Future Fish E-Book

Conor Sneyd

• Herausgeber: Lightning Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

'Fast, funny and freaky' Luke Healy Sacked from his first job in Dublin, Mark McGuire arrives in the dismal town of Ashcross to take up a new role as customer service assistant for Ireland's second-biggest pet food brand, WellCat. From his initial impressions, it's a toss-up whether he'll die of misery or boredom. He couldn't be more wrong. For starters, the improbably cute receptionist, Kevin, seems willing to audition as the man of Mark's dreams. There's also the launch of a hush-hush new product, Future Fish, on the horizon. Not to mention the ragtag band of exorcists, alien-hunters and animal rights warriors who are all convinced WellCat is up to no good. Why are these crackpots so keen on getting close to Mark? And will their schemes ruin his career prospects In a deliciously daft comic caper, Conor Sneyd perfectly captures the powerlessness of low-rung office life as well as the seductive zealotry of our times.

Leseprobe

CONOR SNEYD was born and raised in Dublin, where he studied English Literature at Trinity College. After a brief stint teaching English in Japan, he spent several years working as an environmental and animal rights activist. The larger-than-life characters he encountered in this field served as inspiration for his debut novel, Future Fish. He currently lives in London with his boyfriend Gordon.

Published in 2023

by Lightning Books

Imprint of Eye Books Ltd

29A Barrow Street

Much Wenlock

Shropshire

TF13 6EN

www.lightning-books.com

ISBN: 9781785633515

Copyright © Conor Sneyd 2023

Cover by Ifan Bates

Typeset in Adobe Jenson Pro and Ragland

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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Twenty one

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Twenty five

Twenty six

Twenty seven

Acknowledgements

The town is even worse than I expected. You hear west coast of Ireland, and you know it’s going to be the arse end of nowhere, but you figure it will at least be pretty, right? Rugged green hills, pristine blue water and little whitewashed cottages with flowers hanging everywhere?

Not quite.

I step off the sweaty cross-country bus and into a world of grey. Dirty grey shop fronts lining the seawall, their windows shuttered and signs faded. Dull grey waves rolling in from the Atlantic, washing a tide of takeaway containers up and down the beach. Dark grey clouds bearing down on the rooftops, like an omen of some impending disaster. If you saw it in a photo, you might assume it was a regular seaside resort town, going through the inevitable off-season downturn. Except it’s the middle of July right now, so the place has no excuses. It’s just a massive shithole. I watch as the bus pulls out, getting smaller and smaller before disappearing around a corner, and begin to wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake. But there’s no turning back now.

An icy wind blows in from the ocean as I go to check the directions on my phone. But of course, there’s no signal out here. I glance up and down the road, hoping for a Good Samaritan to point me in the right direction. But the only person in sight is a grizzly old man at the bus stop. He hunches forward on the bench, sharing the seat with an impressive collection of cider cans, and appears to be caught up in an argument with some invisible enemy. I’ve been avoiding eye contact so far, but it looks like he might be my only option…

‘Excuse me,’ I say, taking a tentative step forward. ‘I’m looking for Atlantic Lane.’

He glares at me for a moment, like I’ve just insulted the memory of his mother, then launches a hefty glob of phlegm from between his teeth. It sails through the air – a shooting star of mucus – and lands with a splat at my feet.

I stumble backwards, mumbling an apology, and nearly trip over my bright purple suitcase. My heart is pounding as I hurry up the road, but I tell myself not to take it personally. He probably spits at everybody. I just need to approach someone slightly less terrifying next time.

After turning off the seafront and wandering down a random side lane, I encounter two teenaged girls perched atop a pair of wheelie bins. They sit cross-legged, dressed in maroon school uniforms, passing a cigarette back and forth between them. The one currently puffing away looks about seven months pregnant.

I take a deep breath, pausing in front of them. They probably qualify as slightly less terrifying…

‘Sorry to bother you,’ I begin. ‘I was just wondering if—’

‘Fuck off.’

I blink. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘You heard me,’ growls the pregnant girl. ‘Fuck off or I’ll throw you in the ocean.’

‘And I’ll break your legs so you can’t swim back out,’ laughs the other one. ‘Get lost, you fat paedo!’

