Crappily Ever After by Louise Burness Page A

show you something.’ Elaine swivels the screen round for me to look at, and types in ‘Daily Positions in Edinburgh’. Like she says, only three come up.
    ‘There are five live-in posts, but you don’t want that.’ She then types in ‘Daily Jobs in London’. Immediately the screen fills up. They appear to be endless! The computer informs us it’s on page one of forty-seven.
    ‘Woah! Back up a bit. How much is a “daily” on in London?’
    She highlights one. It’s double my current weekly wage.
    ‘That’s after tax and National Insurance,’ explains Elaine. ‘The parents are responsible for your contributions.’
    I exhale with a whistle. It’s very tempting.
    ‘Look, Lucy, London’s great fun. You’re young, single, you should at least try it. Maybe even just go for a few interviews. Get a feel for the place. I can speak to the parents, they’re clamouring for qualified girls down there. If I set you up for three or four interviews, tell them they have to share your fare, I bet they’d do it. It’s a drop in the ocean to the likes of them. We are talking serious money here. You’re losing nothing but a little of your time.’
    I sigh: ‘I guess so. OK – I’ll go for the interviews at least. Only if they pay my fare, though.’
     
    I arrive at King’s Cross for my three lined up interviews. My backpack and I follow the swarms to the underground sign. I’m jostled to and fro all the way to the turnstiles, swearing under my breath at all these people in an apparent hurry to go places. I walk up to the barrier and look blankly at the closed gate. What am I supposed to do here?
    ‘Ticket!’ barks a fat, sweaty suit from behind me.
    ‘Excuse me?’ I reply.
    ‘You need to put your ticket in here,’ he says slowly and patronisingly, aggressively jabbing a finger at the slot.
     
    ‘I don’t have a ticket,’ I say.
    ‘She doesn’t even have a ticket!’ he bellows.
    Several people laugh. It seems the ‘no talk’ rule on the tube that I’ve heard about doesn’t apply when there’s a dippy tourist in their midst.
    Blushing, I make my way back to the machines I saw on the way down. Perhaps I can get a ticket there?
    I stand in the queue, only to be shouted at for holding it up as I try to figure out what I need. A kindly, but slightly whiffy man pulls me to one side.
    ‘You’re new.’ He states the obvious.
    ‘Yes, I need to get to Islington,’ I say, gratefully.
    ‘For a small fee, I will be your personal guide,’ he says, holding out a filthy hand for me to shake. I know – I shouldn’t. But I’m not about to head down any dark alleyways or accept a drink from him. Plenty of people around, I figure.
    He fleeces me for £2 to take me outside the station and informs me I can take the bus from opposite McDonald’s. I thank him, despite knowing full well that I have been ripped off, and take in a panoramic view.
    Two McDonalds.
     
    You know those people who wander around London aimlessly, swearing and muttering to themselves? People give them a wide berth. They are not mad; they are lost! I’m doing the very same thing that they do at that moment. I spend fifteen minutes at the wrong stop beside McDonald’s Number One. I spend twenty minutes at the correct McDonald’s – let’s call it Number Two – just for the hell of it. Finally, I meet a sweet, old lady.
    ‘Where are you going, dear?’ she asks.
    I inform her I have no more money and she looks offended.
    I do, however, want to kiss her when she sees me safely off at my stop. It turns out she lives nearby and gives me clear and concise directions on how to get to my Bed and Breakfast.
    A passing ‘businessman-in-a-hurry’ hits my backpack and sends me into a tailspin.
    ‘Watch it, asshole!’ shouts the old lady.
    I think I’ve just made my first friend in London.       
     
    I fall asleep on the stained top sheet (it looks suspiciously blood-like) in the B&B for two hours after my arrival. I wake at 9pm to