Dead Days (Book 2): Tess by Tom Hartill

 
    PART 2; TESS
     
    It’s seven-thirty in the morning and I’m staring into my cereal wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life.
          I’m twenty eight years old, a failed artist now working as a PA for a man who spends most of his time walking a fine line between sexual harassment and being just plain creepy.
          When I moved to London I had this vision –pretty grandiose huh?- that I’d live this cool bohemian life where I was able to paint and draw every day, meet other arty types to debate the finer points of abstract composition whilst every major gallery clamoured for my latest masterpiece.
     
    Okay, so I knew that was far-fetched but I at least thought I could scratch a living at it.  
     
    I push the half finished bowl of cereal away and grab my coat and bag.     
     
    I have to be as quiet as I can this morning, Cass was working until the early hours again and she’s always in a foul mood if she doesn’t get enough sleep.  I glance at my phone. 
     
    Nothing from Mike.
     
    God he’s been such an arsehole recently.  I guess we’re both to stubborn to apologise.
     
    But then why should I?
     
    I put my phone in my bag and head out the door, locking it gently behind me.  I hate going in early.  Gerry tries to masquerade these pre-work coffees as ‘business meetings’ but all it ever turns out to be is an excuse to get me on my own. 
          I stopped wearing skirts after the first few days of working with him.  I could feel him ogling my legs at every opportunity.  I hate the way he does that.  His eyes creeping over me, I can almost feel them on my skin.  It makes me shudder.
     
    Now it’s trouser-suits all the way, ha!
     
    God I hate this job.
     
    The money’s good but it was supposed to be a temporary thing.  Four months in and I’m still there, my portfolio of paintings, drawings and sketches starting to gather dust in my room.  Between work and seeing Mike, there’s been no time for anything else.
     
    Something needs to change.
     
    I’m in a crappy mood, the fight with Mike hasn’t helped and the prospect of going to work fills me with unease.
     
    Maybe I should take the day off, get some drawing done?
     
    No best not.   I have zero inspiration at the moment and nothing I do today will turn out well. 
     
    I suppose that sounds like an excuse. 
     
    Maybe it is.
     
    I notice that the street is quiet this morning, and there are only two other people waiting at my bus stop, a man and a woman.  Both wear identical glum expressions, neither acknowledging the other, as is the way of the Londoner, it seems. 
          I imagine David Attenborough doing a special on London Commuters and it raises a little smile.
     
    “Here we see the lesser spotted Corporate Banker…”  
     
    Mike would’ve liked that one.
     
    Stop thinking about him, you’re done with that now.
     
    Yeah I guess I am.
     
    When the bus pulls up to the stop it’s almost empty.  I suppose it’s because I’m up earlier but still, it seems quiet. 
     
    The bus driver, a small African man, is looking nervously in his mirror at a passenger on the back seat.  As I board the bus I see that it’s a young man in a hoodie.  He is hunched over and coughing steadily into his hand.  He looks very pale.
          I scan my oyster card and head up to the upstairs deck.  The young guy seems pretty ill and I really could do without a dose of the flu.  Once there I take my phone out of my bag again. 
     
    Still nothing from Mike. 
     
    You’d best turn it off.  You’re just going to be staring at it all day otherwise.
     
    I push the button and watch the screen fade to black, then I tie my hair up with a band and give myself a quick once over in the mirror on my Compaq.  I don’t like wearing my hair up, (I’m a little vain about it to tell the truth) but I don’t want to give Gerry any more excuse to stare at me.  I don’t wear much makeup to work either.