The Lonely Fajita

The Lonely Fajita

ABIGAIL MANN

One More Chapter

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Abigail Mann 2020

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover image © Shutterstock.com

Abigail Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008408183

Ebook Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008393687

Version: 2020-02-13

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

About This Book

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

For all the women who offered a hand down to pull another up.

About This Book

This ebook meets all accessibility requirements and standards.

Chapter 1

I’ve come to accept that I am honestly and truly terrible at my job. Like, seriously bad. Until recently, I thought I’d naturally ‘come into my own’, like one of those women who gesticulate wildly in front of a flip chart with red nails and swishy hair fresh from the blow bar. I’ve had jobs where I’ve been decidedly average, like the bakery gig I had at university (I overstuffed the baguettes), or the two bar shifts I managed at the campus club (I self-diagnosed sleep deprivation and had to quit), but never wholly incompetent. Ironically, I’m not even earning a wage at this internship and it’s where I feel most out of my depth.

I look down at the notes I made on the tube this morning and feel a lurch in my stomach like I’ve driven over a humpback bridge. How it’s possible to interpret these blunt scribbles into a meaningful report about the past week’s social media engagement is entirely beyond me. But last week I sat through a three-hour-long webinar on Big Data without slipping into a coma, so I can surely get through this. When it comes to anything digital, my only saving grace is that my boss Mitchell knows less about social metrics than I do, which is really saying something.

Adam, who has worn flip-flops and a salmon-pink polo shirt throughout winter, is coming to what I think is the end of his presentation. He’s slightly sweaty and puffy-looking under the glare of the projector lamp. I shift on my yoga ball, which squeaks like a fart and makes my heartbeat quicken. Suki is the only one who breaks into a smile from across the desks, which have been wheeled in front of Mitchell’s glass cube of an office. This is the ‘conference zone’ and it’s a sign that we have to switch into ‘serious mode’. The rest of the time we’re in ‘self-governed workplace allocation’, which basically means ‘sort yourselves out and don’t fucking bother me’.

‘I made progress, yeah. They were just about tugging me off for another meeting next week, so I’ll get on that, Mitch.’ Whilst Adam talks, he pulses his hips. Eurgh. If I did that, it would definitely be considered indecent.

Last night, Adam took two Indonesian investors to a Hoxton-based craft-beer brewery followed by crazy golf and penalty shots, which, according to him, isn’t the reason I was swapped into today’s early-morning conference call with our developers in San Francisco.

My phone, which I’ve placed over a shopping list I’d been writing, buzzes loudly and scurries a centimetre or two across my notebook. This doesn’t bother the rest of Lovr’s seven employees, who are all scrolling through digitised notes, but it does make Mitchell glance from my phone to my paper, which he looks at with a slight twitch. A few months before I got here Mitchell gave an impassioned presentation on the necessity of going paperless, influenced in no way by Louis, the successful Stanford dropout and CEO next door, who had done the exact same thing earlier in the week. So thoroughly applied is this new ethos that Rachael, who works on the front desk, meets the postman every morning on the pavement outside and types up anything worthy enough to ping over in an email.

As it buzzes once more because I didn’t pick it up the first time, I slide the phone onto my lap and unlock it. In the darkened room, my face is upwardly lit with the light from my screen and I catch my concertina of chins staring back at me as I accidentally switch the front camera on. I jab at the screen to open my messages and glance up at Suki, who watches Adam with her chin propped up on a fist. Without catching my eye, she gives a slight Mona Lisa smile.

Her message reads,

Do you think Adam purposely wore shorts that show his ball sack to best advantage or is this a happy accident?

I try to suppress the laugh I’m holding in my ribcage and instead trace the outline of my lower lip with my finger in an attempt to look appropriately thoughtful. Rhea – our infuriatingly competent PR manager – starts nodding, so I nod too.

Adam clicks through to his last slide, which shows a stock photo of two suited executives grinning like maniacs whilst shaking hands. He lifts one foot onto a chair that he’s swivelled round to face him in what he likely thinks is a ‘power pose’, but instead causes everyone’s gaze to drop three feet to his eye-level bulge. I bite my lip and try going back to my grocery list. I don’t really feel like adding to it now. Of all the long hours spent in this room, this has surely been the longest.

‘People do business with people, guys,’ Adam says with an expression of mock pride, ‘especially if those people are three Jägerbombs down and have scored a hole in one!’

Another buzz. Suki has sent a string of green ‘sick’ emojis. I slowly shake my head and purse my lips, focusing on the corner of the ceiling.

Mitchell, notoriously unpredictable in his reaction to these briefings, is silent for a moment. Looking down at his highly polished brogues, he chuckles and waggles his finger at Adam as though he’s a cheeky grandson who has taken an extra chocolate biscuit. ‘Good man, good man. You’re seeing Gabrielle and Raj from Pound tomorrow?’

