Mac dumped his bag on the chair across of Sam and grumbled, ‘Be right back,’ before hurrying off to the loo. Sam watched him go, wondering what new disaster struck this time. So she waited, sipping her tea, trying not to look across of her to that slanted silver screen with the black keys. What was he writing about though? He looked so serious. Maybe something like David Foster Wallace. He’d be the kind to drag his way through that thing. Or was he more a Franzen type? Safran Foer maybe? Amis or McEwan? Or maybe he wrote poetry? Sam decided no, definitely a novel. Or a blog entry, something about movies like Inception. Sam wondered what The Writer’s verdict would be as he scratched his neatly-clipped beard absentmindedly, suddenly looking so normal and every-day, Sam was thrown out of her day-dream. Definitely a novel. He was probably mulling over what adjective to throw out next. Mac popped up suddenly, pulled off his bag and slumped down into the chair across of Sam, looking really beat.
‘Hi,’ Sam said, kindly.
‘Hi,’ Mac sighed, looking suddenly exhausted beyond general fatigue.
There was no point in asking ‘How are you?’ These past few days must have been especially gruelling for upbeat Mac to look like he’d just come back from a full shift at the docks. They sat in silence for a while, Mac soaking up the warmth and busy quiet by the look of him, sinking blissfully into the peace around him, and Sam let him be, watching him easily. She’d known Mac since Freshers’ Week, but they hadn’t really become friends, real friends, until after uni. Now they were colleagues too, it was Mac, actually, who helped her get the temp-slash-internship that at least paid some bills. Not all of them, that was utopian, Sam knew Sonia was right, she too belonged to the Made in China/disposable slot. But at least it was better than nothing, she could actually afford tea and TSG when she needed some. Mac had an actual job, full pay, but the salary was just a smidgen higher than what Sonia was able to put together with the gulag and Beanie’s, and way more stressful too. Mac always called his office ‘The 8th’, short for Dante’s 8th Circle of Hell (Fraud), and his supervisor Tim ‘SPA’ which was short for Satan’s PA. Needless to say, Mac loathed his menial deskjob with every fibre of his thoroughly educated being.
Mac inhaled deeply, and exhaled a long sigh of relief before opening his tired eyes, a bright hazel, his shaggy brown hair sticking out damply from underneath his scull-cap, his black-rimmed Ray Ban slipping down the ridge of his nose like the PhD student he once was, (something with linguistics and anthropology if she remembered correctly), before he fled uni just like everyone else, as fast and far as his student loans would let him. Like a refugee from a war-zone crossing a mountain pass, they had watched Mac extract himself from ‘that place’ as he now called it. He’d had a hellish time there. Not, as Sam found out, because he was bad at it. It was the exact opposite: Mac was brilliant, he did everything right, and he knew how to write in the way professors and journals wanted. He couldn’t stop and nobody stopped him, even though it was clear he was running himself into the ground. There was a breakdown, a very bad one, there had been some dark rumours. Sam had heard about them, remembered all the fun they’d had in their first two years, they’d had the same circle of friends back then, all of them single, all of them unfettered undergrads. There were pictures of parties and laughter and pizza nights on some website somewhere. Then life made them drift apart, Mac had found a girlfriend and slowly faded out of their lives, he’d been so in love, so none of them were surprised. Emma, that was her name, elfin, elegant, Emma. There had been envy, but it was short-lived, there were other distractions.
Anyway, when Sam heard what happened, she asked around, found out where Mac was and visited him when she felt it was right. Mac was very surprised, but in the best way: he actually smiled, ‘Sam. Sam-I-am,’ like seeing her there was a small miracle. She had brought him some Costa, he’d always railed against Starbucks, they sat for two hours and just talked. Somehow that first conversation meandered into them meeting regularly for coffee and then Sam’s friends became Mac’s friends, and Mac’s friends Sam’s and soon they were The Hive, always talking, texting and tagging each other, their group-chat was a constant live-feed of comments, memes, movie quotes, and endless negotiations about when and where to see the next Marvel. Sam still remembered what Mac said that first day though, ‘You’re so nice to talk to,’ and Sam really cherished that.
Now, older and far too grown-up, they were part of the real The Real World. They were all in the business of paying off things. Not for things. Off things, like repeatedly jumping off tiny cliffs into an abyss that just yawned black and wide, swallowing light, twisting gravity. When they said, ‘You can do anything you want, you just have to believe in yourself and work hard,’ did they factor in this fiscal bungee jumping, where you never knew if the rope really was knotted tight? Did they factor in this blackness that swallowed money, energy, light? But, there was no way around it, and between crashing and burning and hanging on, Sonia, Sam, Mac and everyone else, they all chose to keep on. Though none of them knew if what they were doing was really living, if what they had was actually a life.
