His name is Brando, which could be a nickname, or a shortened surname. Maybe it’s his only name, like Beyoncé or Prince. Brando is polishing a bottle of vodka with a soft cloth. He pauses and twirls each tip of his moustache like he’s rolling a very long cigarette.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Evie Cormac.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-one.’
‘You look younger.’
I hold up my newly acquired driving licence, hoping he won’t look too closely at my photograph, which resembles a mugshot. I don’t know how to smile when people take my picture.
‘Have you ever worked in a bar before?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, loads.’
‘Any references?’
‘No.’
‘Can you make a Bloody Mary?’
‘I can pour a beer.’
‘I need someone who can make cocktails.’
‘You could teach me.’
‘We advertised for someone with experience.’
‘Well, it’s a chicken and egg thing, isn’t it?’
‘Huh?’
‘What came first – the chicken or the egg? I can’t get experience unless you give me a job.’
Brando wrinkles his nose. He’s wearing jeans, a cotton shirt and a waistcoat that is too small for him. A tiny guitar dangles from a small golden hoop in his left ear. In my experience, people who wear colourful clothes are compensating for their lack of personality. I’m the opposite. I have no personality, but that suits me fine because I want to be invisible.
The bar is called the Little Drummer, one of those hole-in-the-wall places in the Lace Market, which is expensive and totally up itself. To be honest, I don’t really see the point of bars, or alcohol. People have little enough control over their lives without getting shitfaced.
I need a job because Cyrus says I’m not ‘pulling my weight’。 What does that even mean? I weigh less than seven stone. He could throw me over his shoulder in one of those wife-carrying competitions and we’d win easily. Not that I’m his wife, or his girlfriend, and he treats me like a kid most of the time, which pisses me off.
I went back to school in September – part-time – doing my A-levels at Nottingham College because Cyrus says I should make something of my life. That’s something else I don’t understand. Why can’t my mission be to do the bare minimum; to just scrape by?
I once saw this YouTube video about a Japanese soldier in the Second World War, who was sent to an island in the Philippines to watch out for enemy aircraft. He was under orders to never surrender. When the war ended, he had no idea, so he kept hiding in the mountains for twenty-nine years, refusing to give up. That’s my idea of a life well lived, hiding away on a tropical island, cut off from the world. Unreachable. Untouchable.
My new plan is to pretend to do something with my life. I will tell people that I’m writing a book, and if they ask me what it’s about, I’ll steal the plot from some Netflix drama and call it ‘an homage’。 I learned that term from Mr Joubert, my English teacher.
If that doesn’t work, I’ll tell people I want to travel and dreamily talk about the mountains I want to climb and the seas I want to sail across. Nobody ever questions a grand passion.
My third option is charity work. I’ll volunteer for a week or two – so I can spend the next ten years banging on about my love for ‘helping others’ and ‘giving back’。 That should make my life seem worthwhile.
‘Ever worked with customers before?’ asks Brando.
‘Yeah.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I was a waitress.’
I leave out the location – Langford Hall, a secure children’s home – and the fact I was technically not an employee. He also doesn’t have to know I got banned from working in the kitchen because I stole a month’s supply of drinking chocolate. That was the old Evie. The angry Evie. The ward of the court. The girl in the box. Angel Face. The child who hid in a secret room while a man was tortured to death.
Brando turns over my single-page CV as though expecting to see something typed on the other side.
‘Ever been in trouble with the police?’
‘No.’
Another lie.
‘Why do you want to work at the Little Drummer?’
‘I need a job.’
Brando waits, expecting more.
‘I’m a people person,’ I say, lying through my arse. In truth, I’m a dog person.
‘What is your best quality?’ he asks.
‘I’m unbelievably humble.’
He doesn’t get the joke. Idiot!
Brando twirls his moustache. ‘I can give you a job collecting glasses. Thursday, Friday and Saturday. You start at eight, finish at two. Nine quid an hour. The tips are pooled with the kitchen staff.’
‘And that’s all I have to do – collect glasses?’
‘You smile. You clean up spills. You mop out the women’s loo. You’re the dogsbody.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s a figure of speech.’ He hands me a form. ‘Fill this out.’
It’s some sort of employment contract.
‘Why do you need my address and phone number?’
‘Tax.’
‘I haven’t earned anything yet.’
‘That’s how it works.’
I borrow a pen and take a seat at the bar, half watching him while he restocks the fridges. I like watching his shoulders move beneath his cotton shirt. I wish I knew more about men. Not the bad ones, but the good ones.
Ten minutes later, Brando studies the completed form, licking his thumb when he turns the page.
‘Start Friday. Don’t be late. And wear something decent.’
I’m dressed in jeans and a baggy sweater I stole from Cyrus’s wardrobe weeks ago and he hasn’t missed yet.
‘I’m only picking up glasses.’
‘We’re a cocktail bar, not a local boozer. Our customers expect a little glamour. Wear a black dress. Show a bit of leg.’ He looks me up and down. ‘You do have legs, I suppose.’
All the better to kick you with. He turns away and puts a six-pack of cider into the fridge. I’m still standing at the bar when he straightens.
‘Can I get an advance – to buy a dress?’
‘Yeah, right,’ he laughs. ‘Get lost before I change my mind.’
Outside, I zip up my parka and avoid being stampeded by a coachload of Japanese tourists who are taking photographs of the Adams Building, an old lace warehouse that is now part of Nottingham College. The tour leader is waving a folded yellow umbrella and counting heads to make sure she hasn’t lost anybody.
I walk along Carlton Street and Long Row, heading for Old Market Square. A charity collector with a clipboard tries to make eye contact, but I keep moving. I don’t like talking to strangers.
I check out the latest responses on my dating app. Someone has matched with me. I check their profile. Attractive, sporty, on the short side, but this isn’t about me. I’ll check out their other social media pages when I get home. In the meantime, I send a first message, trying for a casual vibe.
Hey, we matched.
A message pings back:
Obviously!