Thereās nothing quite like snuggling in the warm embrace of my one true love. Itās where I feel utterly content. Here I am safe, happy, and briefly able to remove the mask of sensible, Grown-Up Lawyer that I have to show to the rest of the world. Here, for a few blissful moments, I can finally feel like Alexa Humphries, actual human being, rather than Alexa Humphries, corporate drone. But the trouble is, thatās all it ever is. A few blissful moments. For my darling, king-size, 13.5 tog duvet and I spend most of our time apart, cruelly separated by the ever-growing demands of my job, which has become more of a lifestyle choice than just a career. This is so not how I imagined my dream life in London would turn out.
Take today, for example. Itās still dark outside. The foxes are scavenging by the bins on the street corner, and the noise of traffic has quietened to an occasional grumble from its usual constant roar. Anyone with any sense is deep in the land of nod, and according to my employment contract, Iām not expected at work for at least another four hours. But whereas lawyers are steely-eyed and detail-oriented in pretty much every other aspect of our business, when it comes to following the letter of our own working hours, weāre expected to become forgetful and instead do what is necessary. And it turns out that my employers consider it necessary for me to be on call. Permanently. Which is why I didnāt get to my beloved bed until nearly 1.30 a.m. and why Iāve been awake for the last half hour stressing about the day ahead and panic-reading obscure bits of contract law for a particularly complicated merger thatās looming on the horizon.
Itās not like Iām extremely senior and important either. When it comes to the food chain of office politics, I know Iām the pond life. But if I want to make it from plant to herbivore and beyond, I need to play the game. Iām just not sure I like this particular game that much any more.
Despite that old clichĆ© of lawyers being bloodsuckers out to make as much money as possible, whatever the cost to others, Iāve always had a rosy-eyed view of the profession. It started when I was six and the local solicitor helped my grandma prevent developers from forcibly buying the family farm, and then was solidified by my addiction to the movie Legally Blonde during my formative years. Sure, the main character, Elle, went through tough times, being patronised by a pervy professor and being constantly underestimated because of her hair colour. But she triumphed as the underdog and rose to great heights, all while wearing killer heels and carrying her faithful pooch in her designer handbag. I would sit in my teenage bedroom, teeth aching from my latest trip to the orthodontist, face covered in bits of toothpaste in a vain attempt to dry out my spots, and promise myself that, one day, I would be like Elle: a confident, successful woman full of integrity, standing up for justice, and fighting for those without the power to fight for themselves.
The spots vanished (mostly), and the teeth were straightened, but somewhere between law school and venturing into the big, wide world, I got lost. Itās been two years since I became the envy of my university buddies by joining Richmond Woods. But I didnāt realise when I signed on the dotted line that I might as well have signed in blood. Itās one of Londonās leading law firms, notable for having one of the biggest budgets for pro bono work in the city, which is why I was so desperate to get the job in the first place. Alas, while the people on the fifth floor get to make use of that philanthropic power and do some good in the world, Iām trapped on a treadmill on the second floor, charged with applying my skills to help a lot of rich, bossy men become even richer and bossier. The richer bit is from using my legal know-how to help them negotiate company mergers and takeovers, the bossier bit is from being a real-life Alexa who they can enjoy ordering around with the same lack of respect they use to operate their voice-activated devices. The only way it could be worse was if I was called Siri instead.
I stretch out my toes to take full advantage of the still-toasty hot-water bottle at my feet. My room in the house-share has beautiful big windows, making it a light and airy space, or so the girl moving out promised me when she showed me round. I unfortunately failed to consider the fact that the stately Victorian sash windows with their glorious view of the squat opposite were single-glazed. Add into the mix ill-fitting wooden frames which are suspiciously squishy, and itās a recipe for a permanent draught akin to a gale. Even during last summerās heatwave, there was only about one week where I didnāt need some extra form of warmth to get me through the night. I suppose what I could really do with is a hot bedmate ā in both senses of the word ā but as I appear to have formed an unhealthy, all-encompassing relationship with my job, I canāt see that happening any time soon.
Instead, Iām trying to keep warm with my current bed attire, an anything-but-sexy unicorn onesie. Itās all the colours of the rainbow, fleece-lined, with a furry exterior, complete with tail and silver horn. Donāt get me wrong, I love a cosy pair of PJs as much as the next girl, but a unicorn onesie is definitely at the extreme end of things, and when my twin brother Charlie handed it over to me for Christmas with a wicked grin on his face, I swore Iād never lower myself to actually wearing it. But what can I say? Needs must. My laundry pile has been growing its own ecosystem because Iāve been getting back from work late, and Iām too scared of incurring the wrath of my Queen Bee housemate Zara to turn on the washing machine after dark. In desperation last night, Iād dug out this little number from the back of my wardrobe, where it had been languishing in a cocoon of torn wrapping paper. Iām trying not to imagine the look of triumph on Charlieās face if he knew I was wearing it. Heās always on at me to āChill out and go with the flowā, which is all well and good if youāre content coasting your way through life by occasionally busking in the local market town back home, like he does, but it doesnāt really cut it in the corporate world Iāve ended up stuck in.
