Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (13) - Flipbook - Page 70
distance from any current locale: career trajectories, pension plans, property
investments, long-term relationships…nothing seems real; nothing seems to matter. It’s
all set so very, very far away, whereas the two-for-one offer at the local Wetherspoons
betrays a tantalising immediacy.
Take Rachel, for example. Rachel is twenty-two years old and has toiled for six eyeopening months amongst the office team I have the privilege to head. I have been
tempted, on occasion, to dismiss Rachel as some kind of maniac hedonist. However, as
every similarly seasoned female I’ve recently met also appears to be carved from this
same, extreme, and utterly modern stone, then I have to concede that Rachel is, in fact,
perfectly normal. Normal, of course, according to the bar raised at this new century’s
inception. Normal in terms of – judged by the criteria of this extraordinary day and age exactly what you’d expect.
Every single morning, Rachel will enter the office with tales of wanton, immoral
degradation which appall and intrigue in equal, uncomfortable measures. Yesterday
was an ideal illustration: her PC hadn’t even booted up before she was enthusiastically
detailing to Elaine and myself how the previous evening had culminated with an act of
fellatio performed upon a perfect stranger in the toilets of a dubious nightclub. And this
candid flavour of disclosure is absolutely typical of Rachel. I’m not completely sure how
much of it is even true. Part of me prays that the lion’s share isn’t, whilst a darker crevice
of my psyche continually kindles a fire that kind of hopes it is. Seriously though, if she
had all the sex she claimed, then she’d barely be able to walk and I very much doubt
there are even enough drugs in existence to facilitate her supposed, advertised intake.
But still, you never actually know, do you?
Ultimately, I have to face this rather apologetic fact: I would like to sleep with Rachel.
She wears the shortest skirts in the office, she has a filthy and delicious laugh, she lives
in a now which I appear to have gradually forgotten. Despite myself, I think I’m falling for
her. Tumbling downhill. Gamboling head over heels. Against all erudite contemplation, I
am concerned about the company she keeps. Yes, your twenties are a careless decade.
Your thirties, however, arrive with large bags stuffed full of dire realism. As they unpack,
casually announcing that they’ll be staying until the dawn of your forties, you catch a
clearer glimpse of their contents: the narrowing options, the dwindling opportunities,
the peer group leaving you steadily behind…the onset of your thirties stings like a smack
across cold skin. It tells you that, after ten years of wasted time, something needs to be
done.
***
I don’t want money, I explain to Darren. Blackmail after all, is an ugly act. There’s a
quality to its practice which leaves a tawdry taste in the mouth. Not to mention the fact
that it is also profoundly illegal – and prison is an experience that, personally, carries no
overwhelming appeal. I can, of course, perfectly understand why Darren assumes I have
an economic incentive. The arrival in his office to exhibit photographs detailing the
man’s most recent adulterous liaison would seem to indicate that an acquisition of
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