Dubious Beginnings

By Liv Wright

Photography by Sharon McCutcheon & Charles DeLuvio, via Unsplash 

“But no one rioted last week,” he continues, “y’know, when whatshisface, that young journo kid, got stabbed outside the kebab shop.”

That’s because that young journo kid was white and the police immediately arrested the bloke that stabbed him, I think.

For a moment I’m not sure I’ll be able to suppress the reply that’s bubbling up from the pit of my stomach. Thankfully, I manage to stop myself before the insults fall from my tongue and instead of telling Dave that he should stop reading the Daily Mail and start engaging one of the brain cells he supposedly has tucked away in that bald head of his, I say:

“Mmm.”

Dave bulldozes on and I wonder desperately how a man who thought it was acceptable to hold a job interview in a greasy spoon managed to build a wildly successful construction empire that spans the entirety of Bedfordshire. He’s a Local Boy Done Good, is Dave. Left school at 14 to learn bricklaying from his dad, took over the family business at 18 and by 25 he employed more than 15 lads and had an office in the heart of Thorpley. He’s built pretty much every extension around here and as far as the locals are concerned, Dave deserves a knighthood. I can think of a few other things Dave deserved.

“And anyway,” says Dave, punctuating the last word with a violent squirt of ketchup. “Those little black boys in America — they had it coming I reckon.”

Dave finishes his limp bacon sandwich and turns his attention to my neglected hash browns. He opens his mouth to continue his tirade, while I concentrate on breathing evenly and controlling my facial expressions.

It had been Emma’s idea, this interview. “Look Beth,” she’d said matter of factly, snapping shut her book and peering over her glasses at me. “It’s not ideal, but it’s a job. What have you got to lose?”

My dignity, I’d thought bitterly, staring with determination into my packet of Wotsits. But Emma was right. It was a job — a writing job at that. Okay, so it was a job writing Facebook posts about cavity wall insulation for a sexist pig that had somehow convinced people to let him tear down and put up walls (not, I assume, at the same time), but it was a job nonetheless. I’d been unemployed for three months now and my pitiful savings had all but dried up. I needed to do something, fast. There were only so many fivers I could keep scrounging from Emma before she got fed up and traded me in for a newer, less financially dependent model.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I mumble under my breath.

“Wassat?” asks Dave, dipping my hash brown into a pool of bloody sauce and cramming it into his mouth.

“Oh. Nothing. Very interesting.” I tug at my pencil skirt and will the ground to swallow me up.

Dave continues on with his rant, oblivious to my thinly veiled disgust. I consider trying to explain structural racism and systematic oppression to my potential boss, but decide against it.

Dave continues on with his rant, oblivious to my thinly veiled disgust. I consider trying to explain structural racism and systematic oppression to my potential boss, but decide against it.

If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor, chimes a voice in my head.

Oh shut up, Desmond Tutu, I retort. I really bloody need this job, okay?

Desmond Tutu offers nothing in reply, presumably because there are no inspirational sayings about choosing between getting evicted from your house and working for a white supremacist.

I sigh quietly to myself, tuning out Dave’s cries of “Reverse racism” and “It’s political correctness gone mad” and think back to the email that started this all.

Hi Beth,

Please could you pop into the HR office when you get in? We’d like a quick word!

Thanks! 🙂

Liz

It had been a harmless email, by all accounts. Friendly, but brief. Nothing to suggest that life-changing conversations were to be had upon entry to the HR office. Or so I’d thought.

I sigh again and recall in agonisingly vivid detail the conversation I’d had three months ago.

Redundant. Not your fault. Absolutely no reflection of your ability. Needs must. One month’s salary, of course. It’s probably best if you just leave now, to be honest.

I’d cried when they told me. Not because I was particularly sad about leaving the company. If I was brutally honest, it was kind of a relief to know that I’d never have to have another awkward one-to-one with Richard or make painful small talk about jazz music with Cathy in Data. No, work was boring and the people were even duller. Leaving wasn’t the issue. I’d fantasized about leaving every single day for four years.