The windows rattle as a lorry rumbles down the road, sending another chilly blast of morning air over my face, and making the curtains flutter. Shards of orange light from the streetlamps dance their way around the walls, sharpening the fuzzy details of my room. I gaze around, nostalgic thoughts of my childhood home making me see my current surroundings as if for the first time. Iām barely ever in here when Iām not sleeping, and I canāt remember when I last actually paused and considered my surroundings. Itās a depressing sight; wardrobe doors hanging open to reveal a row of identikit suits, the pile of dirty washing overflowing out of a bag in the corner, and stacks of musty legal tomes leaning precariously by the bed. Itās more of a habitat than a bedroom, certainly not what someone would associate with a so-called professional woman in her mid-twenties. The only uplifting feature is the collection of pictures on my walls. Theyāre bright abstract prints of some of the most famous London landmarks, images which adorned my student bedroom to inspire me during the long days of learning case law and wading through incomprehensible legal jargon.
When I first moved here, I had visions of changing the world during the week, and then ticking off each famous landmark during the weekends, but Iām always too knackered to be bothered. Most of my weekends are spent comatose, wrapped up in my duvet and trying to catch up on all the sleep Iāve missed out on during the weekdays of corporate kowtowing. The realisation saddens me. Itās like Iāve blinked and suddenly two years have passed without me getting any closer to the dreams of making a difference that Iād once held so dear. How have I let things get to this position?
I turn onto my side, blocking out the too-cheery images, and try to ignore the crushing sense of failure which threatens to overwhelm me. I need to get a grip. Nobody likes a misery-guts and this one-person pity party needs to stop. Time to focus on the day ahead. Right on cue, my phone buzzes, warning me that yet another email has landed in my inbox. When I first started at Richmond Woods, being gifted a work phone and being told that I could also use it for my personal calls felt like a demonstration of trust and respect. However, after the thrill of being able to ring utility companiesā premium-rate phone lines without having to worry about the cost had worn off, I realised the hard reality of the apparently generous gesture. I started to resent the fact that I was expected to carry a device akin to my own personal slave master in my pocket all the time. Even in my supposed downtime I find myself obsessively checking messages and feeling stressed if I donāt reply to my seniors within half an hour. Sometimes it feels like my head might explode with the pressure of keeping on top of everything.
Despite my best efforts last night, my inbox is still at the higher end of double figures, and suddenly it seems impossible that Iāll ever get through it all. Several of the emails have been sent with bright red exclamation marks in the subject line to denote them as extremely urgent, and just in case I havenāt got the message, āSORT THIS NOWā has been added in shouty capital letters. I cringe as if I was actually being yelled at. Of course, no one at Richmond Woods would be so coarse as to raise their voice in person, but theyāve developed all kinds of passive-aggressive methods of creating the same horrible effect on us lowly minions.
I know I should start chipping away at my replies, but Iām desperate for just a few more minutes of peace. I find myself grabbing my own battered mobile and falling into my usual procrastination habit of scrolling through Instagram, trying to escape reality into a world of hashtags promising glossy positivity.
Pictures of cute animals and gorgeous holiday destinations normally do the trick in cheering me up, but today all I can notice are my friendsā posts about their perfect lives. Instead of putting a smile on my face, they increase my sense of melancholy. I gaze at the shiny picture of my best friend from school, carefree and laughing with her fiancĆ© on Sydney Harbour Bridge, and try to remember the last time I saw any of these people in real life.
When I make my weekly call to my parents, they always ask after my old school and uni mates, and the answers trip off my tongue. Lauraās engaged, Michaelās got another promotion and oh, did I tell you that Sara thought she bumped into Prince William at Waitrose the other day? But now Iām stopping and actually thinking about it, I realise my friends havenāt told me these charming anecdotes personally. Theyāve made general announcements to me and several hundred others of their closest online followers. Iāve double-tapped my appreciation and sometimes thereās even been the briefest exchange in the comments along the lines of, āCongratulations lovely, we must meet for a proper catch up soonā, but I canāt remember the last time it actually translated into a real-life interaction. Have I allowed social media to paper over the cracks of where an actual social life should be? I always assumed everyone was too busy, but a growing fear is telling me that maybe Iām the only one struggling, while everyone else really has got it sorted so that theyāre #livingthedream.
