I think I may have been in love with him, but all those little moments meant nothing. It wasn’t enough. I was not enough. I watch him as he walks into his building. Bye, Spengler. And then he’s gone.
NINETEEN
I started at The Love Shack three weeks before my twenty-fourth birthday. Naturally, I wasn’t enamoured with the prospect of working for the family business and having allegations of nepotism thrown at me, so I worked super hard. I was the first one in, the last out. I wore a suit to work every day even though it wasn’t really required. Sometimes I’d tell Michelle I was leaving, but really I’d eat a meal deal special from the supermarket on the corner, take a disco nap on the sofa in my office and then get back on it. When my parents or Mike asked me where I was, I’d tell them I was with mates or in a spin class. I made this place my home. It was an escape when I needed an out from real life. Some would go to a spa, on a city break, on a walk. Josie goes and sleeps at the office.
Those patterns of behaviour seem to be repeating themselves at the moment. Since the TV debate and since Cameron found out the truth, work is a reprieve from having to think too hard about the mess that is my love life. It’s classic Josie behaviour. I won’t be able to process any ounce of that heartbreak if I just focus on work. Any time a flashback comes up of Cameron standing on Nan’s balcony taking in the wonder and colour of the NYE fireworks or us walking hand-in-hand around Comic Con or dressed as Ghostbusters eating chicken wings together, I blank all of it out. I take on a spreadsheet, I write an important email, I file my personal expenses like my sanity depends on it.
‘Hellloooo…’
I hear the voice inside the reception area and head out of my office.
‘I have an order for Jewell.’
That’s what I also do. I eat. I eat quite a bit. I replace all the lost affection with carbs.
‘Yep, that’s me.’
‘This is all for you?’
Yes, it is.
‘No, I’m expecting some colleagues to show up soon.’
The Uber Eats man looks me up and down. Yes, this is a red tracksuit. Yes, I look like an Eastern European gymnast. Yes, I am also wearing slippers and look like I’ve slept here in this warehouse full of sex toys but haven’t touched a single one. Am I going to remedy everything with McDonald’s hash browns now? Yes, I am. I don’t have time to explain any of this to him, so I tip him more than I should.
When I get back inside my office, I examine my work before me. I am heartbroken, but it would seem I am also scarily hyper-efficient. Last night, I told Mum I was going to Brett and Tina’s to babysit their boys when really I came here. I sorted out boxes of lube by colour, flavour and brand. I replied to thirty complaint emails. My favourite came from a lady in Fleet, Hampshire, who’d got a vibrating bullet stuck in her husband’s anus and who told me it’d taken an operation and two weeks off work for him to recover from the ordeal. Her solution, she feels, is for us to emblazon the words DO NOT PUT UP YOUR BUM on the packaging. I tried on some of our new strap-on range – apparently, the harnesses need some adjusting as if you’re a size 10 or under, they don’t offer adequate support or appropriate fit. The person who said that is right, it needs another buckle. I also have one hundred Sugar Cube dildos to post out to celebrity influencers and such. They come with a handwritten note from SGR herself that says GOOD VIBES, ALWAYS. Did I come up with that? Yes, I did.
I sit down and bite into a hash brown from my embarrassingly large stash. If it seems like I did all this work alone, I didn’t. I did it watchingVikings. It did help to some extent. Nothing eases heartbreak like hot bearded men killing other hot bearded men. At the moment, my computer screen is on pause as a man with no eyes is getting an axe through the face. See, Josie, any time you feel that your heart is being pulled out of your arse, then remember things could be far worse.
Did you at least get some sleep?
I spy a message glowing on my phone.
Tina has covered for me tonight, but both her and Brett have become increasingly worried about me, checking in, sending cake and links to funny things they’ve seen on the internet. Maybe we can fix Josie with a video of baby pandas going down a slide.
I did.
About four hours, I reckon. Successful people don’t sleep. I’m sure I read that somewhere. I mean, they also wake up to someone having run them a bath, who’s made them eggs Benedict, freshly brewed coffee and styled their outfits. They’re not hunched in a chair in a primary-coloured tracksuit, eating a McDonald’s breakfast out of a bag, licking potato crumbs from the nooks and crannies of their fingers.
I guess I’ll see you later? Do you want a lift? I have the cupcakes. We all love you, JoJo xxx
I love you all, too.
I’ll see Tina later as tonight it’s Sonny and Ruby’s respective hen and stag dos. My presence is sure to be a downer, but I’m legally obliged to attend as sister of the groom and maid of honour, so I need to plaster on a smile and tolerate this celebration of love and debauchery. I also need to go as I’ve supplied the goody bags for the evening. These are the events when it really pays to be marrying into this family because everyone is going to leave tonight with lingerie (from our premium range), gift-wrapped condoms, a sex toy and an edible chocolate penis with cream filling (I’ve tried them and they’re surprisingly delicious; not too cloying). This is what I also did last night. I got out the tissue paper, I curled ribbon, I wrote the tags. I bought a calligraphy pen, such is my commitment to making this look good but also putting my energy into something else other than my feelings.
‘What on earth?’
A voice behind me makes me jump and I turn around in fright, dropping one of my sacred hash browns to the ground. I can’t pick that up and eat it, can I?
Michelle. She’s dressed in skinny jeans and trainers and stares at me. She turns on the lights in the office, which I’d like to say were off to create mood lighting, but really it was so I could wallow in the darkness. I flinch as the light comes on.
‘Morning to you too.’
‘It’s 9.15 on a Saturday morning, what the hell are you doing here? Have you been filing?’ she says, looking to a pile of files and Post-its on my desk.
‘Maybe?’
‘The electrical warehouse across the way called me to say they thought there’d been a break-in, maybe a squatter had got in. Have you been here all night?’