I scramble to the end of the lane, glancing back over my shoulder to make sure they aren’t following. It’s only when I’m safely around the corner that I pause to check my reflection in a butcher shop window. I’m not that fat, am I?

Just as I’m sucking in my stomach and throwing back my shoulders, an elderly nun emerges with a blood-soaked bag of meat. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see her. Nuns wouldn’t usually be my favourite class of people, but surely they can be counted on to help a stranger in need? At the very least, calling somebody a fat paedo must go against their vows.

‘Excuse me,’ I say, waving her over. ‘I’m looking for 22 Atlantic Lane.’

She looks me slowly up and down, eyes lingering on the flamboyant purple shade of my suitcase. And then her lips purse, like she’s sucking on a lemon.

‘ATLANTIC. LANE.’ I repeat, as clearly as possible. ‘Here, look…’

I pull my phone out to show her. But the stupid thing still has no signal. I smack it against my hand, as if that will teach it a lesson, and accidentally open up a video. A scene begins playing on screen – three naked rugby players getting nasty in a bathtub.

The nun shrieks something unintelligible – possibly in Polish – and begins dousing me with a tiny bottle of holy water.

‘Stop,’ I splutter, covering my eyes. ‘Jesus Christ!’

But taking the Lord’s name in vain only makes her angrier. She doubles down on her assault, leaving me no other option but to turn around and run.

I scurry up the road, suitcase bouncing over the cracks in the pavement, and don’t slow down until I’m totally out of breath. It’s only when I lean back against a filthy green post box, gulping down lungfuls of briny ocean air, that I finally spot the sign on the opposite side of the road. Atlantic Lane. A wave of relief washes over me. Maybe the nun really did help me after all – working, like the Lord, in mysterious ways. Or maybe there are only five measly roads in this entire town, and I was bound to find the right one eventually.

Twenty-two Atlantic Lane is a long, concrete office block, wedged between a closed-down pound shop and a chipper with zero hygiene stars. The walls are lined with tiny opaque windows, giving the place an unfortunate resemblance to a small prison, or a large public toilet. Next to the door is a shiny brass plaque reading: WellCat – whole food for the whole family. I’ve seen that slogan a million times now, but it still makes me cringe. There’s just something so absurd about an entire company devoted to luxury cat food. Cats need to eat, of course, and I support their right to be well fed. But do they really care if their tuna contains a bouquet of sensuous botanicals?

Still though, I know I shouldn’t complain. A job’s a job, and beggars can’t be choosers. Especially not when we’re in the middle of a never-ending recession.

I pause outside the building to pull myself together. All the articles say a good first impression is key, so I have to make sure not to fuck mine up. I straighten my tie, smooth down my hair, and run through the lines of my introduction one last time. Finally, with my best attempt at a professional smile, I push open the door and step inside.

All of my preparation is instantly forgotten. I’m not sure what I was expecting to find inside, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. And I’m not talking about the décor here. The place looks just like any other office I’ve ever been to – stain-proof blue carpet, featureless off-white walls, and one lonely houseplant drooping in the corner. No, the thing that’s sent me reeling – that’s made me forget where I am and what I’m supposed to be doing – is the receptionist at the front desk.

He’s beautiful. Unearthly. Like an angel descended from heaven to rescue me from the parade of weirdos on the street. His blonde hair shines like a halo under the fluorescent lighting, his thick-framed glasses only accentuating the sharpness of his cheekbones. He must be somewhere in his mid-twenties – just a year or two older than me.

‘Hi there,’ he says. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Sorry, yeah…’ I clear my throat, feeling my face light up like a blowtorch. ‘My name’s Mark. Mark McGuire. I have a meeting with Maeve O’Halloran at ten.’

‘Ah, you must be the new starter! Welcome to WellCat. I’m Kevin.’ He smiles the world’s most beautiful smile and reaches out for the phone. I try not to stare at his arm moving around under the sleeve of his shirt, his bicep contracting as he holds the receiver to his ear. He tells the person on the other end that I’ve arrived, then sets the phone back down and hits me with another smile. ‘Maeve will be with you in a minute. Please take a seat.’

A long, L-shaped couch sits next to the potted plant in the corner. It’s made of some hairy green material that makes my thighs itch as soon as I sit down.

