One in a Million

  Munching the last of my crumbly dinner, I turned off the TV and turned on my podcast app. Behind the Scenes had an interview with Mark Ruffalo. Maybe if I listened to it as I fell asleep, I could trick my brain into dreaming he was my boyfriend.

  Because that was the behaviour of a perfectly happy, single thirty-one-year-old.

  Wasn’t it?

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘It’s shit, Annie,’ Miranda growled, blinking into the bright morning sunshine. ‘I feel like I just got told off by my dad for spending all my pocket money.’

  We’d been to see the bank manager. It had not gone well.

  ‘Can we just go back to the office and talk about it there?’ I asked. Yesterday’s beautiful weather had turned into a sweltering, sticky day and all the things I loved about London in the summertime had been washed away by the sea of sweaty bodies pressed against me on the Northern Line. ‘I can’t be angry and outside at the same time, Mir, it’s making me feel stabby.’

  There were many difficult factors in running a real business but far and away the hardest part was money. There was never enough. Every single month we had to find rent, we had to find wages and for some reason, clients kept expecting us to do things for them before they paid us. It made literally no sense. I didn’t walk into Topshop, pick up a frock and flash the girl on the till a peace sign with a vague promise to get her the money within thirty days. Also, no one ever paid within thirty days. Ever.

  Even though I was insanely proud of owning our own business there were other downsides too. I couldn’t call in sick and take to my (non-existent) settee with a Terry’s Chocolate Orange and watch an entire season of RuPaul’s Drag Race when I was having a particularly bad day. Like today, for example.

  Miranda and I started Content because we were out of other options. After spending the best part of ten years in miserable marketing and advertising jobs, me withering away at a giant agency, nursing a sense of integrity that just wasn’t welcome, in a dark corner – literally a dark corner, I couldn’t even see a window from where they’d shoved me – and Miranda bouncing between every company in London, we decided it was time to become masters of our own destiny. And so we pooled our meagre resources and decided to live the dream.

  With hindsight, I did sometimes wonder if we mightn’t have been better off just going to Disneyland for a fortnight then getting jobs at McDonalds when we came home but, you know what they say, you live and learn.

  ‘I’m so pissed off,’ Mir said, rolling up the sleeves of her oversized white shirt only for them to flap back down by her sides like an angry penguin. ‘He talked to us like we were children.’

  ‘He wasn’t angry, he was just disappointed,’ I agreed, wiping a film of city sweat from my forehead. ‘But not nearly as disappointed as Brian’s going to be when he finds out we can’t pay him at the end of the month.’

  ‘We’ll work it out, we always do,’ she muttered before automatically checking her phone. ‘All we need is breathing room. Maybe we could get another company credit card? Or we could sell something.’

  I looked at her while she angrily swiped at her screen.

  ‘Like what? A kidney?’

  ‘Not helping,’ she replied.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said, unable to stop myself from bending down and picking up the Starbucks cup and depositing it in the closest bin. ‘We need our kidneys. We drink too much.’

  ‘Didn’t we start our company because we didn’t want to spend the rest of our careers listening to sanctimonious old men telling us what to do?’ Mir was still lost in rantland while I melted into an Annie-shaped puddle on the side of the road. ‘I want to march back in there and show him just how badly I have overextended myself.’

  ‘We don’t give up and we don’t give in,’ I reminded her, blocking her path. I was fairly certain she wouldn’t really walk into Barclay’s and deck the business manager but there really was no telling with Miranda Johansson. ‘That’s our motto, isn’t it?’

  She frowned and shook her head.

  ‘I thought it was “Yes, I will have another”?’

  ‘We can’t afford the first one, let alone another,’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s go back.’

  ‘Fine,’ she sighed, opening up a rideshare app on her phone. ‘We can work this out without the bank. I believe in us.’

  ‘I believe I’d rather not be bankrupt by Christmas,’ I told her, covering her screen with my hand. ‘We should get the tube back.’

  Mir threw her head back and howled out loud, attracting the attention of more than a few confused onlookers. ‘But it’s so hot,’ she whined. ‘And the station is miles away.’

