this gorgeous face in the flesh soon. I wait for the butterflies to take flight, but my stomach is too busy performing somersaults right now to feel any hint of joy. I’ll come back to it later, once the interview is out of the way and I’m capable of feeling things other than nauseating dread.

I have another quick look at the website for the company I’m interviewing for, trying to memorise the facts should they be needed later. I doubt the interviewer will ask me when the company was founded, but I’ll have the answer to hand just in case. I’m pretty much prepared to appear on Mastermind with the specialist subject of T C Fire Protection, 1994 to present day, as we start to approach my stop. My stomach rolls and I clutch hold of my seat as I take deep breaths to calm my nerves. I consider staying on the train until we reach Preston – I could grab a coffee and wander around the shops for a bit – but I force myself out of my seat and shuffle towards the doors, taking deep, even breaths as I go.

The station leads out on to a busy road, which I’ve seen many times on Google Maps as I plotted my route to the industrial park and made sure I could get there without any hiccups. It’s only an estimated three-minute walk away, which my feet are thankful for as although I’ve managed to stop wobbling by now, the stiffness of my new shoes is starting to pinch my toes.

T C Fire Protection is the third building on the industrial park. It’s a long, grey L-shaped building with tiny windows and a flat roof. It’s hardly an inspiring exterior, but I’m sure the inside will be much more pleasant. And it turns out it is, if you’re inspired by cold, characterless spaces.

‘Can I help you?’

There’s a woman sitting behind the desk in the corner of the room, squashed up against the wall even though there’s plenty of space in the reception area. I take a couple of steps closer so I don’t feel I have to raise my voice to be heard.

‘I have an interview.’ My voice comes out scratchy, so I clear my throat and throw my shoulders back and continue with a more confident tone that belies my jellied legs. ‘It’s with Susan Chambers, for the payroll administrator position. My name’s Cleo Parker.’

‘Take a seat.’ The receptionist indicates the row of beige chairs pushed against the wall to the right. They blend in with the beige carpet, making the bare space look even emptier than it is. Other than the desk and the three beige chairs, the only other pieces of equipment are the photocopier in the corner to my left and the trio of fire extinguishers attached to the wall, which give the only pop of colour in the room as there are no paintings on the stark white walls or plants to cheer the place up. This does not look like a fun place to work, and I’m starting to feel as though I’m sitting in a large custard cream in some weird, biscuit-filled dream. I can’t imagine breaking out in song here, my colleagues joining in with whatever Seventies hit happens to be playing, and it doesn’t seem like the kind of place where every day is different. It seems like an extremely monotonous place where you find yourself checking the clock every two minutes to see if it’s time to go home yet.

I check the time on my phone. It’s on silent, but there’s a message from James, wishing me luck for the interview. Glancing around the barren, joyless room, I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or not.

‘Cleopatra Parker?’

I look up from my phone to see a new woman standing in the reception area. She’s wearing a pale sand-coloured pencil skirt with a matching long-sleeved blouse and nude court shoes. Is colour banned in this place?

‘It’s Cleo.’ I shove my phone in my bag and stand up, wobbling ever so slightly on my heels.

‘I’m sorry?’ The walking sandcastle blinks at me.

‘It’s, um, just Cleo. Not Cleopatra.’

She tilts her head to one side. ‘You don’t like Cleopatra?’

‘My name isn’t Cleopatra. Cleo isn’t short for Cleopatra. It’s just Cleo.’

‘Just Cleo?’ Her eyes have gone all squinty and she shakes her head, as though she can’t compute this information. ‘Well, Cleo . I’m Susan Chambers. Would you like to come this way?’

She indicates the door behind her. I would not like to go that way but I do, with careful steps on my new heels. The door leads to a corridor (beige, but with a jaunty white horizontal stripe to liven the place up), which I follow Susan down, past three cream doors and stopping at a fourth. Susan opens the door, holding it for me to pass before she follows me, striding to the desk and sitting behind it. The desk, I’m gladdened to see, contains two photo frames, even though I can’t see the pictures they hold. I’m also relieved to see a plant on the windowsill, sitting in a yellow pot with the word ‘MUM’ picked out in pink, blue and orange paint on its side. Finally, a bit of life!