*
‘You all right?’ Sam finally dared.
Mac was notoriously impatient with questions about his well-being.
‘I’m ok,’ Mac frowned, suppressing a yawn. ‘How are you? How’s the whatsitcalled -’
‘I’m good, but forget about me. What happened?’
Mac rolled his eyes, stretched a little, joints popping here and there, before he collapsed into a heap of warm sweater and suit trousers again, the blue-white of his checker-box shirt peaking at the hems.
‘SPA scheduled some last-minute bullshit that has to be out by eight.’
‘And you could escape?’
‘Terry let me off. Said it was just last edits, so…’ Mac inhaled deeply and exhaled again, slowly, before pinching the ridge of his nose. ‘Fuck, I really have to quit that job.’
‘You know you really should,’ Sam said gently, because for all his talk, Mac never actually pulled it through.
And how do it? Compared to others in The Hive, Mac had landed the jackpot, he’d hardly had to look: six weeks after he was back on track again he had a signed contract, Sam had watched it all happen. What she did notice was that Mac’s eyes were bleary and his skin unhealthily pale, not just cold-weather white, but ashen. She didn’t know how to point that out without sounding alarmist. She did wonder when he’d last eaten something. Before she could ask though, Sonia sailed by with a tray full of cups and muffins, smiling a bright, ‘Hi!’ at Mac, and Sam saw how Mac’s cheeks turned a fiery red for a few long seconds.
Yes, there was that. Sonia acted oblivious, hoping Mac would finally get over it, but after three years of that, her strategy didn’t seem to bear any visible fruit. As it was though, Mac was too much of a gentleman to do anything anyway. And he really thought The Jerk was Sonia’s boyfriend. The Jerk didn’t know what a boyfriend was, but Sonia couldn’t get herself to quit. The Jerk lived in this great place in Spitalfields, renting it for a pittance from his uncle who bought it back in the ‘70s on a whim. Back then, the rundown redbrick was hardly worth its paint. Now it was worth millions and The Jerk reaped the benefits of it, which meant Sonia never had to worry about utility bills. Sam understood Sonia though, she’d seen their digs: beautiful was just the first word to begin with.
*
The smell of English breakfast wafted over, and one look showed two tables across, three people were digging in. Next to the wonderful TSG, Beanie’s English Breakfast (served hot all day, any day) was an absolute must on rainy days. It cost a bit though, yet it was absolutely worth it, and Sam watched the three eat with delight for three seconds before glancing over to Mac who was watching as well. That was when she saw what was wrong. It was in the way he was watching those three chew and swallow every bite, as if the very sight of the bacon and eggs, baked beans and toast and everything else in that voluminous heap of country cooking was just too much on top of the week and the weather and SPA. ‘Here ya go, luv,’ Greg crashed into their solemn quiet. He’d brought Sam’s TSG, placing it smoothly before her before smiling, ‘Hello, darling,’ at Mac.
Greg barely got a response and usually Mac and Greg sparred with each other with glee, but Mac was too distracted by those three. Greg wouldn’t have been Greg if he didn’t catch on. He gave Sam a meaningful look and then smiled, widely, ‘The usual, Mackie, dear?’ like some matron from Horse and Hound. Startled, Mac stared up at Greg, and Sam saw the moment of panic freeze Mac’s face, that heartbeat of shock when you realise you have to explain out loud why your bank account was currently barking Nyet. But Greg, darling Greg, saved Mac from the humiliation of lying to their face. He patted Mac’s shoulder gently, kindly, and without condescension, ‘It’s on the house, darling, don’t worry. English Break and some tea like Ms Bennet here?’ Greg added, nodding at Sam. Sam who blushed at the relief that bloomed on Mac’s face, never mind the whiff of shame right underneath, Sam who drank her tea to hide how she witnessed Mac mumble a, ‘Thanks, Greg, but that’s not really -’
‘Oh, shut up and accept it,’ Greg said in his own sweet way, smiled, ‘Bon appétit,’ at Sam and sashayed back to the counter, yelling, ‘Oi, Gringo! Another EB, please!’ just to piss off Darren again. An awkward silence followed at their table. Mac sat up straighter, leaned forward, his elbows on the table-top his hands covering his face. Sam felt he was hiding from her, she could positively feel his embarrassment laced with shame. She wanted to tell him, ‘Don’t worry, this is Greg, you know it’s ok. Don’t worry, I understand. Don’t worry, Mac, this is London. Everyone needs some help.’ But she didn’t say that. What she said was, ‘Do you mind if I start?’ and Mac nodded hastily, ‘Oh God, of course! Go ahead,’ his face still pink, his look still shamefaced, but what could she say? She reacted the same way when this thing happened, this thing that etched failure just a little deeper into your hand like some magic invisi-quill.
