My one saving grace is that I’m allowed to work from home sometimes. Which isn’t actually all it’s cracked up to be either. It’s not all lounging around on designer sheets with a state-of-the-art laptop, dressed in wisps of powder-blue and drinking out of big cups to make your hands look dainty, like they make it look on American TV shows. I have motivation issues. I hate having to chain myself to my geriatric Mac with nothing but a box of fondant fancies and a walnut whip or two for company, forcing myself to write something intelligent and witty, when I’d far rather be slumped in front of the telly in my friendly old PJs, posting in Pepperamis and watching Judy ‘WishIwasthinagain’ discuss teenage bulimia.
Until now.
Recently, I’ve found myself actually enjoying going into work on the odd occasion. Just before Christmas, the Suki magazine office acquired its very own Mr Diet Coke Break. Fresh from the land of kangaroos, koalas and Kylie, David—or The David, as he’s been nicknamed, due to his striking resemblance to Michelangelo’s equally luscious masterpiece—is over on a sabbatical from Sydney, and he’s had everyone’s La Perla in a veritable twist since he wandered through the door of the features office. He sits opposite me, which gives me lots of opportunity for bashful flirting, and I have to say the view has improved considerably since all I had to stare at was Fat Claire’s Cute Cats calendar on the slightly grubby stretch of wall between my desk and the coffee machine.
Because of this, I make more of an effort with my appearance than usual, pulling on clean, black bootleg trousers and a pale pink V-neck, which reeks only slightly of fags from its last outing. I even do make-up, disguising the luncheon meat effect of last night’s bottle of red wine on my cheeks with a layer of tinted moisturiser I’ve had knocking around the bathroom for yonks, and sweeping shell-pink blusher over the place where my cheekbones were last spotted, circa 1992. Then it’s off to the tube, where I spend an unhappy forty minutes jostling along on the Misery Line with my nose jammed into someone’s beef stew armpit. Personally, I think travel on the London Underground should be gratis. There’s nothing enjoyable about it, after all. And there’s nothing worse than shelling out the best part of a hundred quid a month for the pleasure of getting to work, when I’d far rather be cocooned under the duvet with a bag of Jelly Babies and a good book. Especially at this time of year.
I emerge at Sloane Square and walk the long way to the IBS Magazine building so I can have a calming fag before I go in. The familiar tsunami of lethargy washes over me the second I drag my heels up the steps and I illegally grind out my fag on the wall by the front door. There’s something acutely depressing about the smell of our building, new carpet mixed with stale coffee grouts, that makes me want to spin on my clumpy boot heel and run for the hills.
Or the shops at least.
Marsha, the toxic receptionist, glances up from painting her talons purple as I slope in, wincing at the cheerful vase of fat crimson poppies and hot pink peonies on the reception desk.
‘Good Christmas?’ I ask, more out of politeness than anything else. Actually, I couldn’t care less what sort of sodding Christmas she’s had. She’s so up herself I doubt she even noticed anyone else was having Christmas. She probably thinks the whole damn festive season was laid on just for her.
‘The best,’ she purrs. ‘Did I tell you we were going to the Maldives?’
‘About a thousand times.’
‘My Bradley proposed on the beach. Sooo romantic.’
She waves her hands around a lot as she speaks, so that I can’t fail to spot a rock the size of Gibraltar winking away in the shaft of sunlight that comes from the window. Still, if she actually thinks I’m jealous she’s even thicker than I thought. I’d drink sick before I’d touch Her Bradley with a ten-foot pole. Marsha’s Bradley is about as attractive as school mince. He wears too much aftershave and he looks twelve. In fact, the only reason Marsha herself is interested in him is that he’s seriously loaded. He works on the LIFFE floor in the City, which suits him down to the ground. Marsha’s Bradley is a LIFFE. A Loud Ignorant Fucker From Essex. A Bish Bash Bolly Boy. A Lobbo Yobbo.
‘Late again,’ Marsha singsongs as I shuffle miserably towards the lift. ‘And you had a lot of time off before Christmas as well. Missed all your deadlines. Imogen was reely furious.’
That’s a very bad habit of Marsha’s, mistaking me for someone who gives a toss.
‘I had gastroenteritis,’ I lie.
‘Ooh, lucky you,’ she breathes. ‘I bet you lost loads of weight. Just in time for the party season too.’