Susan nods at the chair on the near side of the desk and I sit, trying not to fidget with the CV on my lap. I place it on the desk in front of me, out of harm’s way.

‘So. Cleo .’ Susan flicks her lips outwards, briefly flashing her teeth. ‘You’ve applied for the position of payroll administrator.’ I nod, while Susan links her fingers and places her hands in front of her on the desk, on top of a buff folder. ‘Why do you think you would fit this position?’

I take a deep breath and grasp at the answer I’ve practised in front of Jed and Russell’s mirror. ‘I think I would be a good fit for this position because I’m good at organisation and paying attention to detail. I have excellent communication skills and the ability to work well within a team or on my own. In my current position, I’m responsible for the administration of the company, ensuring employees are paid correctly and promptly.’

Susan’s eyes drop to the file on the desk. She flicks it open and scans the document inside. ‘You currently work in a fish and chip shop ?’

‘Yes.’ I don’t like the way Susan said that, as though she was checking I had just admitted to pulling spiders’ legs off for fun, in a he loves me, he loves me not kind of way. ‘As assistant manager, but I’m currently acting as manager. So that means I’m responsible for employees’ wages, making sure their time sheets are correct and up to date and processing the data.’

Susan smiles at me, her head to tilting to one side. ‘And making sure the salt and vinegar shakers are topped up?’ She tinkles out a laugh and I push a smile on my face.

‘Of course. Attention to detail, like I said.’

‘Quite.’ Susan links her fingers again and rests them on top of my CV. ‘And what are you looking for in a job here at T C Fire Protection?’

Kudos, mainly, from having an office job. So I can face Paul without still working at the chippy where I earned a bit of extra cash when I was at college.

I don’t tell Susan this, obviously.

‘I’m looking for a new challenge, where I can push myself and expand on my current skills.’

Susan nods, her face as neutral as the colour scheme of the office. ‘Can you describe to me a time when you worked as a team?’

‘I work as part of a team every day. We all work together to deliver the best customer experience we can, from the moment the food is prepared until it is served, fresh and delicious, to the customer. If any part of that chain isn’t up to scratch, the customer will leave disappointed and may not return.’

Susan unlinks her fingers and lays her hands flat down on the desk. Her features haven’t shifted one bit. She’s still flying the flag of neutrality. ‘What three words would your friends and family use to describe you?’

Dread swirls in my stomach. I have not prepared for this question and I can’t tell her the truth: juvenile, unsophisticated, addicted to coffee (especially coffee that doesn’t belong to me). I need to lie through my teeth, and fast, because Susan’s eyebrows are starting to inch up her forehead, the mask of impartiality slipping.

‘I think my friends and family would describe me as loyal, trustworthy and excellent with numbers.’

I nod, satisfied with my answers, and it isn’t totally untruthful. I am loyal and trustworthy and my maths has never come into question while handling money at the chippy or helping out with the admin.

‘Loyal, trustworthy and good with numbers?’ Susan’s lips lift, but it isn’t exactly in a smiling motion. It’s more of a smirk. ‘Not quite three words , but let’s move on, shall we?’

I manage to get back to the chippy before Claire finishes her shift and has to dash off to pick Arlo up from school. I fill her in on the interview, which went as well as could be expected when I don’t have any experience of working in an office environment and I’d already decided I’d rather tap-dance barefoot over a floor of upturned drawing pins than work in that bleak building – and that was before Susan had collected me from reception for the actual interview. Mum texted me when I was on the train back and I told her similar, though I left out the tap-dancing bit.

‘So your fingers aren’t crossed that you’ll get the job then?’

‘Not very tightly.’ I shrug the pointy-shouldered blazer off and drape it over the back of a chair. ‘I don’t think I’m destined to have a job I love.’ I flop onto the chair, resting my elbow on the table so I can drop my head onto my hand for support. I’ve been for one measly interview that lasted no more than fifteen minutes, and yet I’m exhausted.

