person first. If we don’t get on, I won’t take it.’
After a moment Mo gives me a nod and squeezes my shoulder. We all descend into the kind of silence that comes after you’ve talked about something difficult – half grateful for it being over, half relieved to have managed it at all.
‘Fine,’ Gerty says. ‘Fine. Do what you need to do. It’s got to be better than living in this kind of squalor.’ She marches out of the flat, turning at the last moment to address the estate agent as he steps through from the balcony. ‘And you,’ she tells him loudly, ‘are a curse upon society.’
He blinks as she slams the front door. There is a long, awkward pause.
He stubs out his cigarette. ‘You interested, then?’ he asks me.
*
I get to work early and sink down in my chair. My desk is the closest thing to home at the moment. It’s a haven of half-crafted objects, things that have proven too heavy to take back on the bus, and pot plants arranged in such a way that I can see people approaching before they can tell whether I’m at my desk. My pot-plant wall is widely regarded among the other junior staff as an inspiring example of interior design. (Really it’s just about choosing plants the same colour as your hair – in my case, red – and ducking/running away when you catch sight of anyone moving purposefully.)
My first job of the day is to meet Katherin, one of my favourite authors. Katherin writes books about knitting and crochet. It’s a niche audience that buys them, but that’s the story of Butterfingers Press – we love a niche audience. We specialise in crafting and DIY books. Tie-dye bedsheets, design your own dresses, crochet yourself a lampshade, make all your furniture out of ladders . . . That sort of thing.
I love working here. This is the only possible explanation for the fact that I have been Assistant Editor for three and a half years, earning below the London living wage, and have made no attempt to rectify the situation by, say, applying for a job at a publishing house that actually makes money. Gerty likes to tell me that I lack ambition, but it really isn’t that. I just love this stuff. As a child, I spent my days reading, or tinkering with my toys until they suited me better: dip-dying Barbie’s hair, pimping up my JCB truck. And now I read and craft for a living.
Well, not really a living, as such. But a bit of money. Just about enough to pay tax.
‘I’m telling you, Tiffy, crochet is the next colouring books,’ Katherin tells me, once she’s settled herself down in our best meeting room and talked me through the plan for her next book. I examine the finger she’s waggling in my direction. She has about fifty rings on each hand, but I’ve yet to discern whether any of them are wedding or engagement rings (I imagine that if Katherin has any, she’ll have more than one).
Katherin is just on the acceptable side of eccentric: she has a straw-blonde plait, one of those tans that somehow ages well, and endless stories of breaking into places in the 1960s and peeing on things. She was a real rebel once. She refuses to wear a bra even to this day, when bras have become quite comfortable and women have mostly given up on fighting the power because Beyoncé is doing it for us.
‘That’d be good,’ I say. ‘Maybe we could add a strapline with the word “mindful” in it. It is quite mindful, isn’t it? Or mindless?’
Katherin laughs, tipping her head back. ‘Ah, Tiffy. Your job’s ridiculous.’ She pats my hand affectionately and then reaches for her handbag. ‘You see that Martin boy,’ she says, ‘you tell him I’ll only do that cruise day class if I have a glamorous young assistant.’
I groan. I know where this is going. Katherin likes to drag me along to these things – for any class she needs a live model to show how to measure as you go when you’re designing an outfit, apparently, and I once made the fatal error of offering myself up for the job when she couldn’t find anyone. Now I am her go-to choice. PR is so desperate to get Katherin into these sorts of events that they’ve started begging me too.
‘This is too far, Katherin. I’m not going on a cruise with you.’