‘So, is this your first time in Ashcross?’ he asks, as I cross and uncross my legs.

‘It is, yeah. I had my interview over the phone, so I didn’t have to come down then. And to be honest, I’d never even heard of the place until I applied for the job.’

‘Most people haven’t,’ he laughs. ‘Which is fair enough. It’s not exactly on the list of top ten places to see before you die. How are you finding it so far anyway?’

I hesitate, sensing a dilemma. Either I say it’s great and look like a simpleton, or say it’s awful and look like an asshole. Best just to stick to something vague and noncommittal. ‘Eh… it’s grand, yeah.’

‘Some people don’t like it,’ he shrugs. ‘But if you ask me, it’s the greatest place in the world. Although I suppose I’m probably biased, since I was born and raised here.’

‘It does seem like a lovely little town! I guess I just haven’t had a chance to look around properly yet...’

‘Well, if you’re ever in need of a tour guide, just give me a shout. I’d be happy to show you the sights.’

‘Really!? I mean…sure, yeah. That’d be cool. If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘No trouble at all,’ he grins. ‘It’s not every day we have a new arrival in town. Especially not a strapping young lad like yourself.’

I feel my face turning red again and stare down at the floor. Is he just being friendly, or could that last comment have been a little bit flirty? It’s hard to tell. Especially without knowing if he’s even into guys to begin with. There’s nothing he’s said or done so far that would sway my assumptions either way. And it’s not like I can just straight-up ask him. But luckily for me, this is a problem that can be solved by modern technology.

With a smooth, nonchalant movement, I slide my phone from my pocket and open up Grindr. A single bar of signal has finally shown up, and my heart starts to pound as the app slowly loads. I’m hoping that when the list of nearby guys appears, Kevin’s face will be right at the top. Less than five metres away. But when the page finally loads, I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Because not only is there no sign of Kevin, but there’s only one guy within range full stop. And he’s a serial-killer-looking sixty-nine-year-old called WildAtlanticGay.

I immediately close and reopen the app, praying there’s been some sort of error. Maybe the crappy signal cut out again. Maybe the server couldn’t connect… But no. WildAtlanticGay is still the only guy in sight. And – Jesus Christ! – he’s sent me a message now. I delete it straightaway, without even peeking. The last thing I want to do on my first day is get caught looking at dodgy dick pics.

My body sags down into the couch, disappointment gathering like a cloud over my head. But I tell myself not to read too much into this. Just because Kevin’s not on the app doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a hardcore heterosexual. Maybe he’s just too pure for the world of online dating. Or maybe he’s on some niche fetish app instead. I’ll just have to figure things out the old-fashioned way. Get to know him better. Find out what his interests are. But our little chat has already trailed off, and his eyes are now fixed on the computer screen in front of him.

I gaze around the room, searching for a fresh conversation starter. But the space is distinctly uninspiring. The only magazine on the coffee table is a boring old business journal, the only picture on the wall an inoffensive abstract blob. I guess the dying fern in the corner could be mildly interesting, but that feels like straying into dangerous territory. I don’t want him to think I’m casting aspersions on his plant-keeping skills.

And then I spot it. Sitting there on the desk next to Kevin – a battered old paperback. I can’t make out the title, but it looks more like a novel than anything work-related. Perfect for a bit of casual small talk.

‘So…’ I say, trying to sound only mildly interested. ‘What are you reading?’

‘Oh, this? It’s called Digital Demons.’ He holds it up so I can see the cover – a snarling red monster crawling out of an old-school computer monitor. It looks like some cheesy old sci-fi story from the nineties. Not really my thing, but it’s cute that Kevin’s into it.

‘Looks interesting,’ I say. ‘What’s it about?’

He hesitates, tapping the book against his chiselled chin. ‘It’s kind of hard to explain. Unless you already know the author?’

I take another look at the cover. Down at the bottom, in no-nonsense block capitals, is the name LEWIS N. LEWISON.

‘Sounds familiar…’ I lie.

‘He also wrote Armies of the Abyss, if you’ve heard of that one?’

I shake my head. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh.’ His smile falters, and I feel like a monster for letting him down. ‘How about My Name is Legion?’ he asks. ‘I think that one was his most popular.’

