me want to vomit with your rarely washed body, your farting in the kitchen and your bogey-flicking. I especially dislike the way you walk around the flat wearing nothing but a pair of crusty underpants and a look of indifference, not even registering my discomfort, never mind giving a damn about it.
Perhaps I will knock on the door before I venture into his bedroom, after all. I fear what I may encounter if I catch him unawares.
I can’t stand you, Lee. Sometimes I even despise you. And I’m a nice person. I don’t usually despise anyone, not even Sonia at work, who has lodged herself so far up Vanessa’s bum, only the tips of her knockoff Manolo Blahnik mules are visible. But I dislike you. Very much so. You are ignorant and sexist and like the sound of your own voice far too much. I am not your wife or your mother or your maid. It is not my ‘duty’ to fill the fridge with nutritious food for you to pilfer so you don’t have to go to the shops yourself. It is not my responsibility to clean the entire flat myself (and it is a pointless task anyway because no matter how much I scrub and vacuum and dust, the place is permanently grimy due to the years of neglect before I foolishly came along, and your continuous slovenliness). It is not my obligation to provide you with bloody toothpaste.
I’m working up quite a lather as I release all the pent-up frustration of living with an untrained animal for the past three years on my teeth. I’m going to tell him about his reprehensive behaviour and make it clear that it has to stop. I tried once before, about three months into our flat-share, in the form of a polite note pushed under his bedroom door. I later found the note stuck to the fridge door, with a giant penis and hairy balls scrawled across it in black marker. I don’t think my charming flatmate had taken much notice of my requests for him to buy milk every once in a while or to turn his pounding music down after 11 p.m. on worknights before he defaced the note.
Still, I’m going to put things straight now. Better three years late than never.
Popping my toothbrush into my washbag (I never leave my toothbrush unattended in communal areas, having learned the hard way when I discovered Lee’s even grubbier friend working on his molars with a toothbrush of mine back in the early days), I throw my shoulders back and lift my chin high before marching into the dimly-lit hallway and heading towards Lee’s bedroom. The door is flung open before I have the chance to reach it, revealing an almost naked Lee and a cloud of musty fug.
Right, this is it. I’m going to let rip and unleash the tirade I’ve been rehearsing in my head. He won’t know what’s hit him!
‘Morning.’ Flashing the briefest of minty-fresh smiles, I scuttle off to my own bedroom with a sense of shame so severe it makes my stomach ache.
I’m a wimp. A great big wuss. A sissy pants without a backbone.
Why am I so pathetic? Why can’t I stand up to him and demand a tiny shred of respect? I’ve put up with his disregard and insolence for three years and I don’t think I can take much more of it. Either Lee has to change or I have to move on, and the only way to do that is to finally bag the promotion I deserve at work. I’ve already started to squirrel tiny amounts of money away into my savings each month for a deposit on a new flat, but if I could earn a bit more cash, I could move out of this hovel and away from my revolting flatmate much sooner. Plus, it would mean I’d finally earned the respect of my boss.
I’ve been working as the personal assistant to Vanessa Whitely at her events management company since I graduated from university three years ago, but I’m keen to take on a more creative role within the company. I have so many ideas, but I’ve yet to voice them in a way that will grab Vanessa’s attention. I need to make her listen to me. Be firm, more assertive and all the other strong, positive terms I’ve been reading about in the pile of self-help books crammed onto my bookshelf. There’s a big event coming up, an autumn festival taking place on farmland in the Yorkshire Dales, and I’ve been working on ideas for weeks, perfecting and polishing them until they’re shiny enough to present to Vanessa. This is my chance to show my boss what I’m capable of. That I have skills beyond answering the phone, making coffee and juggling her diary.
I’m going to do it. Today. Before it’s too late. I’m going to take a huge, positive leap forward in my career. I’m going to march into Vanessa’s office with the file I’ve compiled, set it on her desk and exhibit my ideas with passion and expertise. She’ll be so bowled over, she’ll add me to the team with immediate effect and I can start looking into new accommodation as soon as possible. And who knows – maybe I’ll be moving out of this dingy flat within the next month!
*
There are a couple of things I need to do before I march into Vanessa’s office. My first task is to sort out my appearance as I’m currently sporting a pair of lemon check pyjamas and the worst case of bedhead I’ve ever witnessed. I need to present myself as immaculately as my festival ideas, so that Vanessa can take one look at me and instantly see me in the role I covet. Vanessa always appears chic and professional, so I need to emulate her look as best as I can with my limited resources. While Vanessa dresses as though she’s about to step on the catwalk at London Fashion Week, I don’t have quite the same budget for clothes and accessories, but I’ll do what I can. Reaching into my wardrobe, I pull out a sleeveless black dress, cut to just below the knee, that is classic and sophisticated and definitely the sort of look Vanessa would go for. I team the dress with a gold belt and pair of lace-up peep-toe ankle boots that are similar to a pair I’ve seen Vanessa wearing (but while hers undoubtedly cost at least a month’s worth of my salary, I bought mine from the supermarket, marked down to less than twenty quid because of a scuff on the heel, which I’ve coloured in with a Sharpie pen).
My hair takes a bit more effort. It really is an unruly mop and refuses to stay in any of the styles I twist and grip it into. Vanessa favours sleek up-dos, but my hair is not playing along. In the end, because I’m running out of time, I’m forced to gather it into a messy bun and hope with every fibre of my being that it works with the overall look. I have just enough time leftover to swipe on a layer of mascara and smear on my favourite nude lip gloss before I leg it for the bus. I may be attempting to copy Vanessa’s style, but there’s no way I could get away with her bold red lipstick.
We’re advancing into late September, still technically summer, but it’s already turning chilly and I zip up my coat as I hurry along the street – not quite jogging but as close as I’m going to get in these heels. The boots may be pretty but they’re not very comfortable and my exposed toes are in danger of becoming frostbitten. Little white clouds puff into the air on each ragged exhale as I urge my body to move faster towards the main road. If I miss my bus, there’ll be a twenty-minute wait for the next and bursting into the office late is not the sort of impression I want to make on this of all days. I have my autumn festival file tucked under my arm, but it’ll be of little use if I don’t catch the 8.22 bus.
I’m almost at the main road when I hear the distant rumble of a double decker bus. Gah! Pushing myself and praying I don’t break an ankle in the stupid boots, I make a dash for it, gasping and rasping for breath as I sprint towards the bus stop. Yes! There’s a sizeable queue waiting to board, giving me a few more valuable seconds to reach the stop. This must be a good sign of things to come, surely, even if it means I’ll probably have to stand for the entire fifteen-minute journey.
I make it onto the bus, sweating despite the chill, and collapse onto the one remaining seat at the back. I take the available seat as another good sign of things to come, even if it is the seat in the middle, which means I spend the next fifteen minutes in fear of flying down the aisle of the bus every time we turn a corner or brake. I’m not catapulted from my seat (a third Good Sign) and the traffic is pretty smooth going (Good Sign #4), meaning I have plenty of time to get from the Piccadilly Gardens bus stop to the office without breaking another sweat. This is definitely a Good Day. I’m feeling so positive, I practically skip along Lever Street and offer my cheeriest of hellos to the barista as I step into my favourite independent coffee shop. I order three coffees – a gingerbread soya cappuccino, a cinnamon latte with whipped cream and brown sugar, and a salted caramel mocha. Spending my hard-earned cash on fancy coffees is a big indulgence for me, but I feel a Good Day like today deserves it, and so I barely whimper as I slot