‘Yes, boss,’ Adam says, thankfully now sitting on the edge of his seat. He crosses his ankle onto his thigh, flip-flop bouncing against the sole of his foot. ‘Drinks in the Sky Garden then press night with the British Olympic boxing team – my mate over at Red Bull sorted us some passes.’ Adam pouts and smugly leans back against the springs of his chair. God, I hate him.

Suki, in what I now recognise is her version of an eye roll, blinks rapidly and pulls her face into a vacant smile. A meet and greet with boxers? How Adam’s overeager public-school lisping, and a clear sense of the obligations owed to him by others, works in any way other than to expose his brazen arrogance is beyond me. Mind you, Mitchell believes and talks bullshit in equal proportions. It’s like they speak the same language.

Do you think he’ll wear closed shoes for that?

I message Suki, tapping on my phone under the table. Within seconds, it buzzes back a reply.

High tops and his Yeezy shirt – he’ll want to make a good impression, obvs.

I smirk, looking down at my nails still half covered in a shellac manicure I’d paid for with a Harvey Nichols gift card, courtesy of Mum. The midnight-blue polish is now scuffed and waxy, but I can’t afford to have it taken off, so I’m letting it grow out. Another couple of weeks should do it.

Just when I think Rhea might announce coffee, and thus the end of the meeting, Mitchell turns to me with his chin held in the air. ‘You’re up, darlin’.’

Like always, I choose to ignore his slightly sexist introduction. Instead I think back to last Thursday, remembering how utterly miserable it was. In an attempt at ‘market research’, I’d set up a little ‘dating booth’ in Waterloo station (a table for two, an M&S picnic selection, and a ten-minute timer), and although my presumption that singles would be lured by a mini lamb kofta was right, my hope that they would feel an obligation to stay and chat was wishful thinking. One guy didn’t even bother sitting down. At one stage, I was actually lunging for commuters as they walked past – which I’m sure is harassment of some kind – and a group of secondary-school kids swiped handfuls of pretzels whilst my back was turned.

‘Yes, thanks, Mitchell.’ I am going to be sick. Today is the day I am going to vomit on someone.

I bounce myself up and off my ball and side-step once, just behind Jonathon, purely so I don’t have to see his face as I talk.

‘Do you need the projector, Elissa?’ he says with a half-smile, using this moment to comb his hair along the ruler-straight line of his parting.

‘No thanks, Jonathon, I’ve got it all here.’ I flop my notebook a little too enthusiastically in my hand. Deep breath. ‘So, the pop-up Lovr stall in Waterloo had a really strong reception from the public.’ Not a lie. Not technically a lie. ‘And we had constant footfall next to the booth, which is great for brand exposure.’ Of course there was footfall; it’s literally the busiest train station in London. ‘We had fourteen couples take part in spontaneous dates whilst we were there.’ A bicycle courier stayed on for five dates, asked me to watch his bike, and chomped on antipasti for the best part of an hour. ‘And seventeen of them downloaded Lovr to start chatting with the person they’d had a date with.’ Okay, this one’s a flat-out lie. They’d signed up because I said they’d get a push notification when we’d be there with free food again. Half of them had deleted the app in the hours that followed when they were prompted to fill out a profile.

‘Seventeen?’ Mitchell says, looking at me over the rim of his glasses, which I’m pretty sure aren’t prescription.

‘Er, yes. Yes. Seventeen.’ I glance down at my notes, half expecting a number to magically appear that would sound more impressive. I have circled two figures, neither of which are seventeen, and one has a heavily pencilled question mark next to it. Thank you, Past Elissa. Very useful.

‘Because if it was seventeen, not every couple signed up. So where’s that extra person come from?’ Mitchell asks. Jonathon slips into a wry smile and presses his fingertips together in a pyramid. Shit.

‘Um, well—’

‘An interrupted download could account for the mismatched figures. This has happened over at MeowCall in the past when users are hooked into public WiFi networks. What I did notice –’ Suki swipes quickly on her iPad, her mouth pursed to one side and her cheekbones sharp in the uplighting from the screen, ‘– is that conversion rates from first and second connection users had a sharp increase in the hours that followed Elissa’s pop-up.’ She looks around the room expectantly. ‘Which is a sign that those who came across the booth told friends and acquaintances about the app, and they in turn downloaded. That kind of traffic is a far more valuable metric of engagement, because it’s word of mouth.’ God bless you, Suki. I have no idea what she’s talking about, or if it’s even true, but by Christ I could lean over and kiss her beautiful bald head.

I adjust my stance and put a hand on my hip, closing my notebook with a twang of elastic. Mitchell is nodding, which doesn’t mean I’m entirely in the clear, as his facial expression rarely matches his mood. But then he traces a circle on his tablet and the office solar shades oscillate to let daylight in. I mouth ‘thank you’ to Suki, who sticks her tongue out in way of reply.

