Hanging On The Telephone

Monday 11th February
9.15am
I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.

I’m currently glued to my oh-so-stylish orange and purple retro seat in a groovy café opposite the magazine’s offices and I just can’t gather the willpower to slurp back the last of my coffee, straighten my polka-dot dress while simultaneously hitching my tights over my knees, and march over to the granite building. Mainly because a granite building is not that dissimilar to a prison colour-wise and right now a prison would be infinitely more inviting than this place.

I’ve spent the last 20 minutes eyeing up the people going into the prison-a-like and they’re straight from the Devil Wears Prada. All neon tights and skinny legs. Why am I doing this to myself?

Shit, my phone’s ringing. It’s Rob:

‘Hey baby you ok?’ He croons into my ear. Ok ok so I know what you’re thinking. I WAS going to have a big chat with him and it was going to be about us having a break. But then he bought me a big fat bunch of roses as an early Valentine’s Day treat and I felt like crap.

‘I’m ok. I just feel a bit scared. They all look so professional.’

‘You mean bitchy?’

‘Yep, bitchy!’ He’s very funny for this time of day. And sweet. Why do I want this break again?

12.45pm
One is seriously not amused. This 24 year old trained journalist (read here ‘skivvy’) has spent the last 3 hours unloading boxes and filing away stationery. Now, I know the role of the work experience person is to be the free help. God knows I’ve offloaded enough rubbish jobs to the poor 16 year olds when I’ve been doing my PR thing, but I figured as I was a bit older and have a bit more than a GCSE they’d give me some credit. No such luck! Straight to the canteen to get the breakfasts for the 5,000 followed by putting back issues into date order.

Surely I’ll get to write something soon?

Text from Helen. She’s meeting me for drinks tomorrow night to talk me through the best drinking haunts in Soho. At least that’s something to look forward to…

9.10pm
I’m sat in an a-typical student kitchen chatting to my friend John’s flatmate. Tony is 23, clever and extremely cute. The 6 gin and tonics I had earlier are starting to make me giddy (I don’t know why it’s an hour-long delay either). Think having mates in London is a great great thing – the girls showed me how to order alcohol in a proper London pub and, mesmerized by how different they do it down here, I followed suit.

So here I am chatting away to sexy Tony who’s looking a bit baffled but I can tell he likes it, really.

Just as he’s about to explain why he chose to come to London when he had a perfectly lovely flat in Dublin to play in, I get a text. It’s Rob:

‘Evening gorgeous girl. You want to chat for a bit? I want to hear about your first day.’

How? How can one text alter my slightly-merry-aren’t-I-the-cutest? to this lump of guilt?

Right. I HAVE to decide what I’m doing…right after I’ve had a sleep on it.


Tuesday 12th February
2.25pm
Oh dear Lord am I pissed off. The last few hours have been spent in the wardrobe department. Hanging. Up. Clothes. Now, don’t get me wrong. I like clothes. I like them a LOT! But seriously, do I need to be spending what’s left of my last lot of wages on a week in London where most of my day is spent hanging up clothes that aren’t mine?

Something needs to be said…ooh are those leopard-print peep toes from Faith? Now they’re shoes I must try on!

7.35pm
Just in Soho with Helen and the rest of the boys from the course. I’m telling them how I got to write a few bits for the website today and now it’s all getting a bit sentimental as we’re talking about Ibiza and I feel very sad, although this could largely be blamed on the wine.

I decide to call Rob and tell him I’m sorry for being such a bitch to him. I’m silly to be looking at Tony-types when I have a lovely bloke at home waiting for me.

‘He-hello?’ Rob sounds a little bit flustered. Or is that my imagination?

‘Hiya! It’s me! What you up to?’ Ah - my gorgeous man. Love him so much.

‘Yeah. Listen baby I can’t talk now. The lads are round and we’re watching the footy.’ It’s at this point that I realize I’ve not heard from him all day, which would usually be fine, but he’d promised me he’d text. And then I’m clutched by fear as I think about the state of the flat that we’re supposed to be living in. He’s still treating it like it’s his place but it’s NOT! And I don’t want to live with him anyway!

‘Ok.’ I say very very calmly, ‘Ok but we need to talk soon.’ And with that I hang up.

Friday 15th February
11.12am
I’m sat on the train back to Liverpool. I have to come home a day early. Because while I should have been on the phone to my boyfriend last night telling him how much I loved him on Valentine’s Day, I spent it chatting up Tony and ended the evening kissing him goodnight. It’s all wrong and now I have to go home and put it right.