  ‘Mir.’

  I hated it when she made me sound like my mother.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, grudgingly cancelling the car. ‘I’ll just sweat through my shirt and look like a skank all day.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ I replied, patting her on her sweaty back. ‘One day we’ll have drivers at our beck and call, hot and cold running drivers, ready to ferry us here, there and everywhere.’

  ‘Hot, cold, moderate, I don’t care,’ Miranda said, rolling up her sleeves once more and putting her best foot forward. ‘I just want to actually make some money for a change.’

  It was always nice to have a dream.

  ‘Morning.’

  Just what I needed. I looked up from my important tea-making activities to see Martin and Charlie flanking either side of the office kitchen. Rather than reply, I offered a tight smile and kept my eyes on the kettle hoping it was politely rude enough to send them on their way. On the walk back to work, I’d made a deal with myself. If I managed to call in at least one invoice and made it through the entire day without brutally murdering the first person to mention Matthew’s proposal, I was ordering Domino’s for dinner.

  ‘How are you feeling this morning?’ Martin asked in a sympathetic tone of voice I assumed he usually reserved for his grandmother’s best friend.

  ‘Amazing,’ I replied without looking at him. ‘Thank you for asking.’

  Keep your eyes on the prize, I told myself. There’s pizza at stake, don’t murder them.

  If only they hadn’t approached me in the kitchen with all its bright and shiny sharp things.

  ‘Everyone’s been talking about last night,’ Martin said while Charlie hovered at his elbow, monitoring my expression. ‘Must have been weird for you?’

  ‘You don’t really expect to turn on the game and see your ex getting engaged in 4K HD, do you?’ I replied. Deep, calm breaths. Think of the garlic dipping sauce. ‘Seems like more of a Facebook thing.’

  ‘Seems like you’re well out of it to me,’ Charlie said, passing me the milk from the fridge. ‘What a cock.’

  They mean well, the voice in my brain whispered, let them live and you can have garlic bread as well.

  ‘The only thing that’s getting to me is having to talk about it, to be honest,’ I said as I aggressively dunked my teabag. ‘It’s really not a big deal.’

  ‘My mate Will just got dumped. I could set you up with him if you’d like?’ Martin offered helpfully. ‘I‘ll give him your number.’

  They’re only trying to help, do not disembowel them with a Nespresso pod.

  ‘Recently dumped Will sounds lovely,’ I said with as much grace as I could muster. ‘But just because my ex got engaged, it doesn’t mean I’m desperate for a boyfriend.’

  The two of them exchanged a glance and I knew what they were thinking.

  It was the same thing I was thinking, lying in bed, wide awake at three o’clock that morning and scrolling through Bumble, Tinder, Happn, Hinge, Huggle and god help me, even Farmers Only. As soon as you ended a relationship you were in a game of snakes and ladders with your ex, there was always someone keeping score and, right now, Matthew was winning. Any points I’d earned from technically doing the dumping had been wiped off the board by his proposing to his supposed soulmate twelve months after we called it quits.

  ‘I’m dyin
g of thirst, Higgins. Where’s my tea?’ Miranda strolled into the kitchen, having traded her oversized shirt for a cropped neon yellow T-shirt. She was the best, all faux leather trousers and fuck-you attitude. It was something I needed more of. The attitude, not the trousers. I got thrush from just looking at them.

  ‘Martin offered to set me up with his friend,’ I told her, handing over her My Little Pony mug. It didn’t really go with the rest of her look but when it came to a cup of tea, Mir would have drunk it out of a lightly rinsed bedpan if it was the only option. ‘Because I’m a sad and lonely spinster.’

  ‘Are you joking?’ she asked, looking astounded. ‘Have you seen this woman? Annie’s amazing. Any man alive would jump at the chance to go out with her. She’s funny, she’s clever, she’s generous, she doesn’t mess about and have you seen those getaway sticks? Annie, pull up your jeans, show them your legs.’

  ‘Get off,’ I muttered, slapping Miranda’s hands away from my knees. ‘Can I go back to my desk now please?’

