‘We commission non-editorial employees all the time, you know that! I swear I’ve been approached by 95 per cent of people who work for the company. Only yesterday, Colin from the canteen asked if he could write a piece about his top ten favourite hand dryers.’
‘I’d read that.’
‘Yeah, I knowyou’dread that, but I reckon the topic’s a tad niche, even forThe Helix. Plus, the draft he insisted on sending me read like an actual hand dryer catalogue, not a wry feature. Whereas the intranet piece you wrote today about next week’s health and safety training genuinely made me cackle.’
‘Huh. I think the pun in the headline is probably my career highlight.’
Elle sighed. ‘You’re doing that thing again.’
‘What thing?’ I don’t know why I bothered to play dumb with Elle; she knew me better than anyone.
‘You’re selling yourself short. How many times do I need to say this, Mally Allister? You’re an amazing writer, but your talent’s going to waste. You need to free your voice! Who knows, if you play your cards right, you could be moved up to editorial! Whatever it is that’s holding you back needs to do one.’
WasI being held back, though? Or was I simply content with a quieter life than hers? Even when we were teenagers, Elle had always been chomping at the bit to move to London and grow into the person she was born to be. She’d had her life and career mapped out from the start, whereas mine seemed to be playing out like a fading vapour trail behind her flaming booster jets. And I didn’t mind it that way – I’d rather evaporate than burn.
‘Yeah, I know. But my heart doesn’t lie in journalism; it never has. Actually’ – I took a larger-than-average swig of wine for courage – ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, and what I’d really like to do next year is start focusing on the ideas I’ve got for my children’s books. If I start writing clickbaity features, I worry that I’m going to end up distracted and pigeonholed, so…’
‘Stop. Listen to me. In the kindest possible way, you’re some way off from having kids. I mean, think about it: do you honestly believe you’ll be able to write anything that will resonate with that audience and that market?’
My stomach flipped at Elle’s words, my throat swelling. Despite always knowing what I needed to hear to boost my confidence, she also had a knack for slapping it back down again. But she was right, of course. Meeting someone who I might be able to start a family with one day was definitely on my ultimate to-do list, but if I wanted to even have a shot at having kids this side of forty, I’d have to meet someone immediately. Like, this month. And she was probably right about my pathetic book ideas, too. I tried to maintain my composure but my glossy eyes must have given me away.
‘Urgh, don’t look at me like that,’ Elle said. ‘I feel crap enough as it is. It’s been a shitty week at work – you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff that’s going down in editorial at the moment.’
‘It’s fine. I just thought… you know, with Billy, maybe I’d finally met someone who I could…’ The rest of the words got lodged in my neck. I downed the remainder of my wine in an attempt to wash them away.
‘Like I said: what an absolute fucker.’
‘Yeah.’
I looked at my phone and did a double-take at the time.
‘Shit, I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my train.’
I wiped my eyes quickly and grabbed my stuff. I had eight minutes to sprint from Leicester Square to platform three or five – I could never remember at this time of night – at Charing Cross station. It was just about doable based on previous drunken dashes but it was going to be tight.
‘Okay, go, go, go. I’ll sort the bill and you can pay me back. I’ve got a busy couple of days coming up so I might not see you around the office. But come by my desk on Friday just before five and we’ll head to mine from there, yeah?’
‘Will do. And, Elle?’
‘Mmm?’
‘That elf and safety training ismandatory, okay?’
I missed the train by about four seconds. It was a freezing thirty-minute wait on the concourse for the next one to Hither Green. And, as much as I respected his enthusiasm, I wasn’t sure I could hack the resident saxophone busker playing the same four bars from ‘Last Christmas’ on an endless loop.
Shivering on the platform bench, I put my earmuffs on and decided to re-read the email I’d sent to Livvie last night. After all, re-reading our historical correspondence was one of my life’s biggest comforts these days. I logged into my ancient inbox, which I only ever used for Livvie.
The sight that greeted me caused every millilitre of blood in my body to plummet to my feet. Because, for the first time in twenty years, there was a reply. I had to hold back the urge to plunge my thumb through the screen to read it as quickly as possible, forcing out a restrained tap instead.
An unfamiliar noise escaped from my voice box as it all became clear:
Address not found
Your message wasn’t delivered to [email protected] becausethe address couldn’t be found or is unable to receive email.
I was shocked by the intensity of my reaction to the automatically generated reply. I knew, after all these years, it was inevitable this would happen at some point. But part of me had never really let myself believe it.
By the time I’d pulled myself together I almost missed the next train, too. Settled into my usual spot in my usual carriage, I re-read the bounce-back message. It was so brutal. So final. And I knew I never wanted to get one of those blunt emails ever again. But that meant one thing: I would have to stop emailing Livvie. And I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. Because I always liked to imagine that, in some alternative universe, she’d replied to every single one of my messages over the last two decades in her usual no-nonsense manner. In the case of Billy, she’d have said something along the lines of ‘just call him, FFS!’. Instead, I’d spent two decades having to imagine her advice.
