There is a very long forwarded message from somebody called James Masters who wants to welcome us to publishing house HQ. There are a lot of words that concern me, like merger, consolidation, and acquisition which I think are best left until the morning and a clear head. I am more than a trifle concerned about the bit buried between the welcome and the Christmas wishes that mentions ‘slimming down’ and the need for some roles to go during the reorganisation (isn’t it a shame it’s not so easy for a person? A company can just chisel off and bin the bits it doesn’t want. I don’t want to be binned, but some parts of my bottom may benefit from this approach as I am rather pear-shaped). The words ‘voluntary redundancy’ and ‘flexible attitude towards suitable positions’ have also set my pulse pounding – should I take a redundancy offer and seek out a better job, or risk ‘flexibility’ meaning I could end up with the promotion I deserve?

There are also lots of attachments, including one ominously titled ‘Application Form’. I think it’s time to move on and look at my other messages, I am not in a fit state for attachments.

I also have an email from Eva, who sits across the desk from me. She excels at passive/aggressive and manages to reassure me that there will be a place in the new organisation for such a young dynamic person as myself, whilst making it clear that if I really was dynamic, I’d be working somewhere else already. Brian (desk in the corner) chips in with an invite for drinks between Boxing Day and New Year’s Day – for us to discuss strategy and possible legal action (think he’s jumping the gun a bit there), and there is a rather formal email hoping I got home safely, wishing me well and offering his services from somebody called Oz, which confuses me. Am I being headhunted? Should I move down under? Is he a stalker? Then after blinking a couple of times I realise it is from O. Z. Cartwright. Ollie.

It is rather nice of him to get in touch, but I’m not quite sure how he can help.

And why isn’t he busy bonking his girlfriend? Maybe she passed out before he had chance, unless sex is the one thing he’s not good at and it only lasted thirty seconds. Which would be tragic but explain the rapid turnover rate.

Bugger, I have to stop thinking about Ollie and sex. But what the frig am I going to do now?

Apart from wondering what the ‘Z’ stands for? I never knew Ollie had a middle name, if he ever comes to another Christmas party, I must remember to ask what it is.

I can’t help myself, I can’t wait until next year! I fire off an email thanking him for his good wishes and asking if his middle name is Zebedee or Ziggy. Either would be quite funny.

I decide it is time to close my laptop and go to sleep. My last thought as I pull my duvet up to my chin, is that I’m bloody glad I didn’t suck up to David this morning and beg for a better job before he dropped the bombshell.

5 a.m., Christmas Day, can’t sleep

Reasons this newspaper merger is a disaster:

1 The new office is miles away from the old office, and therefore my flat

2 My savings are practically non-existent and will run out soon so if they don’t take me on, I am screwed

3 Winter has to be the worst time of the year to find a new job if I fail to keep my job (or apply for voluntary redundancy)

4 I am rubbish at filling in application forms and interviews. (I tend to start to answer a question, veer off course and forget what it was. I also get panic attacks, sweaty palms and hiccups when under pressure.)

Reasons this merger could be a triumph (always be positive):

1 I could get a pay rise

2 I could get a new, better role

3 I no longer have to work with letchy David, though pass-agg-Eva and Brian-the-pessimist might also apply for their jobs back

4 This could be a new start, a start I choose rather than one that has happened by accident. And there will be more openings.

Issues – the triumph bit is littered with ‘could’s; I could quite easily end up with no job at all, or one even worse than the one I had up until yesterday.

I put my mobile down and curl up under the duvet again. The flat is quiet, Frankie will be with Tarquin, in some luxury hotel, celebrating in style.

‘We’ll be doing that next year.’ I tell Stanley, who is curled up against my feet. He wags his tail lazily, to show he’s listening. ‘Well, you’ll have your furever home, in some big house with a massive garden. I’m not quite sure what I’ll have.’

I lie back and close my eyes, but I can’t stop thinking about my job. Or lack of it. So I pick my phone up again.

There is a new email from Ollie: ‘Sorry to disappoint, nothing as amusing as Ziggy – it’s Zane. Rgds Ollie.’

I wonder if he always writes such formal emails?

‘Not a disappointment!’ It is. ‘Is it a family name? Best wishes, Daisy’ – I did write ‘Love Daisy’, but then decided that was a bit too familiar for somebody who says ‘Rgds’.

‘No idea! Night. O’

‘Good night!’

I wait a few moments to see if he sends any more messages, and when he doesn’t I open the email from James Masters.

Maybe my first step in proving to everybody (including myself) that I can be a success, is to challenge my caretaker boss and demand better a better job immediately?

5.30 a.m., 25 December

Still can’t sleep. Keep wondering about what might have happened if there had actually been some mistletoe in my snug in the bookshop when Ollie had squeezed in beside me.

This is not a good way to think.

1 He has a girlfriend (can’t see it lasting though).

2 I still kind of have a boyfriend, I think. Not sure if cancelled Christmas = cancelled relationship, or if he might want to see me again.

3 Our lives have gone in different directions, we are no longer compatible. At all. Whatever my mother thinks. He is smug and insufferable, and I hate him. Though he was very kind earlier.