The issue was not having a fucking clue what to do next.

Everyone daydreams about what they’d do if they were unemployed. Start a novel. Finally organize the spare room. Say ‘sod it’ and go travelling like the 18-year-old you still are at heart. But daydreams are not a substitute for an actual, concrete plan for what to do when you find yourself without a job or any way of supporting yourself. The careers adviser at uni had never sat me down and said: “You need to plan for being 26 and suddenly unemployed.”

“Anyway,” booms Dave, wiping his sticky fingers on his tattered jeans and dragging me back to reality. “I think I’ve heard enough. You can start Monday, if you like.”

He grins, like some kind of knight in shining denim and I fight an intense urge to either vomit or scream. I consider scraping my chair back and running as fast as I can away from this man with his sexist jokes and calloused hands, but something has me glued to my seat. Maybe it’s the ‘fixer’ inside me, that believes with earnest she can save even the most misogynistic of pigs from their toxic masculinity. More likely it’s my rumbling stomach that’s crying out the be fed anything other than beans on toast. I hesitate for a moment.

On the one hand, I’m unemployed and here is a man offering me a job. On the other, said man makes me skin crawl and my palm itch.

Damned if I do, screwed if I don’t, I think.

“See you on Monday,” I say aloud.

***

When I arrive home two hours later, Emma’s already bought me a balloon and a bottle of fizz, because of course she has. In fact, I suspect she bought the gifts two and a half months ago, after my very first interview and in that moment, I adore her and her absolute blind faith in me. She greets me with a kiss and squeal (in that order) and I try not to cry.

“Oh Beth, this is SUCH great news!” she enthuses, ushering me through the front door. “We should celebrate. I could cook! We could get a takeaway! LET’S GO TO THE PUB!”

I laugh at her giddy joy as she drags me into the living room and the promptly burst into tears when I spot the banner hanging above the fireplace. In typical Emma fashion she’s got one of those baby gender reveal banners from the party shop and crossed out the word boy, so the glittering blue words on the wall gleefully read ‘CONGRATULATIONS! IT’S A BOY JOB!”

Emma looks briefly terrified at my sudden outburst of emotion before she pulls me in for a hug and strokes me hair. I sob for what feels like an hour, while the emotions of the last three months hit me, each one a painful jab in the ribs.

Emma looks briefly terrified at my sudden outburst of emotion before she pulls me in for a hug and strokes me hair. I sob for what feels like an hour, while the emotions of the last three months hit me, each one a painful jab in the ribs.

Whenever anyone had asked about being unemployed, I’d joked brightly about being a lady of leisure. But the truth is, being jobless sucks — and no number of ‘funemployment’ jokes can change that. For 13 weeks, I’d waved Emma off to work, secretly (and after a while, not no secretly) jealous of her routine and regular salary. For 13 weeks, I’d scoured Indeed and Monster and even the cesspit that is LinkedIn, wading through adverts for unpaid internships and underpaid entry level jobs that I was overqualified for. For 13 weeks, I’d felt my heart flip every time the red badge appeared on my Mail app and for 13 weeks, I’d winced at every rejection (that is, when they even bothered to send a rejection).

Don’t get me wrong, it was great at first. For the first couple of weeks I lazily updated my CV in the advert breaks of Pointless and irritated Emma with GIFs and selfies while she tried to get on with her day job. But after a while, the boredom set in and as my bank balance began to dwindle it hit me that life without a job is pretty damn bleak.

I try to explain all this to Emma now, in between my cries of “No really, I’m fine. I don’t know why I’m crying,” but I’m pretty sure my giant tears and snotty nose have rendered me unintelligible.

“I know babe, I know,” she soothes. “But it’s over now. It’s done.”

I weep into her shoulder for a few more moments, before pulling away and wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. Mascara smears across my face and I sniff dramatically while Emma smooths down my hair.

“Come on babe, let’s go open this fizz and celebrate.”

