Rebel Addict

Prologue

Job interviews. So stressful.

I once read that a group of neuroscientists ranked the death of a loved one as the most stressful situation for the human brain. Those neuroscientists never went to a job interview. And surely, none of them had an embarrassing past they tried to conceal.

The receptionist woman eyes me over her computer. She’s a fake blonde and has fillers. I mess with the buttons on my suit jacket under her unimpressed gaze. Thank God my mum knows how to knock up a nice suit.

“Please, follow me.” She finally stands up from her chair. “I’m Sarah.”

Sarah’s got legs up to her armpits. Christ.

As I follow Sarah through a big open-plan office, I have a flashback of the day Miss Holloway sent me to the Year Six classroom with a note for their teacher. I didn’t want to do it, and other kids stuck their hands up, but she picked me anyway. I was so nervous that I almost curled in on myself. The teacher in the other classroom thought I was trying to be funny and asked me why I walked like a humpback, and the entire class burst into laughter.

That’s not going to happen today.

Head up. Back straight. Swish those hips. Spending the last few months in bed feeling sorry for myself hasn’t been good for much, but it made me lose one stone. Silver linings, I guess.

But sheesh. I’m nervous. Now I wish I’d indulged more with the sherry I took from Mum’s stash. Feeling the mini bottle in the interior pocket of my jacket is reassuring, though.

I do a quick sweep of the office and look at who I could end up working with. They are young. I knew this place was the trendiest start-up in the East Midlands, but I didn’t expect to feel like I would be one of the most senior employees if I worked here. And I’m only twenty-eight—but who’s counting, right?

I need to stop staring. I already have to skip to catch up with the long-legged receptionist. Sarah has impressive calves. Must be a jogger.

“Make yourself comfortable. Mr Wickman will be here in a minute,” she says as we arrive at a big room with glass walls. Transparent glass walls, so everyone in the office can see me.

“Thanks,” I say and take a seat.

Sarah leaves me alone in the interview room, and I already feel like going back to the comfort of my bed.

But no way. I’m doing this. I have to.

I lean back on the chair and cross my legs, trying to look relaxed despite my quickening pulse. I could do with another gulp of sherry. If only I were in a room with normal, opaque walls. But better like this. I already feel my brain swirling a little from the sherry I had at home. And on my way here.

A tall man in jeans and a hoodie walks towards the office. That can’t be Mr Wickman. Oh dear. It is. And I’m in a suit. Great.

“Andy, right?” he says. “Sorry for making you wait. It’s crazy today at the office.”

“No worries.” I stand to shake his firm hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr Wickman.”

“Call me Ezra.”

Ezra is supercute. Possibly my age. Or younger. He’s got an energetic way about him, and he speaks with a firm yet friendly voice.

“Thanks for applying for a job at BuzzShares.” Ezra sits, and I copy. He checks my application form on his table and raises an eyebrow in approval. “Great.”

This is a good start. It really looks like they need someone. Immediate hiring. It’s the part of the job offer that most caught my attention.

It dawns on me that I’m not sure which position I applied for. I’ve applied for a lot of jobs lately. But I do remember this is a media company that publishes those online articles with crazy headlines you don’t want to click on because you know they’re just bait, but you still do because you desperately need to read about ‘THIS CELEB HAS GROWN UP TERRIBLY . . . AND IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK!’

Ezra swipes on the screen, and I take a peek at the profile photo on my CV. I look stiff in a navy-blue cardigan and a red tie. Mum said I look very employable, but right now, I see myself like I’m coming straight out of a 60s class yearbook.

“So,” Ezra starts. “Your application says you’ve finished a course in online marketing?”

“That’s right. I’ve got a diploma from the Digital Marketing Institute.” I rub my palms on my trousers.

“I’ve heard good things about that place,” he says.

“I loved it. The programme was very up-to-date, and the teachers were amazing.” I spill the words I’ve memorised. The classes were online, so I had zero contact with human beings, which was perfect for me. But Ezra doesn’t need to know that.

“Hmm . . .” Ezra puts down the tablet and looks at me intensely. Oh gosh. He recognised me. Or he can smell the sherry on my breath. But that’s impossible. I popped in three mints before entering the office.

“I checked your final project,” he finally says. “It was very . . . witty.”

“Thanks.” It wasn’t supposed to be witty.

“I mean, a dating app for MILFs?” He shakes his head and chuckles. “Such a great idea.”

I cringe in my seat.

I designed the marketing plan for a dating app for all kinds of people, but I was on a tight budget, so I made my mum pose for the pictures. It was her idea I should take some classes. You need to do something, love, she said. Get out of bed. She showed me a list of free courses offered by the job centre, and ‘Fundamentals of online marketing’ seemed the less demanding one, plus all the classes were virtual.

So, the least she could do was help me with the final project. Now I wish she hadn’t.

“You’ve got quite mixed working experience, uh?” Ezra brings his gaze back to the screen. “And you studied in a music school?”

“I visited the conservatory for one year, but it didn’t work out.” I clear my throat. “I mean, it wasn’t the right path for me.”

Ezra rocks back in his chair and swipes his finger on his high-tech tablet. He puts on a concentrated face, as if he’s trying hard to make sense of my mess of CV.

He’s so not going to hire me. I can tell. There’s no way.

I smile feebly, waiting for a thanks for coming and we’ll call you back, but after a few moments, Ezra says, “Look. We need someone for this position ASAP.” He sighs. “When could you start?”

That’s it? I don’t have to beg, implore or go down on my knees?

