Sadie’s biscuit slips out of her fingers and plops into her coffee, pebble-dashing half her desk with cappuccino foam. She gapes at me with an open mouth, as if I’ve just told her I’m off to run a tattoo parlour in a small village on the fringes of the Peruvian Andes.
‘You must really love it if you’re prepared to live with Dan’s mum,’ she says.
I tut. ‘Dan’s mum’s great.’
‘I couldn’t live with anyone’s mum, even my own. Much as I love her, that lost its appeal after I hit . . . ooh, five.’
Sadie Dass is an exiled Londoner who moved here with her then boyfriend when he got a job in Manchester. He dumped her within six weeks of the move, but having driven here in her VW Beetle on a Bank Holiday weekend, she decided she couldn’t face the M6 again, so would stay for the foreseeable. Seven years later, she’s still here, and in that time has got herself a far nicer man, Warren, who last year became her fiancé.
The wedding is scheduled for next year, grows more lavish by the day and it’s fair to say that the planning has done nothing to instil Sadie with a sense of inner harmony.
She has a soft London accent, enviably smooth skin, inherited from her Guyana-born great-grandmother, and hair that she insists she can’t do anything with but which always looks amazing to me.
I must admit, she took a little while to grow on me after we first met. I always assumed I worked better with people who are rational, calm. Sadie is about as calm as Hurricane Katrina. But she is also thoughtful, a good listener, hilarious on a night out and the most dedicated office gossip you could hope to meet.
That afternoon, we head to the boardroom to set up before our meeting with Sebastian. Sadie battles with the flip-chart stand for our ‘scamps’ – the initial sketched concepts – while I lay out the product i.e. enough condoms to service an STD clinic for a year.
Then I turn my attentions to the door, which I hate with a passion in this meeting room because it doesn’t close properly and, when open, bangs against the filing cabinet – something that’s guaranteed to happen at the exact moment you’re attempting to say something important.
‘This isn’t going to work,’ I mutter, shoving a folded piece of paper under the door, ‘and we’re going to be starting in ten minutes. We need something that will buffer the handle.’
She scans the room like she’s Bear Grylls trying to find some edible vegetation in the jungle. ‘Wait here! I’ve got an idea,’ she says, darting to the presentation table. She grabs a strawberry-flavoured condom and rips open the packet.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Improvising,’ she replies. Then, holding it to her lips like some demented children’s party entertainer, she starts blowing into it, until it’s the size of a small beach ball.
‘Please tell me you’re about to turn that into a giraffe for me to take home with a party bag – and not try to fix the door with it,’ I say.
‘It’ll be fine, watch,’ she insists, as she proceeds to secure it to the door handle with an elastic band.
I glance at the clock: we have one minute before Sebastian is due to arrive. To be fair to Sadie, her contraption is completely effective – and not at all visible from where we’ll be sitting.
We head back to the table, just in time for Sebastian to appear in the doorway.
‘Sadie! Gemma!’ He’s wearing the sort of grin you’d expect to see in the closing moments of an accomplished fellatio session.
Sadie runs over and shakes his hand vigorously. Then he turns to close the door, but she leaps in front of him. ‘It’s very stuffy in here – do you mind if we leave it open?’
‘Good idea,’ he decides, heading to the desk.
His hair is thick, dark blond, a bit too long; like Severus Snape with highlights. He’s in his early fifties but looks younger. And, judging by his dress sense (fitted shirt with a millimetre of breathing space; Armani chinos) is aware of it.
Everything about him is smooth: his hair, his voice, even his teeth look as though they’ve been polished with Mr Sheen. He invites us to sit down and insists on pouring the tea for us. I can see why clients would love him.
‘So, ladies,’ he says, clasping his hands together and making the twinkliest of eye-contact. ‘
Condoms
.’ He pronounces the word animatedly. Sadie crosses her legs.
‘Johnnies,’ he continues, with a flourish. ‘Rubbers, French letters, sheaths . . .’
Sadie visibly relaxes when he stops. But it’s only a momentary intermission.
‘Joy Bags, Close Combat Socks, Gentlemen’s Jerkins . . .’ Then he smiles benignly. Sadie and I exchange glances. ‘One thing’s for sure, there are a heck of a lot of euphemisms for one of
these
.’