‘Unless you stay here.’ Claire joins me at the table, her fingers rummaging for the grips keeping her hat in place. ‘You like it here. You love it here.’ She drops the grips onto the table, followed by her hat and hairnet.

‘But it isn’t a career choice, is it? You’ll be gone as soon as you’ve got your qualification, Elliot will be leaving for uni in a few months, and Bridget’s only here because she was bored of retirement.’

‘It’s true.’ Bridget’s wiping down the counter, even though Claire has already done it. ‘Plus, I’d quite like a conservatory and I’d be long dead before I could save enough on my pension.’

‘Nobody stays here forever. Ross and Maryam will move on to other jobs and the only ones still here will be me, Russell and Jed.’

‘I still don’t see why that’s a problem.’ Claire unfastens her tabard and pulls it over her head. ‘You love it here, so why leave? Do you actually want to leave, or is it just because you told a little white lie to Paul? Because you’ve hardly thrown yourself into job searching. There’s less than two months to go before Paul comes back and you’ve been on one interview.’

‘I’ve applied for loads of jobs.’ I fold my arms across my chest and frown down at the table. Is it my fault that people aren’t willing to even interview me based on my crappy CV? ‘And yes, I do love it here, and yes, my main motivation to move on is Paul, but so what?’

‘If he’s as great as you say he is, and he likes you as much as you like him, he won’t care what job you do. And if he does, then he’s a knobhead who doesn’t deserve you. If you enjoy your job, isn’t that the most important thing?’

‘You sound like my gran.’

‘Your gran is very wise.’ Claire gathers up her things and shoves them into a tote bag, which she hooks onto her shoulder. ‘I can’t hang around – I got chatting to one of the dads in the school playground this morning and I’m hoping to accidentally bump into him again. He is mega gorge . Wish me luck!’ She crosses her fingers and raises them in the air as she dashes across the shop and flings herself out of the door. She blows me a kiss through the window and then she’s gone. I can’t imagine Susan Chambers blowing me a kiss – she barely cracked a smile during my interview – but I’m sure I’ll find colleagues just as warm and friendly elsewhere.

I head up to the flat to change into something more comfortable, something that I won’t mind so much if it gets splashed with batter or oil. I quite liked how sophisticated the pointy-shouldered blazer made me feel, but I sigh with contentment as I push my feet into my glittery Converse. This is more like it. This is more me .

Bridget’s still cleaning when I go back down to the shop, going at the floor with the mop as though she’s trying to wear the tiles clean away. I have to wrestle the mop from her hands and send her home while we still have a floor to stand on. Maryam’s arrived for her shift but pre-teatime is always quiet. We have a handful of schoolkids popping in on their way home from school, with a chip-fight breaking out between two of the more boisterous lads (I kick them out while Maryam sweeps up the potato missiles) but then it’s completely dead. The shop’s still deserted by the time I’ve prepped the fish for the teatime rush, so I make myself a coffee and sit by the window with a magazine one of the teen girls left behind. It’s one of the really trashy celebrity mags, where they praise an actress in one issue and tear her apart in the next. The kind of magazine I adore, especially when it comes with a special pull-out feature for Waiting on You . I’m poring over the biography of Joanna (which consists mainly of affairs) when it occurs to me that I should replace my reading matter of choice with something a bit more mature. Something less superficial, where famous women minding their own business on a beach aren’t snapped in their bikinis just in case there’s the tiniest patch of cellulite that can be blown up and highlighted for the joy of its readership. Something my mum would read, with features on boosting women instead of bringing them down, and tips on creating the perfect home. The latter would come in handy when I finally get my own place. Accommodation in or around Clifton-on-Sea is proving to be problematic – I have an alert set up on the property app on my phone, and so far I’ve only been notified of a three-bedroom cottage becoming available over by the harbour, which looked lovely and cosy but way too big for a single occupant and eye-wateringly expensive – but I’m still hopeful I’ll find something, even if I have to widen the perimeters of my search.

Even as I’m contemplating upgrading my reading material, I’m still gobbling up the sordid details of Waiting on You ’s latest love spaghetti scandal, and it’s only the arrival of a customer that forces me to close the magazine.