I have to answer before he changes his mind, though.

“Today. Right now.” Stop being so eager. “I mean, whenever you need.”

“Fantastic!” Ezra seems pleased with himself.

I should ask more questions about the job, but I don’t want to ruin it. I’m just too happy right now.

“So, how much is the salary?” It’s the only thing I ask. It’s important.

“It’s the minimum wage,” Ezra says brightly, as if that’s a good thing. “It’s a paid internship.”

A curt snort escapes through my nose. “Sorry?” I say, almost laughing. But Ezra’s face is serious. “Oh, I didn’t realise this was an internship position.”

“It says in the job description,” Ezra explains, a line of confusion now crossing his forehead.

I look at him in bewilderment. Now I understand why everyone in the office looks so young. But I’m not. Is it legal to be an intern at my age?

“You’ll gain a lot of experience working for us,” Ezra adds. “It’s a great opportunity to boost your CV.”

As Ezra enunciates what sounds like the Ten Benefits of Taking an Internship I Didn’t Know I Needed, I shrink in disappointment. I was hoping to at least earn enough to be able to stand on my feet without Mum’s help. But on the other hand, this is the first job interview I’ve had in weeks, and at least it’s a job. It could be worse—it could be unpaid.

“Alright,” I finally say. “Do you offer home office or—”

I stop dead as I see Sarah the receptionist walking towards us with an iPad held to her chest. She opens the door without knocking.

“Ezra, can I have a quick word with you, please?” she says, turning her nose up at me.

“Just a minute,” Ezra says and gets up to join Sarah outside the interview room.

I can feel sweat pouring down my arms as I watch them whispering to each other. I curl my fingers and toes, praying for a stroke of good luck. Please, please. I need this job. I need to get out of my mum’s house and go back to living like an adult.

But then Ezra throws an incredulous look in my direction, and that’s when I know they found out.

Oh God.

Sarah follows Ezra back into the room, and both stand in front of me. I don’t know if I should stand, too. Anyway, I’m glued to my seat.

“Are you OK?” Ezra asks.

“I’m fine.” I pull on my collar. “It’s just stuffy in here.”

“So, Andrew Zachary.” Ezra takes the iPad from Sarah’s hands and turns it towards me. “Is it really you?”

It is me.

Looking at me from the screen, there are two versions of me. On the left side, a picture of three-year-old Andy, a bowl haircut, crying his eyes out. Next to him, it’s me again from a few months ago. I look wasted, huge black bags under my eyes.

Then the headline: ’LEAVE MY MUM ALONE’ KID IS BACK . . . AND HE GAVE HIS BOYFRIEND CRABS.

Boom!

And then the subheading: DO YOU FEEL OLD ALREADY?

Crash! Boom!

“I remember you.” Ezra sounds fascinated, but Sarah smirks, judging me with her piercing eyes.

Should I try to lie? I mean, the person in the picture is a man in his twenties with a pale face, brown hair and brown eyes. You can’t get more average-looking than that.

Ezra leans forward and puts his hands flat on the table, his face very close to mine. “You can tell us.” There’s a glint in his eyes. “Are you Tuccino’s kid?”

“Well, I . . .” I start, but the words just don’t come out.

What I want to say is that I’m not the son of Rodolfo Tuccino, the heir to the famous fashion empire, as everyone thought I was. But he won’t listen. They never do.

The paparazzi at least thought I was Rodolfo’s son because my mum spent a summer working at the Tuccino’s atelier, and Rodolfo had a reputation. Some idiot put two and two together and got ten. They followed us everywhere, until that day, in front of a Morrisons, they thrust their microphones into our faces. Naturally, I freaked out. I was only three! The picture of me screaming at the paparazzi went everywhere. So did the video. First on the gossip TV shows and a few years later on YouTube. Anyone can find it.

To my horror, Ezra starts reading from the iPad. “Andrew Zachary, the infamous ‘leave my mum alone kid’, is back.” He even puts on a news broadcaster’s voice. “But this time, it’s his boyfriend that wants to be left alone.” Ezra stifles a laugh. It’s hilarious to him. Arsehole. “Local journalist and now ex-boyfriend C.H. reports that Zachary has grown up to be quite the scandalous cheat. Not only that, but he has also become a spreader of highly contagious STDs.”

My face burns with embarrassment. I have to get out of here.

I stand up, knocking over my chair when I grab my things. “Excuse me. I have . . . I have to go,” I blurt out as I edge past Ezra and the receptionist.

“Wait!” Ezra calls after me, but I don’t stop. Not until I get the heck out of this stupid office.

On my way out, some heads look up at me, but I pay no attention to them.

As soon as I step out into the busy street, I pull the mini bottle of sherry out of my jacket pocket and down it in one gulp. I don’t even try to find a quiet corner for my day drinking.

I knew coming to this interview was a bad idea, but Mum convinced me. Surely, it’s been all forgotten about by now, she said. Yesterday’s news, tomorrow’s chip paper. Except it doesn’t work like that, does it? Everything lasts forever online. I just want to move on with my life, but the internet won’t let me.

I’m so deep in my thoughts that I don’t see the bike heading in my direction when I cross the road.

“Watch out!” the cyclist shouts.

I stumble out of the way, but it’s too late. A car horn blurts, brakes screech.

I run as fast as I can to the other side of the road, ignoring the driver’s insults. I won’t stop until I get to my bed, where I can shut myself away.

But then what? Spend another six months locked in my room? Or six years? That won’t solve anything.

I don’t want to. It’s scary. But there’s only one thing I can do at this point.

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