He pulls out a
Bang
condom packet – the brand we’re working on – and starts twiddling it round in his fingers. ‘Question is, how can we make
Bang
Condoms the UK’s diving suit of choice?’
‘Would you like us to show you our thoughts so far?’
He opens his arms wide. ‘Can’t wait. Your reputations precede you, ladies. I’m . . .
excited
.’ There’s something terribly unsettling about the way he says that.
I turn over the first scamp, hopefully to blow him away with our ideas, when I am sharply interrupted.
Pthwww!
I know it’s the condom deflating. Sadie knows it’s the condom deflating. Sebastian, on the other hand, can only come to the conclusion that the origin of this outburst is one of the two of us.
He shifts in his seat, glancing between us, clearly trying to work out which of us has consumed an abundance of broccoli and baked beans for breakfast.
I hastily decide to move on and pray he assumes he’s imagined it.
At this stage, we produce three concepts – a safe option, something more edgy and the one we like the best. I go for safe first, as always – the Volvo of condom adverts.
‘We saw this one as being entirely animated,’ I explain. ‘It’s a quirky take on boy meets girl—’
‘Let me stop you there.’ I do as I’m told. ‘I’m going to say something . . . radical.’ Sebastian opens his mouth.
Pwththhh!
I grab the sides of my seat and start jigging it about. ‘Damn chair,’ I apologise. ‘It’s always squeaking. Sorry. Carry on.’
He narrows his eyes then continues, ‘We’re not having a safe option.’
‘Oh. Okay,’ I reply, interested, while Sadie’s brow furrows deeper.
‘Here’s my thinking. Condoms are safe, by definition, so we need to be edgy to counter-balance that. Edgy is the only way to go on this. We don’t give them the usual three choices. We give them: edgy, edgier, and so edgy they’re a step away from falling off a cliff.’
Sadie can’t contain herself. ‘But we’ve spent weeks—’
‘We’ll show you our “edgy” first then,’ I interrupt, taking out the next scamp. ‘In this one, the tone is different. We’re at a club. We’ve got a Hed Kandi-type soundtrack. We’ve got dancers here and—’
‘Ladies, this is not edgy,’ he proclaims. ‘This is
predictably
edgy. The twisted Utopia theme, the post-apocalyptic, narcissistic atmosphere. I bet you’ve even thrown in a couple of kissing lesbians, haven’t you?’
The answer is no, but I don’t get a chance to tell him.
Pwtthh!
He grits his teeth and just looks appalled by both of us now, but carries on regardless. ‘Predictably edgy and edgy are not the same thing at all. What I want is . . . unpredictability.’
Sadie has stopped breathing. And I must admit, I’m not feeling great about having weeks’ worth of work dismissed before he’s even looked at them properly.
‘Now. Who is the
last
person you’d expect to be advertising condoms?’
Pwthw—
‘Gloria Hunniford?’ Sadie blurts out, in a desperate bid to distract him. To be fair, it works.
Sebastian raises his eyebrow, puts his hand on his chin and nods thoughtfully. ‘Keep going.’
Sadie swallows and looks at me for help. ‘Um . . . Keith Chegwin,’ she splutters. He raises an encouraging eyebrow. ‘Peter Sissons, Prince Philip . . .’
Pwthw—
‘The Archbishop of Canterbury!’
He grins and looks at both of us. ‘Ladies, I like your way of thinking.’ He stands up, removes the scamps and flings them across the desk at us. ‘Take another week on this one. You’ll come up with the goods, I know it.’
I am trying my best to think of a diplomatic way to protest about this in the strongest possible terms, when something else does it for me.
PWTTHWWWTHTH!
The condom disengages itself from the door handle and performs a spectacular loop-the-loop across the floor before landing slap bang on the desk in front of Sebastian, who is so stunned he appears to have lost the motor skills in his bottom jaw.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how to make an impression with your new boss.
When I get back to my desk, my phone is ringing. I see that it’s Dan and decide to take the call in the corridor.
‘How’s your day going?’ he asks.
‘I’ve had better.’
‘You’re not the only one.’
‘Why, what’s happened to you?’ I ask.
‘My mother’s agreed to let us stay.’
‘Ah, brilliant!’ I gush.
‘Isn’t it?’ he deadpans.
‘Oh, come on, you know it’ll be worth it.’