‘Eh…’ I know I shouldn’t. Honesty is the best policy and all that. But when I see the look on his face – brow furrowed in anticipation, dreamy blue eyes glistening from behind their lenses – there’s no way I can disappoint him. ‘Oh yeah, I love My Name is Legion!’

‘Really?’ His face lights up. ‘I’ve never met another fan. Or at least, none my own age. What did you think of that ending though? I know a lot of people were shocked when it first came out.’

‘The ending? Well, eh…’

Shit. I probably should have seen that one coming. But before I can dig myself an even deeper hole, a door at the back of the room suddenly swings open. In strides a formidable-looking woman in an expensive-looking suit. Her stiletto heels cut across the carpet, her ponytail swinging like a pendulum as she beelines towards me with an outstretched hand.

‘Marcus, I presume? Lovely to finally meet you.’

I recognise her voice from my interview. Maeve O’Halloran, CEO. She seemed nice enough on the phone, although our conversation was fairly brief – just a few generic questions about my experience, followed by an immediate offer of employment (on the condition that I was available to start the very next week). Her real-life presence is a lot more intimidating. For one thing, she’s far younger than I imagined. Mid-thirties at most, and already running an entire company. She radiates the bustling energy of a Very Important Person, and I feel like I’m wasting her time just by existing.

‘Lovely to meet you too,’ I say, returning the handshake. Now would probably be a good time to point out that my full name is just Mark – not Marcus. But the thought of contradicting her makes me want to vomit.

‘You must have had a long journey,’ she says, giving me a quick up-and-down. ‘Did you drive all the way from Dublin?’

‘No, actually. I spent the night at a hostel in Galway, then caught the bus down this morning.’

‘Oh.’ Her mouth twitches, and I swear I see her wipe the hand I just shook on the back of her trousers. ‘No wonder you look so worn out.’

‘I am a little tired, I guess. But I’m looking forward to getting stuck in.’

‘Well then, let’s not waste any more time on chit-chat. Follow me through to the meeting room and we’ll get started on your induction.’

She turns towards the door at the back of the room, holding it open for me to wheel my suitcase through. I mumble an awkward see you later to Kevin, then step through to a long, windowless corridor. At the far end, descending down towards what must be the basement, is a steep, unlit stairwell. This strikes me as a clear Health and Safety hazard, but Maeve doesn’t seem to notice it. She ushers me through a door marked Small Meeting Room and into a tiny airless space with a table and two chairs. One entire wall is occupied by a blown-up print of a WellCat ad – a snow-white kitten gazing longingly at a bowl of glistening meat chunks. I set my suitcase underneath its paw and squeeze into one of the chairs.

‘So,’ says Maeve, sitting down opposite me. ‘Allow me to officially welcome you to WellCat.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply, with all the enthusiasm I can muster. ‘I’m delighted to be here.’

‘I thought I’d kick things off with a bit of background on the company, to help you understand how we got to be the industry leader we are today. It all started back in ’88, when our founder, Emmet Naughton, was searching for something nutritious yet convenient to feed his beloved companion, Dinah…’

And she’s off, launching into an epic tale of one man with a dream – a dream of defying the odds and rising to the top of the dog-eat-spam world of pet food production. There’s laughter. There’s heartbreak. There’s even a part where Dinah’s ghost appears to Emmet in a dream and tells him not to give up. I get the sense she’s given the same speech a million times before, but she’s clearly very proud of it, so I do my best to look suitably impressed.

‘…and so,’ she concludes, twenty minutes later, ‘within two decades, Emmet had built the company up into Ireland’s second-biggest independent pet food producer.’

‘Wow,’ I say. ‘He must have been very proud of himself.’

‘He was,’ she sighs. ‘And that was his weakness.’

‘Weakness?’

She nods, leaning in across the table. ‘Emmet was a great entrepreneur, but he lacked strategic vision. He was happy to settle for second best. When I took over as leader, I made a promise to the Board that we’d finally claim our rightful place at the top. Of course, the recession has made things difficult, but I wasn’t going to let a little global financial crisis get in my way. After a few false starts, we’re finally on track, and I’ve come up with a plan that’s going to destroy Miss Meow.’