Jonathon gets up with such alacrity that his yoga ball bounces out of its chair frame as he strides towards the kitchen. ‘Drink tonight?’ Suki says as she slots her iPad into the pocket of her lime-green dungarees. The tech team have been moved up to the second floor as a better access point for the six start-ups that share The Butcher Works, a co-working space with a very expensive postcode. As a result, Suki and I don’t see each other every day any more. I’m glad I got to know her when we shared a desk, because she’s way too cool for me and I would never have approached her if I hadn’t seen her playing Neopets when I know she was meant to be editing code.

‘I can’t. Tom’s heading off on a Vegas stag do tomorrow and I should really get home to see him.’

Suki pulls a face at me and makes a gameshow ‘whamp-whamp’ noise.

I do love Suki. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever met and is so perceptive. When Mitchell or Jonathon have said something really tactless, or I’ve accidentally deleted all my scheduled tweets, Suki is there, pinging me an inappropriate emoji or giving me an excuse to go upstairs to the break-out space for a bit of venting. She’s mentioned going out before, or has loosely asked if I’ll join her at a Saturday-morning HIIT gym in Hoxton, but the actual invite rarely follows. We became chummy really quickly, but I’ve only seen her once or twice outside of work and she often cancels plans at the last minute. She’s always popping up on my feeds doing something fun, usually on a Saturday night when I’m halfway through a tub of Nutella. If she knew how little I had going on in my life outside of this building, I worry she’d drift even more.

‘Hang on, isn’t it your birthday soon?’

‘Yeah … wait, what’s the date?’ I say.

Suki perches on the front of Adam’s desk, leans backwards with enviable core control, and wiggles the desktop mouse. ‘The sixteenth.’

The sixteenth? Well, that’s crept up.

‘Christ, it’s tomorrow,’ I admit. ‘Twenty-six. Had to think about that for a second.’

‘How could you forget?’ says Suki, slinging an arm across my shoulders.

‘I’m not sure. I’ve already had my birthday present from Tom, so I’ve not been looking forward to anything. Like an “event event”, you know?’

‘Right, that’s it then. It’s decided.’ Suki thumps me triumphantly on the chest like we’re about to run onto a football pitch. ‘We’re going to Snatch on Saturday.’

‘That’s your favourite club, not mine.’

‘You say that now, but when you’re grinding along to 90s hip-hop without any dudes trying to grab your arse, it’ll be your favourite as well,’ says Suki. She bites her tongue between her teeth and clicks her fingers, rolling her body as she walks backwards towards the office kitchen.

‘That does sound good.’

‘So, it’ll be me, you, Jazz—’

‘What happened to Fiona?’

‘Ah, we broke up. Long story. Your friend, what’s her name? The teacher?’

‘Maggie?’

‘Yeah, Maggie. Get her along. And your other friends, whoever!’ Suki lowers her voice. ‘Shall we invite Mitchell?’ she says, wiggling her eyebrows.

‘God, no!’ I laugh, racking my brain to think of these ‘other friends’ I supposedly have. Suki shoves a filter in the coffee machine and tips in an alarming mound of ground coffee beans.

‘Mine first for a cheeky drink and then I’m popping your Snatch cherry,’ she says.

I’m trying to think of reasons why I couldn’t, or shouldn’t, go. Other than the obvious: the fact that I’m already in my overdraft and won’t be able to afford more than a lime soda. Then again, the thought of cooking a two-person packet of tortellini, promising I’ll save half for lunch the next day, then eating it and going into a carb coma whilst watching the Keira Knightley version of Pride and Prejudice, is too much to bear. Fuck it. I’ll take Suki’s offer of poorly mixed cocktails and a lesbian club.

Chapter 2

My stomach grumbles and gripes as I walk up the steps of Stockwell station. I’m itching to stop at the deli on the way back to the flat for one of those sausage rolls that turn the paper bag see-through, but I really, really can’t. I’ve already spent my daily budget on a double-shot coffee, a pastry that stopped me being hungry for about ten seconds, and the miso soup that stood in for a proper lunch. Unless it is liquid-based and devoid of all nutrition, I swear it is impossible to buy lunch in London for under a tenner. It’s madness. Once, I was tempted to pick up a token for a ‘pay it forward’ coffee, but those are for actual homeless people.

I had an idea to cook a fancy dinner for Tom from scratch, and I even looked up a recipe on the internet during the slow hour between three and four, but I left the print-out at work and, to be honest, I lost the will somewhere between Old Street and Oval.

