Lisa Owens - Not Working

“Oh. Okay.”

“Is that not how it is?”

Luke shrugs. “That’s how you feel, is it?”

“I thought we both did. If it isn’t, we should talk about it.”

“Your plan sounds fine.”

“It’s not my plan . It’s my understanding of our situation. If you think differently—”

“You don’t need to shout.”

“I’m not shouting.” (I’m really not.) “I’m just trying to establish where you stand.” I go hard at a dark spot on the tankard handle that won’t budge.

“Let me put it this way,” he says. “I’m not in any rush, but I wouldn’t rule it out.”

“Neither would I! I don’t think we have.”

“But it sounds like you can take it or leave it?”

“Only because I thought you didn’t care either way,” I say. He moves behind me, but I can still see him: many tiny Lukes reflected in my silver empire. “I’m not sitting around waiting for you to propose, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You could propose too, you know,” he says.

“Hang on, let’s back up a bit: you’re the one who’s always said it’s just a bit of paper, that our commitment to each other is what counts. You already know this is it for me, love-wise. You are, I mean.”

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t ever propose?” he asks.

“Why does one of us have to? We could decide together. Like equals.”

“All right, yeah,” he says. Then quickly adds, “Let’s revisit this at some point in the future. Two years? No — three?”

I clap my hands. “Oh, Luke ! We’re engaged to be engaged! Grandma is going to be so thrilled to hear this! Kidding, kidding, kidding,” I say, watching multiples of his shoulders visibly tense, and then relax in miniature.

“Did you want any help?” asks a white-coated, broad-bosomed lady, topped by a large, flawless bun. Her makeup is dense and meticulous, her scent powerfully sweet. I grimace no, and attend to the glowing bank of products, squinting the way I’ve seen shrewd consumers do. “Maybe there was something in particular you were after?” she wonders aloud.

“I’m fine, really, thank you,” I say, but now it’s as though all that censored helpfulness is bubbling away like toxic waste, and unable to bear it, I cave and confess. “Well, I was thinking about looking at maybe buying some anti-aging cream.”

“Certainly,” she says. “What was it you had in mind?”

“Um. Anti-aging cream? I don’t…know how else to say it.”

With a pleasant sigh, she rattles through the options, batting densely frosted lashes with impressive speed: “Day cream, night cream, serum, double serum, extra-firming, tinted?”

“Right. Oh. I see. Yes. I wanted, well, wondered, really, what would you recommend?” I jut my chin forward and smooth my brow, giving her ample opportunity to praise my skin, its youth and dewy suppleness. Instead, with Mary Poppins-ish efficiency, she marshals a crowd of tubes and pots on the counter.

“Six separate items?” I press the pads of my fingertips underneath my eyes. My mouth hangs open as I consider my complexion in the magnifying mirror: a vast, banal iteration of The Scream . “The eyes are that bad? They need their own special one?”

She beams. “It really is a super gel. It’ll do wonders for the issues you have here”—she waves an illustrative pinkie—“and here”—the other pinkie appears; together they sweep in broad arcs. “I’d recommend you also think very seriously about the daily youth-renewal moisturizer. I guarantee you the years will tumble away.”

It worked! I’m fourteen again! The cream has awakened a long-dormant gland, restoring my chin, my forehead, my nose, my cheeks to adolescence in all its greasy, pimpled glory.

Geri’s invited me to join today’s breakfast strategy meeting. I wanted to decline, but it seemed a bit rude — plus there’s free fruit and pastries.

Jonathan, sitting at Geri’s right hand, looks triumphantly resentful, as though my presence is the last bit of proof he needed that I’m here to pry my job from his efficient, clammy grasp. But he needn’t worry about me, unless he wants a chocolate croissant: there’s only one left, and I plan to make it mine.

Now we’re into the thick of the general meeting, and I’ve fallen into my old waking nightmare: that it will never end and I’ll be stuck in here forever.

Bea keeps making faces at me, and I’m struggling to find an expression that humors her without alienating everyone else. She’s also brought her phone in — which isn’t allowed, but no one says anything — and every so often she takes a break from texting to pipe up with off-topic ideas.

“My mate Angus is an indie coffee supplier: we should use him for the office. That stuff is — no offense — crap,” she says, when someone asks her to pass the French press. “He only does one blend, but it’s perfect. He’s a coffee prodigy.”

“Ooh,” says one of the graduate girls, “I think I read about him in Metro . He’s hot!”

“Give his details to Claire,” says Geri, trying to wrest things back on track. In addition to my freelance duties, I seem to have become the intern’s PA. I write Coffee on my notepad.

Bea leans over. “And what about getting a fruit crate delivered? My god-sister owns an organic orchard in Somerset. You can get apples and…other fruits. Whatever’s in season. Plums?”

“What’s a ‘god-sister’?” asks Jonathan.

“Claire, make a note,” says Geri, nodding at my pad.

Fruit crate, I write. God-sister. Plums?

“Okay, so! Accounts! Over to Justin, please, with the figures from the second quarter.” Geri passes a sheaf of spreadsheets around. I don’t bother taking one: I never got to grips with the accounts bit, and certainly don’t plan to start engaging now.

“I think we should order the Bumper Scrumper box.” Bea passes her phone to Geri, who flashes a smile of acknowledgment, and dispatches it immediately back down the table. “Shall I just order it now,” says Bea, “while I’ve got all the information here?” She turns to Justin the accountant with an outstretched palm. “Jasper, please may I have the credit card?”

He looks at her, appalled.

“Doesn’t ‘scrumping’ mean ‘stealing’?” I say, to try and defuse the swelling tension.

“Bea, my love,” says Geri, “Claire’s going to look into it after the meeting and we’ll discuss and come back to you later, okay?” The phone comes whizzing down the table to me.

I write, Bumper Scrumper, and note the cost, which justifies the “scrumper” bit: twenty pounds for “an average of 15 apples” is pure daylight robbery.

“Look! The farm’s called B. Organic,” says Bea.

“Take it away, please, Justin!” says Geri.

Justin clears his throat.

“It’s a pun, like as in ‘be organic.’ But also, guess what the B is short for? Claire,” Bea persists in a stage whisper.

I shake my head— Shut up —but she takes it to mean I give up .

She points to herself, and beams. “B-E-A.”

“Column one: you’ll notice gross profit is down on the last quarter,” Justin begins, glaring at me , which is preposterously unjust.

“Isn’t that cool?” says Bea, and I give her a desperate thumbs-up.

“Claire, please, ” says Geri. “ Sorry, Justin, go ahead.”

At her side, Jonathan’s printout rises too late to disguise his smirking mouth.