Crappily Ever After by Louise Burness Page B

the honking of horns and a hell of a racket outside. Food, that’s what I need. I head outside and look along the street. Lots of lights on in the shops – a good sign. I walk up past the Angel tube and onto Upper Street, taking in the new sights and sounds. Kebab shops, hotdog stands and many drunken people swigging from cans, some asking me to spare some change. A large rat scurries by me from some bins. My squeal startles a homeless man in a doorway.
    ‘Shurrup, stupid cow,’ he slurs at me. ‘I have a seven o’clock meeting.’ He chortles at his own joke before the laugh turns into an emphysema fit.  
     
    As I wait in a takeaway on the main street through Islington, trying to decide what to have to eat, I hear a voice addressing me from behind. I turn to see a friendly-looking Australian girl smiling at me.
    ‘Why are you off home so early?’ she asks.
    ‘Oh, I’m new in town. Just here for interviews. I don’t know a single soul in London.’
    ‘Well, you do now,’ she says triumphantly. ‘Let’s go grab a beer.’ She pulls me outside despite my protests of interviews tomorrow. I give in and follow her across the road. It turns out Emily’s friends have been stuck on the tube for over an hour. She has been waiting in ‘Walkie’ for them and was told by some ‘random’ that the Northern Line was down due to a ‘jumper’. Once she has explained that this is a member of the public who has perhaps committed suicide, or possibly been pushed, I am shocked beyond belief.
    ‘Doesn’t that bother you?’ I ask.
    ‘Shit, yeah! Was late into work twice last week ‘cause of them.’
    We have a great night in Walkie. Emily’s friends turn up after two hours, seemingly none the worse off for having trawled through blood and guts on a track. I’ll probably never get used to living in London, I decide. Oblivious to the fact that only six months later I too will be moaning about the inconvenience of ‘jumpers’ (do it off peak if you must at all!). I also go on to complain about ‘tourists’ who take longer than thirty seconds at the ticket machine.
     
    I have three interviews the next day and I’m offered two of the positions. It seems Elaine was right; they are desperate for qualified nannies, with Scottish nannies being particularly desired for some bizarre reason. The latest trend in London, Elaine explained when I called her. It’ll be Spanish ones next year, or Australians. Cash in while you can. The two families end up in a bidding war and I end up managing to up my wage by £40 a week. I take the lowest maintenance job. The four-year-old boy with, in nanny terms at least, short hours. It is also on the same celebratory night out with Emily and friends that I meet James.      
    I start my new job and have moved in with Emily, Amy and Jill in a shared house. Emily works in marketing. She and Jill, who is also from Adelaide, have been living in London for three years after leaving Australia on an extended working visa. These two are in constant competition with each other over, amongst other things, who weighs less, who can pull the most men and who has the most expensive wardrobe, Both girls, much to the annoyance of Amy and I, have year-round tans thanks to a sunshine-filled upbringing and long, lean bodies thanks to years of outdoor sports. Jill has long honey blond hair. She is definitely the prettiest of us all and never fails to pull, though I would never say this to Emily. Em hates her mid-length dark curls. They have a tendency to grow out the way, rather than down. Looks-wise, she is stunning, but isn’t a patch on Jill. Both Amy and I are blonde too, but unfortunately look a bit on the plump side compared to Jill and Em. I mean, we both fit comfortably in a size twelve (I’ve crept back up) and are far from being fat. But being fairly short and standing next to two stunning size tens at nearly six foot tall each, who wouldn’t feel like a podgy little frump? Jill’s downfall,