Emma Unsworth - Adults

The Foof has a permanent office here, in the loosest sense. There’s a sign – FOOF TOWERS – in fluffy pink letters across the back wall. The sign could be taken down at any given moment. So could the wall.

I make my way across the main space to my desk. I don’t come in every day so I share with Gemma, who writes the horoscopes and product reviews and is so cheerful I want to punch her. (Sorry, I don’t want you thinking that just because I work in the media I’m a fucking idiot.)

I sit down and start to compose an email, which is what I do after any unsatisfactory social interaction.

Subject: That Croissant

Dear Breakfast Maven, Queen of the Granola,

You know and I know that croissant was prehistoric. It was yesterday’s batch, that’s why you were trying to palm it off on me. I deserve a fresh croissant, do I not, for my £3.50? In America, that kind of hesitation within the service industry would be unthinkable. JUST GIVE ME THE CROISSANT I WANT NEXT TIME, FOR THE LOVE OF COMMON DECENCY.

Kind regards,

Jenny McLaine

The Foof (columnist)

it is crucial to incorporate mindfulness into your daily routine. I like to get on it every few hours, just to be sure. After I’ve written the email, I take a deep breath and count to ten in Hindi. I even have an app to remind me to take time out regularly. It shouts TAKE A BREAK, BABY! in an Austin Powers voice (I chose the voice from six options). It’s a little obnoxious, but it’s good to know something cares.

I check le status of mon croissant. Thirty-five likes. Dear sweet Christ alive. You’ve got to be kidding. The thirties are disastrous numbers, they really are.

As I’m studying the post, I realise that I have automatically tagged WerkHaus and, while I am displeased with the morning’s events, I do not want anyone losing their job on my account. I’ve seen An Inspector Calls – several times – with my mother. I know how much people in the service industry can take things to heart. My life is a perfect war zone of potential consequences.

I go into Edit Post and de-tag the location. Too late! Someone from WerkHaus – Joel from The Little Green Bento Den – has commented:

Was it the hench one with the underbite? She’s a right Orc

Fucking Joel. I consider what to do. I don’t want Suzy Brambles or any other notables thinking I am endorsing this bile. I also don’t want to get into an argument with Joel that could last several hours and get my blood up. I’ve sacrificed entire emotional half-days before now to online altercations. And I’ve got a column to write. Digital is not at odds with the flesh, as some might argue; this all has a very physical effect on me.

I type back at Joel:

Putting the miso in misogynist as ever, I see

There. That, I think, is smart and final. No coming back from that. Now we can all relax.

I stare at my comment.

Oh god. No it’s not smart at all. It’s over-handled and ham-fisted, like all my comments. Do you even get miso in a bento box? Fuck my life.

I delete the comment and Joel’s comment and just as I’m regretting deleting Joel’s comment (it looks cowardly, to delete without comment, and he’s the kind of fucker who’ll notice and comment again) – I put my head in my hands.

‘MORNING, WOKERS!’

I look up. Mia is standing over me. She’s wearing a blindingly white dress with a giant turtleneck obscuring the bottom half of her face. She looks like a Victorian who just got back from space. Mia’s Boston terrier, Simone, is by her feet. Simone once shat my initials perfectly on the office floor. You can call me paranoid, but there was no denying it was a definite ‘J’ and an ‘M’. Another victory for meaning. My point is: you know someone judges you when their dog judges you. No language skills, but what a critic! Etc.

‘How’s my fave ginger whinger?’ says Mia, in a voice that cuts right through my face and straight into my being. She is holding a turmeric-coloured drink and a twisted copy of Vogue .

‘I really hate it when you call me that.’

‘Don’t be a hater, bébé. Buzz on the chans is there’s a new personal drone that doubles as a clutch bag. When you’re out you just fling it in the air and it captures your night from above from all angles.’

I really think I could shoot Mia, possibly in the face, if her opinion of me wasn’t so important to me.

‘I don’t need an aerial reminder of how appalling my night was,’ says Vivienne, the features editor. Vivienne is six foot and wiry, with thick veins ribbing her arm muscles. She looks like the kind of woman who’s spent a lot of time smoking on Spanish beaches. I am certain she has killed. I don’t think I’ve once seen her smile and she isn’t on any social media – which only adds to her menace, and her valour. Vivienne and Mia are friends from fashion college. Anyone can see Mia’s always been the one with money and ambition and Vivienne is the cerebral sponger. Vivienne doesn’t give zero fucks; she gives minus fucks. Every time I am near her I want to whisper: Teach me how to eat an artichoke, Vivienne.

‘Are you completely sectionable, Viv?’ says Mia. ‘That’s the teenage-girl angle. Pictures from above make everyone look like a teenage girl. If you partook in popular culture I wouldn’t have to tell you this.’

‘I do not partake,’ says Vivienne. ‘I am a puppetmaster.’

‘Well, I’ve ordered a sample clutch drone,’ says Mia, ‘which I shall be trying out, in the name of investigative journalism.’

Vivienne says: ‘Speaking of which, I’m going to patronise that new Israeli near Kings Cross at lunch. I may not be back for a few days.’

‘Jenny!’ says Mia, as though she has just remembered my name. ‘How was your weekend?’

‘Busy! A few drinks, a private view, you know.’

‘Yes, I saw your picture.’

‘Oh, did you? Great, thanks,’ I gush.

‘Are you not going to ask me what I got up to?’

‘What did you get up to?’

She scrutinises my face. ‘I went … for a meal … which I know you know, because you liked other pictures around the same time mine went up, so why didn’t you like mine?’

Vivienne adjusts her neck. She knows the score. She keeps the score.

‘I must have … missed it? You know how sometimes it randomly reorders things.’

‘Hmm.’

The truth is, I like every fifth or sixth thing Mia posts – not always because I like them, but to sort of say hi and remind her of my existence. I don’t want to look rabid. I thought I was managing my affection well. Evidently not.

‘And how is Art?’ Mia asks.

‘He’s fine! Busy.’

She clasps her hands. This again.

Suffice to say that Art has a lot of hangers-on. A lot of women of a certain age. I know that’s unfeminist to say, but it’s a phenomenon that brings out the worst in me. At exhibitions, launches, shows … He’s the sexy, shaven-headed photographer. The hot thug. I can see it in their eyes: he’s a welcome, regular escape from their non-pussy-licking husbands.

‘Can he make drinks on Friday?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Not even one?’

‘One drink?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll ask.’

‘Do that.’

‘I will.’

‘Appreciated.’

‘So,’ Mia continues. ‘What’s the column this week?’

‘Co-habitation with women versus co-habitation with men. A nostalgia piece, in part, about my uni days.’

‘Juicy anecdotes, searing insight, rounded off with everywoman wisdom?’

‘Check, check, check!’

She hesitates.