‘I know, I’m only joking. Sort of anyway. You do realise however,’ he adds teasingly, ‘that before I met you, there was no woman on earth I’d have made a sacrifice like this for.’
I hesitate, suppressing a reflex action to return the sentiment and assure him that there’s no man I’d have done it for either. But that wouldn’t exactly be the truth.
Chapter 5
Dan
I’ve spent the morning getting to know a twenty-one-year-old alcoholic who’s been out of prison for eleven months and has a mental-health file as long as your arm.
This might not be most people’s idea of fun, but it’s an average day – in that there’s no such thing – in my job at a homeless charity called the Chapterhouse Centre.
My role as a supported housing worker is to keep people
off
the streets before they get there. Our team helps vulnerable people from all walks of life to climb out of their deepening hole and build something you or I might recognise as a normal life.
Not all of them have drink problems like Gary, the twenty-one-year old, although I’ve helped my share of alcoholics, as well as sex workers, ex-cons and drug users. They all have a different story to tell. And while in lots of cases those stories involve abuse, dysfunctional childhoods and substance misuse from a stupid age, some have simply fallen on hard times.
I’d never claim it’s an easy job, but I’d never want to do anything else.
After a bus journey from Gary’s temporary accommodation, I arrive at the administrative office where I’m based – a renovated Victorian school house half a mile outside the city centre. It’s a beautiful building, although I can’t claim it’d win design awards once you’re through the door.
If ASDA Smartprice did offices, this’d be what it would look like: functional, but bright, clean and notably no frills (the day we got a microwave capable of emitting more than 400 watts was the source of significant celebration).
It’s a long way from the workplace I left four years ago, when I was a stockbroker for a firm called Emerson Lisbon. I earned three times as much as I do here, and while I miss the salary, the same can’t be said for the job.
I’d been volunteering at the Chapterhouse Centre since university – at our enablement centre, where rough sleepers go for a solid meal and help from a support worker – when the chance of a fulltime job came up. I couldn’t bring myself to say no.
I’m in the hall, heading towards the stairs when our administrator Jade pops her head round the door.
Jade’s in her early thirties and is on her own with two young daughters after her husband ran off with a nineteen year old. Her take on this is: ‘She must’ve found his farting and smelly feet just irresistible.’ She’s great fun – and pretty, if not my type – with vivid green eyes and lips she paints in a colour that looks like it’s come out of a highlighter pen.
Jade is known for two things. First, she’s been on a diet for the entire five years I’ve known her. Secondly, Pete – my colleague, good friend and long-time drinking accessory – is madly in love with her, a fact of which she is blissfully oblivious, despite him having the subtlety of a five-foot air horn.
‘How was the house – any good?’ she asks.
‘So good Gemma wants to buy it.’
‘Oh, that’s great news!’
‘But we can’t afford it.’
She frowns. ‘That’s
not
great news.’
‘Except she’s found a way.’
‘Oh brilliant!’
‘But it’s a terrible idea.’
She frowns. ‘Oh. Then . . .
bad
. So what’s the idea?’
I wonder if there’s a way of saying this without losing every shred of professional credibility I possess. ‘We’re moving in with my mum.’
‘HAHAHA!’ Pete is on the stairs, doubled up with laughter. ‘Your
mum
?’
I look beadily at him. ‘What’s wrong with . . . I won’t finish that question.’
Pete, who works on our Dual Diagnosis team, is three years older than me, five inches shorter, and has been single for six months after finally dumping his longterm girlfriend Sarah (a nightmare) to focus on his so far fruitless quest to seduce Jade. He’s employed every tactic in the book: enquiring what her perfume is (her reply: ‘Erm, Sure Ultra Dry’); fixing the Secret Santa so she got a book called
Why Short Men Are Better Lovers
and hanging round her desk with this pathetic doe-eyed expression that makes him look like Droopy Dog after a heavy glue-sniffing session.
He slaps my back. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your mum, my friend. There’s definitely something wrong with a twenty-nine-year-old man still living at home though. Will she ground you if you don’t finish your homework?’
‘Oi! I lived with my mum when I split up with Alan,’ Jade says indignantly.
‘That’s totally different,’ Pete decides. ‘You were destitute. You had nowhere to go. You were on your own with two young children and—’