I follow her into the kitchen like an obedient puppy and sniff some more as she retrieves two dusty champagne flutes from the back of a cupboard. I laugh despite myself. Those champagne flutes were a gift from my mother when same-sex marriage was legalized.  Emma had found it hilarious, but I’d been mortified. We’d only been dating for six months and already my mother was not-so-subtly hinting at marriage. I’d tried to take them to the charity shop, but Emma had insisted we keep them. They’d been residing in the back of her (later, our) ‘odds and sods’ cupboard ever since.

Emma opens the bottle of fizz (“It was only 12 quid from Sainsbury’s!”) with a pop and pours us both a generous glass. “Here’s to you, babe,” she says, clinking my own glass. “Here’s to a new chapter.”

That’s Em,” I say with a watery smile. “For the prosecco, for the banner. For putting up with me for the past three months. For everything. Really.” I take a gulp of my drink before the tears can start again. Emma grins and hops up onto the counter.

“Come on then. What was it like? The interview?”

“Oh my god, it was AWFUL.” I shudder, but all the tension and horror from earlier has evaporated with the bubbles. Now, in the warm light of our cosy kitchen, the interview feels less traumatic and more farcical; like a dinner-party anecdote that has you cringing and squirming and laughing all at once. I remember the words of one of my favourite writers: This too shall be funny. “Like, ‘Jesus Christ please kill me now’ awful.” I giggle at the memories, whose sharp edges are already dulling and proceed to re-enact the interview in all its painful, but hilarious, glory.

“Wait, so he actually did the whole All Lives Matter thing?” Emma asks, gobsmacked. “I thought those people only existed on Twitter!”

“I know, I couldn’t believe it either!”

“Could’ve been worse, I suppose,” she says, downing the last of her bubbles. “He could have mentioned the Homosexual Agenda or something.”

“Oh god, can you imagine.” I join Emma and down the rest of my fizz. But then something dawns on me. “Oh crap. Emma!”

“Mmm?”

“Dave doesn’t know I’m gay?”

“So?” she says, pouring us both another glass of prosecco.

“So, he’s already a sexist, racist twat. What if he fires me when he realizes I’m queer?”

The prosecco suddenly tastes bitter on my tongue and the bubbles expand and pop in my stomach, leaving me nauseous. A familiar lump starts to form at the back of my throat. Images flash before my eyes. Dave finding out I’m bi. Dave making jokes about my sexuality. Dave deciding I’m not a good fit for his building empire after all. I put down my glass with a defeated ting. My new chapter is over before it’s even begun.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” says Emma as she hops down from the counter. “Dave’s a knob, but even he wouldn’t break employment law so brazenly.” She wraps me in her arms for the second time this evening. “You’re worrying about nothing.”

“You don’t know that,” I say into her shoulder.

She pulls away from the hug and looks me squarely in the eye. “Babe, you survived coming out to your uber-Christian parents at the age of 14. You survived being the only bisexual in your school. You’ve survived countless wankers telling you that you’re greedy or a slut or confused. You can survive this.”

“I’ve just got this job, I can’t face losing it immediately,” I whisper. “I can’t go back to being unemployed.” I wish I could feel as confident as Emma, but something about Dave makes me feel like a scared teenager all over again; makes me want to jump right back into the closet and lock the door.

Emma takes my hands and gives them a squeeze. “Beth, you have two options here. You can hide your sexuality at work and go back to being a scared, closeted child. Or you can walk into the office on Monday morning and loudly tell anyone who’ll listen that you’re a kickass bisexual with the world’s sexiest girlfriend. Sure, you might get the sack. But which one will feel worse in the long run? Losing a job you’re only taking for the money, or losing your identity?”

I sigh. She’s probably right. Obviously, she’s right. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Emma in the four and a half years we’ve been together, it’s that she’s always bloody right — even when you don’t want her to be. Especially when you don’t want her to be.

“I suppose,” I mumble.

“There’s no suppose about it.” She smiles at me and the lump in my throat begins to melt.

“Now come on, let’s go to the pub.”