She drones on and on, waxing lyrical about cutting labour costs and investing in innovation. I try to think of something intelligent to contribute – something to demonstrate how interested and engaged I am. But I’ve never had much of a head for business, and eventually I end up zoning out completely.

My eyes wander around the room, searching for a distraction, and come to rest on the giant kitten on the wall. Its little pink tongue sticks out to one side, licking its lips in an oddly humanlike manner. I can’t tell if they trained a real kitten to do it, or if it’s all a digital manipulation. It’s cute enough either way, I suppose. Although I’ve always been more of a dog person…

Not that I mentioned that particular fact in my cover letter. I said I loved cats, and I was passionate about promoting their health and wellbeing. A little white lie, sure, but you’ve got to tell them what they want to hear. Just like when I said I’d always dreamed of a career in the fast-moving consumer goods industry. It’s not like I could tell the truth – that I was desperate for a job, any job, and the company could have been selling solid-gold toilet seats for all the difference it would make to me.

‘… and so, as we enter this critical phase, it’s essential that we keep up momentum. That’s where you come in.’

‘That’s where I come in,’ I repeat, my mind snapping back to reality.

‘Your role as Customer Service Assistant will be vital in building meaningful relationships with customers and helping strengthen brand loyalty. It’s a demanding position, but I’m sure you’ll find it rewarding. Especially as we gear up to finally take out Miss Meow.’

‘Sounds great. I can’t wait to get started.’

‘Brilliant.’ She leans in even further across the table, hitting me with a whiff of flowery perfume. ‘You’ll find a copy of the Staff Handbook in your inbox. This covers all the main requirements you need to be aware of. Dress code, social media policy, and so on.’

‘Got it. I’ll read through that right away.’

‘There’s just one little thing you won’t find in the Handbook…’ Her expression falters, the mask of cool corporate professionalism slipping for just a second. When she speaks again, her voice is low and deadly serious. ‘…The laboratory in the basement is strictly off-limits.’

‘Laboratory? I didn’t even know there was one.’

‘It’s just a Health and Safety thing,’ she says, reverting back to her former manner. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

I nod, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down my neck.

‘But it’s extremely important, nonetheless. No matter what you see, no matter what you hear – even if another staff member tells you otherwise – under no circumstances should you ever set foot inside the laboratory.

‘Have I made myself clear?’

It’s a relief to get out of that sweaty little room. Things got kind of weird towards the end, but I feel like the meeting was a success overall. Now I just need to make it through the rest of the day without fucking anything up.

I follow Maeve back out into the corridor and down to the right – straight towards the shadowy stairwell. Only the first two or three steps are visible, before they disappear into darkness, but I assume it must lead down to the laboratory. The one Maeve warned me to stay out of. A gust of cool air blows up along the hallway, sending a shiver down my spine. Whatever’s down there, it must be incredibly dangerous. I’ve never seen anybody get that worked up about Health and Safety before.

She stops abruptly in front of another door, and I nearly walk right into her. ‘Here we are,’ she announces, with a flourish of her manicured hand. ‘The heart of the WellCat empire.’

A friendly hum of chatter leaks out into the hallway, but the room falls silent when we enter. Twenty-odd faces stare up at us from the rows of neatly-arranged desks. A few smile vaguely in our direction, but most look immediately back down at their computers, acting like they haven’t seen us. I must admit, I was expecting a slightly bigger reaction to my arrival. But I try not to take it personally.

We launch straight into introductions, Maeve leading me around from table to table like a cat on a leash. It’s a whirlwind of names and faces, most of which I immediately forget. There are a couple of thirty-something women who seem particularly pally with Maeve, but the majority of people are middle-aged, with thick West coast accents and photos of smiling children on their desks. They all seem friendly enough, in a polite, if slightly distant, sort of way, but none of them exactly scream future best friend.

‘Last but not least,’ says Maeve, as we arrive at a desk in the far corner. ‘This is Noelle.’

A shaggy-haired woman hastily closes down her solitaire window. She’s dressed all in black, like a fifty-year-old version of the goth girl I was afraid of at school.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, with an awkward wave.

‘Same to you,’ she replies, lounging back in her chair. Something twinkles behind her eyes, and I get the unpleasant feeling I’m being laughed at.

