Me Before You: A Novel

don’t know … there must be something you want to do.’
    But there wasn’t. I had liked it in the cafe. I liked knowing everything there was to know about The Buttered Bun, and hearing about the lives of the people who came through it. I had felt comfortable there.
    ‘You can’t mope around, babe. Got to get over it. All the best entrepreneurs fight their way back from rock bottom. Jeffrey Archer did it. So did Richard Branson.’ He tapped my arm, trying to get me to keep up.
    ‘I doubt if Jeffrey Archer ever got made redundant from toasting teacakes.’ I was out of breath. And I was wearing the wrong bra. I slowed, dropped my hands down on to my knees.
    He turned, running backwards, his voice carrying on the still, cold air. ‘But if he had … I’m just saying. Sleep on it, put on a smart suit and head down to the Job Centre. Or I’ll train you up to work with me, if you like. You know there’s money in it. And don’t worry about the holiday. I’ll pay.’
    I smiled at him.
    He blew a kiss and his voice echoed across the empty stadium. ‘You can pay me back when you’re back on your feet.’
    I made my first claim for Jobseeker’s Allowance. I attended a 45-minute interview, and a group interview, where I sat with a group of twenty or so mismatched men and women, half of whom wore the same slightly stunned expression I suspected I did, and the other half the blank, uninterested faces of people who had been here too manytimes before. I wore what my Dad deemed my ‘civilian’ clothes.
    As a result of these efforts, I had endured a brief stint filling in on a night shift at a chicken processing factory (it had given me nightmares for weeks), and two days at a training session as a Home Energy Adviser. I had realized pretty quickly that I was essentially being instructed to befuddle old people into switching energy suppliers, and told Syed, my personal ‘adviser’ that I couldn’t do it. He had been insistent that I continue, so I had listed some of the practices that they had asked me to employ, at which point he had gone a bit quiet and suggested we (it was always ‘we’ even though it was pretty obvious that one of us
had
a job) try something else.
    I did two weeks at a fast food chain. The hours were okay, I could cope with the fact that the uniform made my hair static, but I found it impossible to stick to the ‘appropriate responses’ script, with its ‘How can I help you today?’ and its ‘Would you like large fries with that?’ I had been let go after one of the doughnut girls caught me debating the varying merits of the free toys with a four-year-old. What can I say? She was a smart four-year-old. I also thought the Sleeping Beauties were sappy.
    Now I sat at my fourth interview as Syed scanned through the touch screen for further employment ‘opportunities’. Even Syed, who wore the grimly cheerful demeanour of someone who had shoehorned the most unlikely candidates into a job, was starting to sound a little weary.
    ‘Um … Have you ever considered joining the entertainment industry?’
    ‘What, as in pantomime dame?’
    ‘Actually, no. But there is an opening for a pole dancer. Several, in fact.’
    I raised an eyebrow. ‘Please tell me you are kidding.’
    ‘It’s thirty hours a week on a self-employed basis. I believe the tips are good.’
    ‘Please, please tell me you have not just advised me to get a job that involves parading around in front of strangers in my underwear.’
    ‘You said you were good with people. And you seem to like … theatrical … clothing.’ He glanced at my tights, which were green and glittery. I had thought they would cheer me up. Thomas had hummed the theme tune from
The Little Mermaid
at me for almost the whole of breakfast.
    Syed tapped something into his keyboard. ‘How about “adult chat line supervisor”?’
    I stared at him.
    He shrugged. ‘You said you liked talking to people.’
    ‘No. And no to semi-nude bar staff. Or masseuse. Or webcam operator. Come on, Syed. There must be something I can do that wouldn’t actually give my dad a heart attack.’
    This appeared to stump him. ‘There’s not much left outside flexi-hour retail opportunities.’
    ‘Night-time shelf stacking?’ I had been here enough times now to speak their language.
    ‘There’s a waiting list. Parents tend to go for it, because it suits the school hours,’ he said apologetically. He studied the screen again. ‘So we’re really left