Suddenly my body jerks and the sick sensation of being about to fall off a cliff jolts me back to full consciousness. That was close. Much as I need the sleep, I canāt afford to drift off again. Regretfully, I push the hot-water bottle out of reach so I donāt get too comfortable. I know I should be getting on with work. The senior partner I report to has flown out to Japan to help a client finalise a deal, and her flight is due to land in Tokyo at any moment. Iād be prepared to bet next monthās rent money that sheāll ping a dozen missives my way as soon as she does. Genevieveās notorious for expecting an instant acknowledgement and I darenāt let her down. Besides, sheās on the appointments board for the pro bono department and maybe, just maybe, one day sheāll recognise my hard work and reward me for it with a position there, and then all this will have been worth it. Or thatās what I keep telling myself, anyway.
My work phone buzzes once again as the expected emails arrive. My fingers hover over the screen, but just the thought of sending even one more reply makes me feel like a steel band is tightening around my head, and I find myself pushing the phone away. Despite my good intentions, I shuffle back down my mattress, burrowing myself into my duvet like a hibernating animal. If I canāt see the emails, maybe I can pretend they donāt exist, I tell myself, much like a small child playing hide and seek by merely covering their eyes.
The phoneās buzzing continues, and through the thin party wall, I hear the distinctive thumps of Zara jumping out of bed and switching her light on. Itās a badge of pride among us junior lawyers if we can count the number of hours of sleep weāve had on one hand. Zara claims to thrive on this, but anything less than six hours and I find my brain becoming sluggish and my reactions slowing until I feel like I have jet lag. Sometimes, Iāll have a whole conversation with someone and feel like theyāre talking to me on a time delay, so it takes me several seconds to be able to process what theyāre saying and be able to respond appropriately.
Now sheās in circulation, I know I should look at my emails. Zara and I work for the same firm and in the same department ā another reason why I feel I canāt even switch off when I get home. When I first moved to London, it seemed like the easiest solution to share a house with a colleague. Yes, I know, what was I thinking? But by the time Iād realised quite how ruthlessly competitive Zara is, Iād already signed a six-month lease. Somehow, itās gone on a lot longer than that initial agreement, but Iāll just add that to my long list of things that Iāve let slip. I barely have time to buy a pint of milk, let alone look into moving house. And on the plus side, our other housemate Sam is no bother. In fact, sheās no bother to the point that weāve only ever communicated through the house WhatsApp group. She moved in at Christmas when I was home visiting my family for a brief forty-eight hours, and she appears to work weird shifts too. Or maybe the reason weāve never met is that sheās got a much better social life than me. Most people have, after all.
Now the clattering sound of Zara typing on her laptop punches its way into my room. Sheās attacking the keys as if they are promotion rivals. Even when I pull a pillow over my head, I can still hear her tapping away, each jab nagging at my growing sense of anxiety. Itās like sheās doing it deliberately, making sure I know sheās already hard at work while Iām being a lazy layabout. I know I should pick up the work phone again, send out my own replies and signal that my working day has begun. But somehow today it seems impossible. The very thought of rolling out of bed, getting dressed and dragging myself into the office for yet another day of thrashing myself to the limit is enough to make me groan out loud. I wish I could carry on pretending to myself that everything is OK, but this morning, I just donāt have the energy to even try.
I poke my nose out of my duvet and stare wistfully at the family picture teetering precariously on what was meant to be my dressing table, but which I use instead as a makeshift desk. Itās a classic Humphries image, illustrating the family pecking order perfectly, with me the default target for teasing. My older brothers are cracking up, my mum and dad are hiding their amusement with mock outrage, while Iām rolling my eyes at Charlie who was taking the picture. I can remember the suggestion he made to elicit such a response. Iād been in a hurry to make my train back to London, and being delayed for a family snap was not helping my stress levels. After dragging me back to the doorstep and plonking me in position, Charlie had peeked above the lens of the ancient camera and fixed me with a stern stare as I protested my urgent need to get going, right now.
āLighten up, sis. Just throw a sickie. Whatās the worst that can happen?ā
His words echo around my mind.
Throw a sickieā¦
I canāt.
Charlie wouldnāt think twice about it. But Iām the sensible twin. It would be completely out of character for me to do something so spontaneous and rebellious. Iām expected at work. Iāve got deadlines to meet, clients to appease, bosses to impress. I canāt let my colleagues down. But Charlieās voice in my head is insistent.
Whatās the worst that can happen?
I know the answer to this. A day out of the loop could leave me on the back foot for weeks. I could lose the respect and trust of my colleagues, my job even, were I to get found out. I canāt do it. It would be foolhardy.
But even as I try to bully myself into getting up and getting on with what needs to be done, my gaze travels back to those pictures of London, images which used to stand for hope and now represent nothing but personal failure. How long can I keep lying to myself that things are going to get better...