‘Noelle here will be your supervisor,’ says Maeve. ‘Which means the two of you will be working together very closely.’

‘Oh, wow…’ I whimper. ‘Sounds great.’

‘The last few weeks have been hectic, and poor Noelle has been struggling to stay on top of everything, so I’m sure she’ll be very glad to have you as an additional resource. Isn’t that right, Noelle?’

Noelle glares at her, like she’s contemplating various acts of violence, then sighs and rolls her eyes. ‘Sure, yeah. That’s exactly right.’

‘Excellent,’ says Maeve. ‘I’ll leave you to it so. I’m sure you’ve got a busy onboarding schedule ahead of you.’

Noelle makes a face as soon as Maeve’s back is turned. ‘Sorry about her,’ she mutters. ‘She can be a right wagon sometimes.’

I glance back over my shoulder, making sure Maeve hasn’t heard, then laugh politely.

‘I bet she didn’t even offer you a cup of tea, did she?’

‘Eh… There wasn’t really time for that.’

‘Typical. And here’s you looking like you’ve just made a double donation at the blood bank. Hang on a sec and I’ll pop to the kitchen.’

She disappears out into the hallway, leaving me to seat myself at the empty desk next to hers. A sprawling mound of printouts covers her workspace, with a stack of empty mugs acting as a paperweight on top. In the one and only tidy corner stands an ornate silver picture frame. But instead of the usual gap-toothed kids in school uniform, this one houses a frowning old woman in a wheelchair, with a nurse in a facemask standing behind her. I lean forward, trying to work out how long ago it was taken, then quickly sit back up when I see Noelle returning.

She moves slowly, balancing two steaming mugs in one hand and a plate of bourbon creams in the other. My mouth begins to water at the sight of the biscuits. I left the hostel too early for breakfast, and I haven’t eaten a single morsel all morning.

‘So,’ she says, setting the tea down. ‘Despite what Maeve might like to tell herself, I haven’t prepared any onboarding schedule. But don’t worry, the job is piss-easy. I assume you’ve worked in customer service before?’

I sit up a little straighter, clearing my throat. This is exactly the sort of question I’ve been preparing for. ‘I don’t have any direct experience in customer service, no. But my previous role was in advertising, and I’m confident that the skills I developed there would—’

She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. ‘Forget all that bollocks. The only skill you need is being able to keep your cool while some eejit is ranting at you down the phoneline.’

‘Well, I have worked with challenging clients in the past.’

‘Pfft. You’ll wish you were back with those clients when you hear the shite we have to deal with. Let me ask you this – have you ever seriously contemplated killing somebody before?’

I shove an entire bourbon cream into my mouth, not sure what to say to this.

Noelle just sips her tea and sighs. ‘What age are you, anyway?’

‘Twenty-two,’ I mumble, from behind a mouthful of crumbs.

‘Jesus Christ, you’re just a baby. Far too young for a dump like Ashcross. I know there’s a recession going on, but could you not have found something back in Dublin?’

I swallow down the biscuit and immediately bite into another. I’ve rehearsed an answer for this question too, but I can already tell it’s not going to impress her. ‘…There were a few jobs going, but only with the big tech companies and accounting firms. And I suppose I wanted to work somewhere smaller. Somewhere I could really get involved and make a difference.’

She snorts. ‘If small is what you’re after, you’ve come to the right place. It doesn’t get much smaller than Ashcross. Doesn’t get much duller, either. And I should know. I’ve lived here for decades.’

‘Well, I’m confident I can adapt. I’m a dynamic self-starter who works well independently.’

‘I’m sure you are. But why the hell would you want to adapt to a place like this?’

I hesitate, not liking where this is headed, and reach out for the last biscuit.

‘Mother of God,’ laughs Noelle, picking up the empty plate. ‘You made short work of those bourbon creams.’

‘Sorry. I should have saved you one.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I already ate half the pack while the kettle was boiling.’ She winks, setting the plate aside, and scoots her chair over towards my computer. ‘Anyway, we should probably get started on some actual work. Can’t put it off all day.’

She begins walking me through the main responsibilities of the role. It seems I’ll be spending most of my time replying to emails in our customer service inbox. There’s a huge spreadsheet with pre-approved answers to all the most common questions – like Is WellCat suitable for human consumption? and Help! My cat can’t stop pooing – so a good chunk of the work is just copying and pasting. We run through a few examples together, and then she leaves me alone to start working my way through the inbox.