I nod at the man who runs the corner shop underneath our place and go to unlock the door, the metal scratching and grating from a cheap, poorly cut key. Although undignified, there’s a real knack to it. You have to tease it in, flirt with the lock, if you will, and then quickly jerk the key round whilst furiously rattling the handle. I must be lucky today; the door opens on the fourth attempt and I’ve only sworn once.

When I get inside, the smell of burnt cumin hangs in the hallway and I can hear Yaz tapping a utensil along to the beat of a Primal Scream track from behind the closed kitchen door. Down the corridor, our bedroom door is ajar. I chuck my scarf in the direction of the coat rack, miss, and kick it to the skirting board instead. Tom’s hiking rucksack is propped up against the bed, a row of folded outfits lined up on the duvet, complete with socks and a rolled-up pair of underpants for each day he’ll be away.

‘Still refusing to use a suitcase?’ I say, opening the wardrobe to pull on a jumper. The office carpet that runs through the flat feels cold, almost damp, underfoot.

‘What?’ he says, scratching behind his ear in irritation.

‘Your rucksack? For a stag trip?’

‘Yeah, well, I’m going with the lads, aren’t I?’ he replies, as though this explains it.

‘Ah, of course. What was I thinking?’

He doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm and instead sits on the bed with a travel-sized bottle pinched between his knees. ‘Can you pass me the shower gel?’ he says, holding out a hand. I turn and pick up a tube of sea-salt and black-pepper body wash that I’ve long since been banned from using because it’s ‘manly and expensive’. When he takes it from me, his hand slides up my forearm and he pecks me so briefly that I hover stupidly, mouth open, preparing for a deeper kiss that never arrives.

‘Hello then,’ I say, squatting down to look under the bed for my slipper socks.

‘Hey. Sorry, I’m just trying to get everything sorted so I don’t wake you up later. You all right?’

‘Yeah, fine. I was thinking stir-fry for dinner. And cheesecake.’ Tom frowns and lifts things up one by one from the bed, looking for something.

‘I ate already. With Ben, after work. I told you about it yesterday, remember?’

He didn’t.

‘Oh, right. I thought it might have been nice to eat together, seeing as you’re going away,’ I say, trying not to sound hurt that he’s ditched me and my offer of slightly dry ribboned carrot and sweaty noodles. ‘And … it’s my birthday tomorrow, so, yeah.’

‘It would have been nice, sure, but I had a load of stuff to sort out at work and I needed to talk over some logistics with Ben.’ Ah, logistics. That delightful turn of phrase that could, quite literally, mean anything. ‘We had last weekend, didn’t we?’

‘Hmm,’ I reply, thinking back to my ‘birthday meal’, which wasn’t the all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant I’d been hinting at for weeks, but curry night at the local pub – a real treat, especially when the boxing came on. If I wanted to see two blokes fighting for an audience, I’d get the night bus more often.

I run my hands along his shoulders, pushing his knees apart to place myself squarely between them, his head level with the waistband of my jeans. He looks up and I hold his gaze with doe eyes, silently willing him to hold me by the hips, to pull me down onto his perfectly folded t-shirt collection, but instead he frowns and is, if anything, embarrassed.

He taps my leg with one hand.

‘Can you move? I need to get my shoes.’

I don’t answer immediately. Tom raises one eyebrow and I have an overwhelming urge to kick his bag across the room. I don’t, though. Of course I don’t. I smile away the tightness in my throat and squeeze his shoulder as I scooch past him to sit on the desk chair – a relic from a previous tenant.

When we first got together, we barely left his bedroom, except to get coffee and walk in the park for an hour before the sun went down. But when Tom got a job I couldn’t explain to my parents on the phone, the broken chairs we’d picked up during lazy mornings at flea markets were put back outside on the pavement, the intention to fix and paint them abandoned as weekends became a negotiation between the office, golf awaydays, and time spent with me.

‘Did you put this in here?’ says Tom, pulling out a disposable camera from a side pocket of his bag. Oh, I’d forgotten about that. I cross my legs, struggle to pull my ankle into my lap, and silently chastise myself for not keeping up with yoga tutorials on YouTube, as had been my resolution this year.

‘Yeah! Thought it would be cool for you guys, like in The Hangover? You could have it developed on the way back and piece together the bits between tequila shots. Pose with Mike Tyson, that sort of thing.’

He sucks on his lips and turns the camera over in his hands. ‘Hmm. Not sure how it would go down with the boys.’

‘What do you mean?’ I say, irritated now. ‘There isn’t anything to “go down”; it’s just a fucking camera, Tom.’

He looks up at the ceiling, his face partway between a smirk and a smile. As he goes to reply, a neat knock at the open door turns our attention towards Shamaya, the most recent addition to the house and – most unnervingly – the landlord’s daughter.

‘Any chance I can interrupt? We’re having a house meeting, so could you come through, Tom? Elissa, you too?’