  ‘Obviously, Annie is amazing,’ Charlie spoke extra loudly to make sure we knew he really meant it. ‘And if it’s all right for me to say so, you have got a cracking pair of legs there, Higgins.’

  ’It isn’t,’ I assured him. ‘But thank you.’

  ‘You’re looking at the empress of social media,’ Miranda was really on a roll. ‘She’s a kingmaker, best in the world at what she does. The fact you even get to stand in the same room as this woman is mindblowing to me. She’s the Meryl Streep of socials. In fact, I’m fairly certain you should bow whenever you see her.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, she turns in a good tweet,’ Martin said, looking at the door and clearly wondering how his morning had taken such a wrong turn. ‘We’re all very impressed.’

  ‘What did you just say?’ Miranda slammed her cup down on the table, hot tea spilling eveywhere. ‘She turns in a good tweet?’

  I winced as I sipped my tea. What an idiot.

  Martin paused and looked at Charlie. Charlie shook his head. Martin did not take the hint.

  ‘That’s what you do, isn’t it?’ he replied. ‘Twitter?’

  ‘Do you even know what we do?’ Miranda asked. ‘Do either of you have any clue?’

  Martin shook his head. Charlie apparently knew better than to react. Mir sighed sadly and gave me the look. I shrugged apologetically and leaned back against the counter to watch the show. This wasn’t the first time we’d had to explain our actual jobs and I very much doubted it would be the last.

  ‘OK, so, Charlie, say you’re trying to think of a clever tagline to go on your thirty-second advert for a chicken cooking sauce?’ Mir began, gesticulating wildly as she went. ‘And you’re dead excited because the advert is going on in the middle of Coronation Street.’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ she said, clapping her hands right in front of his face. ‘No one watches the adverts any more. They’re all on their phone, interacting with content we created instead.’

  ‘There are twenty million Instagram accounts in the UK,’ I said, picking up where she left off. ‘Our influencers alone have more than a hundred million followers between them. You couldn’t even dream of getting close to that many people with an advert these days.’

  ‘I know social media is important, but you don’t really think what you do is more powerful than what I do?’ Charlie said, his hackles somewhat raised. ‘I’m sure you’re very good at arsing about on the internet, but we all know real advertising, real marketing is still what matters most. Everyone knows social media is the paid-for opinions of kids.’

  ‘Arsing about on the internet?’ I repeated, almost sure he must be joking. ‘Paid-for opinions of kids? Is that really what you think we do?’

  Charlie picked up a pink wafer biscuit and bit into it while responding to me with a very, very brave shrug.

  ‘Annie is a goddess,’ Miranda hurled a tea towel in Charlie’s general direction as Martin winced. ‘She could take any old man or woman off the street and turn them into a superstar. Or any tiny brand or business. She can get a million eyes on you without even trying, you write bad jingles and rip off movies to make shitty adverts for crap cars.’

  Ooh, that one had to hurt. Fired-up Miranda wasn’t always very kind and throwing a hangover and a bad bank manager meeting into the mix, was just asking for trouble.

  ‘We had the idea for the talking raccoon first and you know it!’ Charlie said, turning beetroot red. ‘The only people who get famous online are either rich, fit or related to someone else who is rich and fit. Bonus points if you’re rich and fit and can afford to have lots of photos taken on sandy beaches while standing in a yoga pose so people can crank one out over your feed at bedtime.’

  Miranda gagged as I wrinkled my nose.

  ‘Good to know what we’ll find when the police go through your search history,’ I muttered. ‘Tell me you clear it every single night, please.’

  Charlie looked unimpressed, Martin looked as though he would like to be literally anywhere else on earth and Miranda was ready to draw blood. I couldn’t quite work out how things had escalated so quickly.

  ‘You can make anyone famous, can you?’ Charlie asked, steely eyed.

  ‘Yes,’ I said with all the confidence in the world. ‘We can.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Prove it. Make me famous.’

  ‘I could,’ I replied. ‘But even the internet doesn’t deserve that.’

  ’Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ he answered with a not-so-friendly chuckle. ‘You talk a good game, I’ll give you that.’