I’m about a quarter of the way down the list when the office starts emptying out for lunch. ‘Not bad,’ says Noelle, peering over my shoulder. ‘You’re flying through it.’

‘Thanks,’ I reply, trying not to sound too smug. ‘It took me a while to warm up, but I think I’ve got the hang of it now.’

‘Well, you’re definitely a lot faster than Valentina was when she first started. But to be fair, English wasn’t her first language.’

‘Right…and who’s Valentina?’

‘The girl who was doing the job before you. She just left a couple weeks ago.’

‘I see.’ It hadn’t even occurred to me that somebody else was in the role before me. Suddenly, I’m extremely curious about this Valentina person – especially her post-WellCat career prospects. ‘And what’s she doing with herself now?’

Noelle shrugs. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’

‘She didn’t tell you what her new job was?’

‘No… She left in a bit of a hurry.’

‘Oh. Did something happen to her?’

She bites her lip, shifting around in the chair. It’s the first sign of discomfort I’ve seen from her all day. ‘What do you mean, did something happen?’

‘I mean, why did she leave so suddenly? I hope she didn’t have a family emergency or anything.’

‘No, no. Nothing like that.’

‘So why the big hurry?’

‘Look,’ she says, glancing back over her shoulder. The place is practically empty now, but still her voice drops to a whisper. ‘We shouldn’t really be talking about this. But basically, what happened was… Valentina got herself fired.’

She says something else after that, but I don’t catch it.

Because suddenly I’m not in Ashcross any more…

I’m back in Dublin, on a pale January morning, sitting in a glass-walled meeting room. Outside the window, snow is falling in dreamy slow-motion flurries. The ground is too wet for anything to stick, melting the fluffy white flakes into dirty grey mush, but the sight still fills me with a giddy delight. Across the table, my manager Liam is droning on about the need to make difficult business decisions. He looks even more exhausted than usual, his eyeballs disappearing into a pair of black holes. We’re supposed to be having our weekly catch-up, which usually only takes a few minutes, but he’s been rambling on for at least a quarter of an hour.

‘And you’ve been with us half a year now, Mark, haven’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ I shrug, staring out the window. ‘That sounds about right.’

‘In that time, we’ve been closely monitoring your development. And I’m sure you’ll agree we’ve provided you with an adequate level of support?’

‘Sure, yeah. I guess it’s been adequate.’

‘We’re a family here at HiberNox Media, and we always have the best interests of our employees at heart. But in difficult times like these, sometimes even families have to go their own separate ways.’

‘Of course. Yeah.’ It’s just occurred to me that getting home this evening is going to be a nightmare. The entire transport network goes haywire at the slightest hint of ice on the roads.

‘With that in mind, I hope you’ll understand where I’m coming from when I tell you that you haven’t passed your six-month probation.’

I blink, turning away from the window. ‘Sorry, my six-month what?’

‘Probation. You haven’t passed it.’

‘Oh.’ I’d forgotten probation was even a thing. It was mentioned somewhere in my contract, but nobody’s brought it up since I started. I assumed it was just a formality. A get-out-of-jail-free card for the company in case it turned out you were completely useless. ‘Does that mean it goes on for another six months?’

He drops his gaze, running a hand along the greasy strands of his combover. ‘Not exactly. We could technically extend it, but I don’t think that would benefit either party.’

‘So that means…’ I slump down in my chair, the realisation slowly sinking in. It turns out I’m completely useless. ‘…you’re firing me?’

‘We don’t say fired. But yes. We’ve decided not to extend your contract beyond the probationary period. You’re entitled to one additional week’s pay, but I’ll have to ask you to leave the premises immediately. You’ll find the full details in here.’ He produces a brown paper envelope and slides it across the table. ‘Now, do you have any questions?’

‘Eh…’

Maybe I’m just in shock, but my initial reaction is mainly apathy. I never planned on ending up in advertising anyway – it just so happened HiberNox Media were the first company to offer me a job after college – and working here has always bored me senseless. I’ve never cared about the clients and their stupid campaigns. The pointless products they peddle to the world. Protein powder. Weight loss pills. Little gummy vitamins to make your baby’s hair grow faster. In a way, it might actually be a relief to get out of here.