They all hated this, working and working and working and working and then paying everything and then some, until your account said curtly you could only eat yoghurt and almonds for the next three days because food-shopping was something that happened to other people. Sonia said it did wonders for her figure, that thigh gap didn’t come from nowhere, but it was still only yoghurt and almonds for three days. It was just before her birthday when that happened, and Sam saw the regularity of it, how over the past five years nothing had changed, and if, only barely. Or those times she only mentioned to herself where all she ate was a bowl of ramen all day, her stomach growling garrulously when she went to bed. It did wonders for her figure, yes, but Sam hated being that hungry. It didn’t feel right, or healthy. She didn’t like feeling her stomach was one empty plate from digesting itself. It was used to full meals. And three days to her birthday Sam realised she might never escape her three-days-yoghurt and one-day-ramen dilemma if she didn’t fundamentally change things.
The applications she kept on sending out weren’t amounting to much more than polite Thank yous or just nothing at all, so nobody could say she wasn’t trying: she linked and networked and forwarded and cc’d, she called back and wrote back and did everything necessary and needed. Still: nothing. She was Made in China, there were millions just like her, she was not in the least special, just another name in an email, just another CV. And then there was the heartbreak of that one interview she actually had, the one that made her body glow and her face smile, that interview that only happened because the guy had found her Instagram. An utter sleezebag, as Dunya said, Dunya who had coached her as prep so that Sam walked into that office feeling genuinely prepared. Only to realise all that guy wanted was T&A, her ‘great tits’ and her ‘fantastic arse’. Sam had cried in the ladies’ after those horrible fifteen minutes, hot furious tears spilling as she stood there looking professional, feeling so hurt and hopeless, and proving Sonia’s mascara really was waterproof. Not long after was that afternoon, three days before her twenty-eighth birthday, that afternoon when Sam looked at her pot of Greek yoghurt and something just caved, or rather, caved in.
It was last year, a Tuesday. Under tears and more tears, and silent, quiet rage, she called up her Mum and took her parents’ offer to move back in, resenting the gentleness in her mother’s voice when she said, ‘There’s no need for you to struggle like this, sweetheart, you know we have the space.’ Sam’s pride broke under the pressure of her stomach and blood-sugar and the need to sleep well and concentrate, the need to stop feeling she was this runt in a rat-race, so she called and accepted because she just couldn’t afford the rent, even with the co-hab she shared with Perce and Electra (yes, her mom had an O’Neill phase). This was London, everyone needed some help. Even her parents only got their house because their parents signed the down-payment. Sam tried to console herself with that.
There were people who said, ‘Why don’t you move somewhere else? I hear it’s really good in Sheffield,’ and maybe it was, except they’d die first before they moved outside city limits, unless it was the Cotswolds or Kent. Those were the same people who said, ‘Why aren’t you married yet?’ and ‘I thought you liked men?’ Those were the people with cars and husbands and a cottage somewhere, those were the people who said she had to find ‘someone sensible’, those were the people who sutured revenue, bonuses, and quarterly reports to this thing people called marriage. Unless someone got pregnant and didn’t want to admit it was an accident, right, Frances. Those were the people Sam finally stopped calling friends. Sonia, Sam, and Dunya who was after all a Mad Mommy, they called them Smug Maries, because they were unilaterally female, they were spectacularly smug, they’d all seen the film and were convinced they were Bridget and no one else. Unless they started quoting Carrie Bradshaw and the less said about that, the better, Sam got annoyed just thinking about it, so she concentrated on being nice to Mac and eating her TSG that was just delish anyway.
*
© 2017 threegoodwords
Marion had called the police on Weston who somehow knew exactly where his stash was and that was the end of the evil bastard.
The wind sliced around the corner, youch.
 Dunya who accepted Sergio’s pretty sweet proposal, somehow he’d managed to grow up when no one was looking, Dunya who became Mrs DeLuca three years after graduation, Dunya who became a full-time Mom. Dunya  who did her best to get a babysitter in time, Dunya who really did call herself Mad Mommy, Dunya who never exempted herself from The Hive.
three good words 