Bugger! How can he be so annoying and taking up so much of my head space when he has nothing to do with me and my life? I pull the duvet right up to my ears, feeling stroppy.

He was very kind though, and I was tempted to kiss him.

I curl up, and realise I’m smiling.

It was the way he looked into my eyes, as though he understood me. As though he knew. For a moment I was the old Daisy, the teenage Daisy, the one he’d snogged.

He really does have very kissable lips, and a cute dimple, and eyes I could lose myself in …

Chapter 6

1 p.m., 25 December

‘You’ll find something.’ Mum says, even though I haven’t mentioned my possible jobless state. ‘You always do, you’re resourceful, and your adverts are wonderful, they’d be silly to let you go. Stir the gravy will you, darling.’

I stir the gravy. ‘Everybody has to relocate though, to the head office. Ours is closing.’

‘How sad, I wonder what it will be?’

‘What, Mum?’

‘The office! I wonder what will happen to your office when it’s closed, they’ll turn it into a trendy bar I imagine. Stir harder darling, there are lumps.’

‘I could sieve it?’

‘See, I said you were resourceful. Now, sprouts, will they make Stanley smell?’

‘Stanley?’ He looks up hopefully at the sounds of his name, he’s been lurking in the kitchen since we arrived and doing his best to trip Mum up.

‘Well I’m serving him a dinner as well dear, he is your plus one after all!’ She’s being rather upbeat about all my shortcomings today. I give her a quick hug and she gives me a bigger one back. ‘Now where did I put that slotted spoon, where is it then?’

‘Here.’ I pick up the spoon which she’s placed ready in front of herself.

‘Oh, not that, silly. I meant where is the new office?’

She does this, jumps between conversations. She’ll leave one unfinished, then half an hour later carry it on as though there’s not been a break.

‘The email said most of the jobs will be in Stavington.’

‘That’s a long way, darling. Who do we know there? I’m sure we know somebody who lives there. It will come to me. Just pop that cranberry sauce in the microwave, will you?’

Stavington is a long way. If I carry on living with Frankie and commute all the way to Stavington, I’ll be spending nearly all of my paltry salary on train fares – or polluting the countryside with my car.

Which means moving there, if the pay is good enough for me to afford a flat, because I haven’t a clue who my mother is thinking about. We don’t know anybody who lives in Stavington.

Oh my God! I’ll be finally leaving home if they offer me a job.

I mean, I know I don’t actually live at home, I do live with Frankie. But I’m practically on the doorstep.

This is different.

I’ll be moving on with my life, like I’d always thought I would. I put the sauce into the microwave with a clatter and press a few buttons. I won’t be living in this village any longer, it will be a fresh start somewhere else. This is a positive I hadn’t thought about.

A scary positive. I will be totally independent, a proper adult.

‘Daisy, Daisy, darling, I don’t think it should be bubbling like lava should it?’

‘Oh shit, sorry, no.’ I ping the door open and stare at the sauce, mesmerised as it flows over the top of the bowl.

‘Is everything okay, darling?’ Mum presses a dishcloth into my hand and squeezes my shoulder. ‘It will be okay, I know it will. You’ll sort it all out.’

I glance at her, and she nods encouragingly.

If I move away, I’ll be further from Mum, just as she’s started to support me more, just as I’ve started to realise that despite the competitive banter with Vera, she does really care. She does believe in me.

I’ll miss her.

‘It’s not that far away really, just far enough.’ It’s almost like she’s read my mind, like she used to when I was little. Well, at least I thought she was a mind-reader back then. ‘It’s rather exciting, isn’t it? Do you think I’ve done enough sprouts?’

I nod, then smile. It is. My stomach is churning a bit, and I do feel all jittery and nervous, but it is exciting. This could be my turning point, my fresh start.

‘Now if you don’t wipe that up quickly it’ll be stickier than a flypaper!’

‘Sorry?’ I frown at her.

‘The sauce darling! It will set like toffee, you’ll have to scrape it off the sides, oh my goodness, the gravy!’

The rest of Christmas day passes in a bit of a blur. It’s hard to fully appreciate cracker jokes when your future is held in the balance. Although I have to admit I had totally forgotten how much fun pin the tail on the donkey can be after two brandy and Babychams, and a snowball consisting mainly of Advocaat. Maybe retro really is the way to go.

ACT 2 – NEW YEAR, NEW ME

Chapter 7

11.57 p.m., 21 March 2018

The last few months have been a bit of a nightmare, I feel like I am dangling in hyperspace. My life has been suspended, while I wait to see what Guardian HQ has in store for me.

In January, we were moved into a much smaller office, just up the road from our old office, with a much bigger temporary boss. She’s enormous, has chin hair, and is very stern and serious. I think she’d rather be in Stavington reporting on speeding offences and petty crime, than here featuring the village fête and looking for lost gerbils.

She also isn’t that keen on my funny small ads (‘Is humour really necessary?’) or enquiries about my future (‘We’ve all been there, just cope. Is that really how you spell Chihuahua?’). In fact, let’s face it. She’s a grumpy cow.

