There’s no real way of knowing what’s going to happen next, but I as-sume there will still be caffeine. Packing a cardboard box with very little, because it transpires the only thing on my desk that doesn’t belong to the agency is a gifted coffee mug with a picture of a cartoon deer on it. Thirty-one years into my story and a long time after the dramatic end of some others. It could have been the day my parents died in a car accident, which would have been considerably less so. It could have been the moment just before I met him, which would have been a more positive beginning. It could have been waking up this morning to the sound of my flatmates screaming at each other, or eating my breakfast (porridge and banana, always), or making an elaborate gift for my first anniversary with Will (slightly preemptive). It could have started anywhere: I just had to pick a moment. Standing up, I clear my throat and look at my watch: it’s not even Wednesday lunchtime yet. “Perhaps you could find one that doesn’t?” “Your job has the word relations in it,” my boss clarifies helpfully. I don’t know why they’re both under the impression I must have seen the end coming when I very much did not. That’s essentially what Will told me this morning too. Maybe you should find something that is better suited to your…specific skill set.” “This just isn’t working out, Cassie, and on some level you must already know that. “Look,” my boss concludes with a patient sigh that is nothing like the emotion bolting out of him. His colors are an invasion and I do not like it. Rage that doesn’t feel like mine pulses through me: dark purple and red. While it fills me up, I have to work out what the hell it is, where it came from and what I’m supposed to do to stop it spilling everywhere. I rarely understand what another human is thinking, but I frequently feel it: a wave of emotion that pours out of them into me, like a teapot into a cup. It’s certainly not in my contract, because I’ve checked.” “And, as far as I’m aware, being likable is irrelevant to my job description. “I’m a person,” I object, lifting my chin and doing my best to stare directly into his pupils.
Our highest-paying client just dropped us because of your quote, unquote relentlessly grating behavior. “I’ve spoken to you about this on multiple occasions- Cassandra, look at me when I’m talking to you. I’d tell you my boss’s name and give him a brief description, but judging by this conversation, he isn’t going to be a prominent character for much longer.
“That’s exactly the kind of b******* I’m talking about.” You are not a team player, and do you know what this office needs?” “It’s your general demeanor I can’t have in this office. “Although, Christ knows, somebody who hates phone calls as much as you do shouldn’t be working in public relations.” “The issue isn’t so much your work performance,” he plows on gallantly. Obviously I heard him or I’d still be giving a detailed report on the client meeting I just had, which is exactly what I was doing when he fired me. He also has a dried oat on his shirt collar but now doesn’t seem the right time to point it out: he’s married-his wife can do it later. He seems faint and muted, as if he’s behind a pane of thick frosted glass. The job situation I found out about eighty seconds ago.Īccording to the flexing jaw and flared nostrils of my boss, I’ve yet to respond to this new information. This morning, Will-my boyfriend of four months-kissed me, listed my virtues out of nowhere and concluded the pep talk by ending our relationship. The final two have been in quick succession. A large flat-share I briefly attempted in Walthamstow.Here are some other things I’ve been asked not to return to: Pretend the world stops when the book closes, or that a resolution isn’t simply another random moment on a curated timeline.īut life isn’t like that, so books are dishonest.Īnd it’s saying that kind of s*** that gets me thrown out of the Fentiman Road Book Club. Ignore whatever came before it or catch up later. A real beginning-the opening of something-when what you’re being offered is an arbitrary line in the sand. It’s a lie, the first page of a book, because it masquerades as a beginning. The cover of "Cassandra in Reverse." (Courtesy) Book excerpt: 'Cassandra In Reverse' Cassandra, like the book's author, is autistic, and the book is told through her voice. The book centers around Cassandra, a young woman who discovers she can travel through time. Here & Now's Deepa Fernandes speaks with Holly Smale about her new novel " Cassandra in Reverse."
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