But then I start thinking about the practicalities. Like, what am I going to do for money? How am I supposed to find a new job in this economy with a black mark on my CV? And worst of all, what are people going to say when they find out? I can already imagine the not angry, just disappointed speech from my parents. The why do you always have to embarrass me? lecture from my boyfriend, Neil. And I already know the first question they’re all going to ask me…

‘Did I do something wrong?’

Liam sighs, like he just wants this to be over. ‘It’s less what you did, and more what you didn’t do. Your work itself wasn’t bad. When I was filling out your evaluation, I gave you four stars for always delivers projects on time, and three and a half for work is of a consistently high quality. It’s the questions on attitude that really dragged you down. I could only give you one star for is passionate about providing value to clients, and I had to give you zero for gets along well with colleagues. Your average came out as a two-point-four, but it needed to be at least a three.’

I open my mouth to defend myself, but nothing comes out. How can you argue with a two-point-four?

‘Try not to be too hard on yourself,’ says Liam. ‘Just think of this as a learning opportunity.’

‘But what am I supposed to be learning? I still don’t understand what you wanted from me.’

He glances at his smartwatch, a frown cracking the eggshell of his forehead. ‘Look Mark, we don’t have time to get into it. All I’m saying is that you could have acted like you had a little fire in your engine. Like you actually wanted to be here.’

I bite my lip, resisting the urge for an eyeroll. Who in their right mind would actually want to be here? ‘But I showed up on time every day,’ I say. ‘And you said my work was good. So what else was I supposed to do?’

‘You could have contributed more in meetings,’ says Liam. ‘Or volunteered to take on an additional project or two. Even just showing up for after-work drinks every now and then would have gone a long way.’

‘But I did show up for after-work drinks! One time...’

‘One time?’

‘During my first week.’

‘And why did you never go back?’

‘I don’t know…’ Because that one time was terrible. We squeezed into some bright, musicless pub, where the only thing anybody would talk about was work. I thought the whole point of going out for drinks was to get away from all that. To talk about our real lives for a change. But it was like work was the only thing we had in common. The only possible pretext for all of us being together. ‘I just didn’t feel like it, I guess.’

‘And I suppose you just didn’t feel like showing up for the Christmas party either? You were the only person in the entire office who failed to attend.’

‘I thought the Christmas party was voluntary?’

‘It was voluntary. But why on earth would you not want to attend a party?’

I shrug. ‘I didn’t think anybody would notice I was missing.’

‘Well, people certainly noticed you were missing from the staff photo. The one that went out in our client Christmas card. Which, by the way, you never bothered to sign.’

‘I thought signing the card was voluntary?’

He flares his nostrils, beginning to lose patience. ‘You know, you’ve never been featured in any of the photos on our website either.’

‘How is that my fault?’

‘Maybe if you wore your complimentary company t-shirt every once in a while, the PR team would want to include you.’

‘I thought wearing the t-shirt was voluntary?’

‘Jesus Christ, Mark!’

He’s getting angry now, face ripening like a plump tomato. I decide it’s probably best not to push him any further. Outside the window, the snow is getting heavier, blotting out the Docklands with an empty white void.

‘Look,’ he says, his face fading back to its usual pallor. ‘Discussing this further is only going to make things worse. The decision’s been made, and all we can do now is move forward.’

Before I can say anything else, he’s standing up and escorting me out of the room. I clutch the brown paper envelope to my chest as I follow him over towards my desk. It feels like everybody in the office is staring at me. Pointing and whispering behind my back. There he goes, the useless loser.Thank God he won’t be around much longer. My eyes begin to sting, but I hold down the tears. There’s no way I’m giving them the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

Liam hovers over my shoulder as I gather up my things, watching like a hawk to make sure I don’t run off with any company property. It’s humiliating. Like I’ve gone from trusted employee to unwelcome guest. An object of suspicion and contempt. I hurry as fast as my shaking hands will allow, just wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible. Luckily, there isn’t too much to pack. Just a tea-stained old mug, a few notebooks and pens, and a little teddy bear Neil gave me on my first day.