  I pressed my lips into a tight thin line and planted my hands on my hips, fighting the urge to knock him out of the window. Charlie leaned against the fridge, a cocky smile on his handsome face that was seemingly designed to get me worked up in all the wrong ways.

  ‘Is it me,’ Martin muttered, breaking the silence, ‘or did things just get very tense in here?’

  ‘Oh, Annie, ignore them,’ Miranda said, tugging on my shirt sleeve. ‘Come on, you’re going to be late.’

  ‘I’m not done with this,’ I warned them as I abandoned my cup of tea. ‘Just so you know.’

  Charlie threw me a thumbs-up as we left and my heart pounded in my chest. I couldn’t work out if I felt more insulted, furiously angry, incredibly turned on, or all three.

  Life could be so confusing.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, I’m late. I’ve had the most ridiculous day,’ I said, barrelling through the door without knocking. It was already ten past one, I’d lost ten minutes of my time, we could manage without the usual pleasantries.

  Rebecca held out her arms for my jacket as I threw myself on her chaise longue.

  ‘We’ll get it out of the way,’ I said as I stretched out. ‘You’ve heard about Matthew, obviously.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Of course I’m happy for him,’ I said, lying back and focusing on the same crack in the ceiling as always. One day, I was going to have to bring some Polyfilla with me. ‘For both of them. Not that I know Karine at all, but she seems nice enough and Matthew is a good person. An OK person.’

  I glanced over at Rebecca, who looked back in her steady, measured way with her notebook in her lap.

  ‘Matthew is a person,’ I said.

  She pulled the cap from her pen and scribbled something down.

  ‘I’m not jealous,’ I insisted, running the pendant of my necklace up and down its chain. ‘Just because she’s younger than me and littler than me and she’s got the most perfect nose I’ve ever seen in my life. It doesn’t mean anything, my life is going brilliantly. I own my own company, I have amazing friends, I’m up for three big awards and what’s she? She’s engaged. Bravo, Karine.’

  I rubbed the bare third finger on my left hand, I gave a very heavy sigh and counted all the framed certificates on the wall. Bachelor’s degrees, master’s degree, certificate of this, certificate of that. Everything you’d want to see on the wall of a therapist’s office.
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  ‘Did I tell you we’ve been nominated for three awards? Three! I think it’s a record for a new company. I’m definitely doing so much better than when I was with Matthew. Don’t you think?’

  Rebecca made a non-committal sound across the room.

  ‘Well? You’re the therapist.’ I sat up so I could see the expression on her face. ‘What do you think? In your professional opinion?’

  ‘In my professional opinion,’ Rebecca replied. ‘I thought you were bringing me lunch.’

  I blinked at my sister before pulling two Prêt a Manger sandwiches out of my handbag.

  ‘They were out of hoisin duck, sorry,’ I said, chucking one of them in her general direction and unwrapping my own cheese-and-pickle baguette. ‘Got you this instead.’

  ‘They were out of duck so you got tuna?’ my big sister wrinkled her nose and abandoned the sandwich. ‘I can’t eat that, you dickhead. I’ve got patients all afternoon and no one wants to share their innermost thoughts and feelings with a woman who smells like Flipper.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I replied, trading her for my cheese and pickle. ‘I know you like tuna, I just didn’t think.’

  ‘Colour me shocked.’ She unwrapped the sandwich and took a big bite. ‘How many times do I have to tell you I am a therapist, not your therapist. You can’t treat your little sister, no matter how big a nutcase she’s turning out to be.’

  ‘But you’re so good at giving advice,’ I said, covering my mouth with my hand. A courtesy not extended by my elder sister, who I knew for a fact was not raised in a barn. ‘You’re trained in it. You’re a professional advice-giver. Advise me, please.’

  ‘That’s a lovely way to describe an agonizing five-year psychology degree,’ Rebecca muttered. ‘But since you asked, my professional opinion would be a diagnosis of FOMO. Get over yourself immediately.’

  I swallowed and shook my head slowly. Becks loved to remind me her degree was far more advanced than mine. Me and my piffling BA in Psychology and English. Her with her fabulous doctorate.