Page 9 of A Lot to Unpack
I remember, years ago, when my mum’s friend’s husband had cheated on her, and she was trying to decide what to do, my mum would talk to me about it. I was probably in my late teens, so my mum took the opportunity to share with me just how horrible men could be. I remember her saying that men did things that hurt, but that hurt could be recovered from, if you wanted to. She said the real worst thing a man could ever do to you was embarrass you, because that was something impossible to get over. Now, more than ever, I know that she was right. Well, they say time heals all wounds, but embarrassment is something else – I can still remember, clear as day, saying ‘yes, mum’ instead of ‘yes, miss’ during a Year 2 registration, along with every other time I’ve embarrassed myself ever since. No matter how many times Ben apologises, and even if he never does it again, I’ll still remember every excruciating detail, every pitying look, every uncomfortable moment from today, and from all the days to come, because I can’t make everyone here forget this, and I can’t make myself forget it either.
‘I don’t want to hear it, Ben,’ I tell him plainly. ‘It’s over. Can you just leave, please?’
‘But we live together,’ he reminds me. ‘And we work together.’
‘And I will figure all of that out,’ I reply. ‘Without you.’
‘Liberty, you’re making a huge mistake,’ he says. ‘You’ll miss me – you can’t live without me.’
‘I’ll miss you? I can’t live without you?’ I repeat back to him. ‘Oh, yeah, how will I live without a dick-pic-sending, trainer-wearing, hair bomb of a man who thinks it’s a perfectly normal thing to leave his retainer in my drink?’
‘I explained that,’ he replies. ‘Come on. Who will do all the blue jobs, huh?’
Oh, look at him, trying to be cute. Pink and blue jobs were our fun little way of sharing out the household chores in our new flat. For example, taking the bins out, which I hate doing, we would joke was a blue job, whereas things like cooking and cleaning were pink jobs. Now that I think about it, basically every other chore was a pink job.
‘Who will take the bins out?’ he says, half joking, as he reaches out to take my hands in his.
I quickly pull back, so he can’t get hold of me.
‘Oh, no, not my bin man,’ I say sarcastically. ‘If the main thing you think I’ll be missing is someone to take the bins out, then I guess I’ll find a different one who knows how to keep his dick in his pants. Now just go, please.’
I can see from the sad look in his eyes and the droop of his shoulders that he knows he’s fighting a losing battle, so he gives up and walks away, looking at his feet like a naughty little kid. Because of course he gave up without a fight. But did I want him to fight for me? Not really, because it wouldn’t have worked, but seeing him give up only goes to show how little he cared about me.
He’s right about something though – we do live together and we do work together. I guess I’ll have to figure out what we do about that but, for now, I just need to exhale, try to calm down, and focus on the positive things.What positive thing?I hear you ask – the fact that I found out. Imagine if I hadn’t, if I’d kept living with him, sleeping with him, all while he was up to God knows what behind my back.
The best time to see Ben’s true colours would have been before I moved in with him. The second-best time is today.
And everything else, well, I suppose I’ll figure that out tomorrow. But right now I need a drink.
4
If not getting a job was a desirable skill that you could put on your CV then I would, well, have a job.
If not having a job, a home or a boyfriend were desirable traits, I’d have more admirers than Dua Lipa.
If emotional baggage and trust issues are things you like a gal to have – give me a call, because I’ve got buckets of both. But, please, no Matcher flashers.
What I’m trying to say is that I have nothing. Well, after I broke up with Ben, and it was time to work out who got what, I knew that there was no way I would be able to keep working with him (and IT guy trumps assistant) so I had to leave. When it came to who got to keep the flat, well, that naturally went to the person who kept the job, because he was the only one who could afford it. So I was out on my arse – but my one blessing came in the form of my friend Jess’s flat, which has been sitting empty while she is away travelling with her girlfriend, so she said I could crash here until she got back. It was a lifeline right when I needed one, and I figured I had plenty of time to bag myself a job before she got back… except it’s November, and she’s back just before Christmas, and I cannot land myself a job to save my life.
You would think there would be so many assistant jobs out there, because surely everyone needs an assistant, right? Except it turns out there are even more assistants out there looking for jobs and the competition is fierce.
I started strong, aiming high, applying for jobs that I liked the sound of. Working as an assistant to an editor at a lifestyle magazine, or at a luxury fashion boutique – I didn’t even get interviews for those. Then I set my sights a little lower, applying for jobs in a cycle shop (I know nothing about bikes) and with a cultural heritage consultant (I don’t even know that that is). Still not getting any bites, I applied for a job at a water treatment works (didn’t get it) and even as an assistant to a touring psychic (she said she couldn’t see us working together – I guess she’d know).
I’ve applied for so many jobs I’ve lost count but with each one, with each rejection, it’s like a little bit of my confidence goes with it. That’s why I’m bringing my A game today, because I actually have a job interview, with a tech firm – I don’t know what they do exactly. The listing said the company would be revealed at the interview, so I’m hoping it’s a cool tech company, like Apple, because imagine getting employee discount there.
I’m dressing for the job I want, in a black suit with a flash of red coming from my accessories, instead of the job I have – sitting on the sofa watching daytime TV in my PJs. I want to make a good first impression, because apparently that’s everything, and you only get one chance to make it. I need to look good, sound good and be on time. It’s rare I ever manage all three.
The fact that I’m walking into a skyscraper, in central London, bodes well for the calibre of job I’m here for – but not for my chances. Everything is glass or metal, screens or lights. I know I’m somewhere techy – and fancy, because even the security guards are wearing designer suits.
I’m trying to keep confident but I feel like a fish out of water here – which is ironic, because it does feel a lot like being in a fish tank.
Still, I head for the desk, tell them I’m here for an interview with Paige Pool, and listen carefully while she tells me which floor to head to. I’m usually one of those people who, when being given instructions, forgets the English language and how to use my ears, so I make a note in my phone. See, I’m a professional, give me a job.
I head to the lift – which is up a small escalator, for some reason – and step inside right as the doors are about to close. There’s only one other person in there, a man, staring deep into his phone to the point where I almost feel like I’m intruding.
He’s leaning back, effortlessly casually, against the mirrored wall, but not in a scruffy, lazy way – more like one of those sleek, sexy photos you see hot actors posing for that grace the cover ofVanity Fair. He is good-looking – it’s impossible not to notice – with his strong jaw, his thick dark hair and his full eyebrows. He’s in his late thirties, maybe, I don’t know; he just seems to have that sort of genuine confidence that comes with having a handful more years under your belt, unlike lads in their twenties and early thirties who are still running on pure bravado.
I’m not sure if his eyes are smouldering or tired or both – if it’s both, it’s probably because he knows how to have a good time.