‘We don’t usually see you on a Wednesday, Mrs Hornchurch.’ I head behind the counter, pushing a loose grip back into my hair to keep my hat secure.

‘I’m not usually stuck in the council offices all day.’ Mrs Hornchurch presses a hand to her stomach and grimaces. ‘I missed lunch and I’m hungry enough to feast on a rabid dog carcass.’

‘I’m afraid we’re all out of rabid dogs today. Will fish and chips do instead?’

‘Lovely. Two portions, please. It’ll be a nice surprise for Tom.’ Mrs Hornchurch’s face lights up as she mentions her partner, and I hope I’ll be that in love one day, where a mere name causes my lips to pull up into an involuntary smile and my cheeks to pinken.

‘What were you doing at the council offices?’ I’ve prepared Mrs Hornchurch’s portions of fish just as she likes them and lowered them into the fryer. They’ll take a few minutes and there aren’t any more customers, so we have time for a little chat.

‘I had an appointment with Gordon Meadows.’ Mrs Hornchurch says the name as though I’ll know who he is, but unless he’s rumoured to star in the new Marvel film or is a contestant on a reality TV show, I won’t have a clue. ‘The councillor? Supposedly responsible for this ward?’ I shake my head. I wouldn’t know the dude if he walked through the door right now. ‘Anyway, I’ve been emailing him for months about trying to clean up the town, the seafront in particular. It’s a right mess, and it’s only going to get worse once Easter’s here. Gordon Meadows says he understands and cares deeply about the town, but where’s the action? I finally got an appointment and he kept me waiting for hours . Urgent meetings, apparently, but what’s more urgent than a filthy, litter-filled seafront? Because people won’t want to come here for their day trips and their holidays if it continues, and it’ll be the local economy that suffers.’ Mrs Hornchurch slaps a hand on the counter. ‘I think Mr Meadows thought I’d get bored and go home if he left me waiting long enough, but he’s about to learn a very valuable lesson about this old bird. I’m like a dog with a bone when I get a bee in my bonnet. I won’t give up until he follows through on the promises he made that got him elected in the first place. I went to Greenham Common, you know, so I’m well versed in patience and perseverance. I won’t be fobbed off or left to fester on uncomfortable plastic chairs all day long. I’ll fight this, and do you know what?’ Mrs Hornchurch leans towards me across the counter, her eyes narrowing and her jaw setting. ‘I’ll win.’

I believe her. Her eyes may be mostly obscured by crinkly, fleshy bits of skin but the fire in them is shining through. I’ve never had any interest in politics – local or otherwise – and so I have no idea who this Gordon Meadows bloke is, but maybe I should find out if he’s so important to the running of this town. I should be politically knowledgeable. I should know who’s responsible for the town. For the country (I obviously know who the prime minister is, but I haven’t the foggiest who the others are when they pop up on the news, never mind what they stand for). I’ll look them up, and when politicians are on the telly, I’ll actually pay attention to what they’re saying. In fact, I’ll seek them out and tune into those Sunday morning politics programmes instead of catching up on Hollyoaks . I’ll add ‘become politically motivated’ to my grown-up to-do list and impress other people with my knowledge and new-found passion. I’ll even find out where Greenham Common is and its significance to Mrs Hornchurch and her fortitude. I can feel myself growing as a person already.

I’m fired up by the idea of being one of those proper grown-up people who uses words like ‘shadow home secretary’ (and knows what one is) or one of those proper grown-up people who can stride into a polling station and put their cross in the box with confidence, because they know who they’re voting for and why. I’ll actually rock up to the polling station and vote, because I haven’t bothered so far. I’ll be one of those proper grown-up people like Mrs Hornchurch and my dad. I’m so fired up, I don’t drag myself straight into bed when I lock up the shop like I usually would. I don’t even message Paul, because I have important knowledge to absorb. Instead, I google local politics (best to start small and build up my understanding at a reasonable pace) and discover who my MP is. There’s a wealth of information online, and I’m cross-eyed by the time I place my phone on the bedside table and crawl into bed.

I won’t be adding ‘become politically motivated’ to my grown-up to-do list after all, because it turns out politics is really, really boring.