I did in fact mention this to Ollie, who has been sending me the odd email (and some of them are very odd) since Uncle T’s party, asking how things are going. It’s a bit like when we were kids and he’d leave a note in my locker saying ‘I’ll beat you next time’ if I’d got a higher test score than him.

Except now he says things like:

Hi, Daisy,

I hope you told her that humour is always necessary. A Daisy without her cheeky, funny side, is like a cow without an udder – there’s something essential and life-affirming missing.

Oll.

Hi, Ollie,

Did you really just liken me to an udderly useless bovine?

Dais

Daisy,

Ha-ha. I did. Did I ever tell you Uncle T used to have a Jersey cow called Daisy? It was a creature of beauty.

Oll

No, but I’m not sure where this is going. I think you should stop before I get moo-dy. Aren’t there any lives you need to rush off and save right now?

Daisy

Daisy,

You’re no fun. If you’d have known her, you’d have loved her. Your namesake. I think I’ll press the mooote button now though!

Oll

You’ve been looking these jokes up on the internet haven’t you? D x

I’ll have you know they’re all my own work! O x’

Followed up swiftly by:

Unlike the list of one-liners you helped me compile in Year 1 so I could woo Jasmine Smith. You’re the only person I’ve ever known who solved everything with a list and a military precision plan! Sorry, bleepers gone off, need to don my cape and save lives. Good luck with the interview, not that you ever needed luck! O x

I think they might have sent the caretaker boss in so that we all quit our jobs, but I am made of sterner stuff.

Okay, I did think about it briefly. But as I’ve only been here a few months, have zilch experience and might appear to be jumping ship before I’m sacked, I have decided that my immediate future might lie with the newspaper. Although if they refuse to give me a better job, I might need a rethink. But I have been gritting my teeth and waiting to see if my new boss, James Masters is going to give me a job. And not just any job, but a better job than I had before. I am going to demand it, and I am going to get it.

All I have to do is survive the small matter of an interview.

After a bottle or three of wine with Frankie this evening, though, I do now know how to sort my life! It’s simple.

1 I must be more organised; and

2 I must try harder; and

3 I must be more like Frankie – who definitely has her shit together. When Frankie decides to go for something, not even an apocalypse would stand in her way.

4 p.m., 22 March

I look down at what I was sure (last night – after rather large quantities of wine) was the solution.

Books.

I have downloaded lots of books.

Now I am not so sure.

I mean, I’m sure about books in general. I have lots of them, I could start a library. But they are fiction. These are different. These are self-help books. I mean, self-help, that’s exactly what I’ve decided to do, isn’t it? Help myself. But this is going to be like scaling Everest when all I need is a few highlights, a few challenging peaks that I can fit into a mini-break.

Reading this lot will take me hours, and that’s before I even start to implement the suggestions.

I drop my e-reader and flop back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Why do non-fiction books have so many words in them? There is obviously a gap in the market, people need How to get your shit together in 3 easy steps – with pictures! If I ever do get my shit together and have time, I will write this book. It will be a bestseller and help millions of people.

These bloody books have actually made my situation worse and I have just wasted another two hours of my life flicking through them on my Kindle, when I could have been planning my interview strategy. According to the books, a strategy is important. I need to write it down and then visualise. I totally get the strategy bit, I’m pretty sure the teenage me had a plan and strategy, as Ollie said, for everything. A subconscious one. But the visualisation is a new one on me.

And on top of the books, yesterday’s email from Ollie didn’t help either. It pushed me to the edge and made me think something more drastic was needed. Well, that and knowing that I would soon have to go for my interview, and then face my family and all their expectations. And Ollie. Who wished me luck at my interview. I’m not sure how he even knew, but you know what my mum is like, she tells Vera everything.

Anyway, seeing his perfect life was made ten tons worse at Christmas. And not only has he totally got his shit together, and it’s not parental exaggeration, he is also still quite nice. If he’d been a twat at Uncle T’s party, I could at least have consoled myself with the fact that being perfect comes at a price.

But he isn’t. And it doesn’t.

I can’t carry on letting everybody, and myself, down though. I am going to do whatever it takes to succeed at something truly boast-worthy!

I am going to stay calm, I am sure that ‘calm’ is key, in my bid to conquer this year (and possibly the rest of my life). It will be my year, the year I stop disappointing everybody (including myself) and be the me I am supposed to be. I am in fact going to conquer the rest of my life.

I’ve realised that I am allowed to fuck up, to be sad, angry or unsure, but I am also going to be a better me. The me I knew I could be when I was still at school – with a few adjustments of course. The one with a flat of her own (or at least a proper sized room), a wardrobe with more than two items that match, tamed hair, and a career plan. I am going to be an adult and commit (where possible, as living on a shoestring because of a crap salary does not help me in being more like Frankie).

I do have the answer to all my problems. The books have indirectly helped, so they weren’t a complete waste of money, as has Ollie.

The answer is simple. It is something I already knew. It is better lists. I have always been a fan of lists and have never been able to break the habit. But I can see now that they need to be more detailed. And I need plans. They will be prioritised and have timescales. This year I will be planning Christmas in July. I will be rediscovering my inner teenage geek – the one who always had a plan, even if she didn’t realise it at the time.

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