Trophy 17 - fruit flies like a banana

I started wearing my dad’s wedding ring on my the first day at the Job Centre Plus. After feeling uncomfortable with the attention girls in uni had been giving me for the past three years, I thought giving off the message that I was taken would keep my female colleagues at a safe distance.

That first morning, when I was getting dressed for my first day at the office, it didn’t occur to me that my mum would sooner or later tell them that I am far from married, nor did I think of the fact that most people only get near their five-a-day if you count forbidden fruits. In a nutshell, my life would be a whole lot easier if I would’ve left the ring at home that day. Once I’d started wearing it, though, I felt there was no way back.

My colleagues and I go for lunch together several times a week. They tell me all about their internet dates, boyfriends and heartache, and I know they’re hoping to hear my secret to a successful relationship. Little do they know the secret is not to have one.

I’ve decided a long time ago that if they ask about my wife, I’ll act surprised, and when they point at my ring, tell them it’s my dad’s. I’ll show them that mum's name is engraved on the inside, and I'll pretend to be well sentimental about the fact that my male role model disappeared when I was at such a tender age – even though in reality, I’m glad I didn’t turn out like him.

Ever since I came up with that escape, I’ve been looking forward to the day someone asks about my ring, yet so far, none of my colleagues has.

Elaine is the first to ask.

And even though it’s none of her business, I shake my head.

After everything that has happened between us, I wouldn’t dream of inviting her into my emotional sphere again. But all she had to do was be here. Look at me. And ask. If I would’ve had some time to think about the script of my own life, I would’ve given myself a line along the lines of “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to. Has Christian Bale gotten back to you yet?”

But my head shook before I could think about it, and my mouth spoke before I could read the autocue.

“I’m not married,” I said, “and I haven’t changed. Neither have you, by the way. You look good.”

What am I doing? Am I chatting her up?
If I am, it seems to be working, as she smiles, takes my hand and scribbles something on the inside of my ringed finger. “Let’s go for a drink later this week” she said.

And instead of denying that I knew her, instead of saying that I never wanted to see her again, instead of transferring her case to one of my colleagues, I looked at my finger and asked: “Is that a nine or a four?”

“A four.”

Trophy 16 - fruit flies like a banana

I'd expected her to be late – like your average parasite – but her timing was impeccable. The second surprise was that she'd actually followed my advice and tried to take more direct action. According to her form, she'd posted her CV on monsterboard, sent her portfolio to a casting agency and went into the Old Bond Street Prada store to apply for a role as store manager.

“Do you have any managerial experience?” I asked.

“That's what they wanted to know.” She shook her head. “But in my defence: the staff doesn't have to know that. I can pretend, you know, that's what I do.”

I gave her the old eyebrow, she copied the gesture innocently, and before I knew it, I was laughing. For customer care, laughing at a jobseeker is about as bad laughing at Madonna's manager is for a stage manager at the O2. I tried to stop, pinched my nose, coughed and excused myself, but when I looked up to her face again, she only needed to lift one eyebrow to make me crack again. I just couldn't help it. Two weeks worth of nerves forced their way out in the most inconvenient way possible. I was well aware that this was applying for a seat at the other side of my desk, but couldn't stop tee-hee-heeing. After a while, I didn't even remember what had set me off. People at the nearest free phones and vacancy machines were looking over their shoulders to see what was going on, and even the security guard noticed.

When I finally caught my breath, I managed to give the worst advice in Job Centre history: “Ever thought of stand-up comedy?”

But Elaine didn't seem to mind. She just smiled. “It's a shame the rest of the world doesn't share your sense of humour,” she said, “otherwise I certainly would.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, “that was very unprofessional. I don't know what's gotten into me.”

She looked at my hands, emphasising how I was fumbling the golden band around my ring finger again, and asked: “So you're married now?”

“I... er... this?”

“I didn't even know that was possible for people like you. Or have you chosen a side now?”

Trophy 15 - fruit flies like a banana

It's been two weeks since Elaine signed up for the dole.

I've been intending to keep this diary, as mum suggested, but was too embarrassed to actually write anything. Every time I sat down to do so, all I could think about was Elaine Johnson.

How long will it take her to get a job (meaning: will I see her again)? Did she recognize me? Does she even remember me? What does she think about what happened in primary school? Does she ever speak about it with her mother? Will she let me know if she recognises me? According to the staff handbook, I'm not meant to be looking after people I know personally - does Elaine know this, and would she ask for another customer service advisor if she did? Do I know Elaine Johnson personally?

I don't even know why I care about these things. None of it matters. Not to me. My life is what it is, hers is unrelated. That's why I didn't write, even though I sat down with pen and notebook almost every day. These pages are not meant to be filled with notes about Elaine. They are meant to be about Terry. This is my diary.

Trophy 12 - Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you'll never see him again.

"Did I ever tell you about Elaine?" I ask.

With a chop stick, Gary tries to push a piece of cucumber out of his rice roll. "Is she a friend of your mum?"

The cucumber slides out, leaving a square hole. I steal it off his plate. They take all-you-can-eat very literally over here, and charge extra for every item you order and don't eat. Knowing Gary, pushing a piece of cucumber out of his sushi is a way of pushing the rules. He just wants to know whether they'll charge him 5p if he leaves it on his plate. I hate it when he does that.

Gary smiles at me and asks "How do you like my rice donut?"

"Gorgeous," I say and watch how he starts filling the hole with wasabi so that it looks exactly the way it did before.

"Elaine and I used to go to the same primary school."

"Damn, were you that young when she popped your cherry?"

Trophy 9 - Christmas is when you get homesick. Even when you're home.

Well, and maybe Santa's. He's stretched out on the carpet, eyeing up a life size statue that resembles Milo's Venus. The great difference is that this figure is not wearing a cloth round its hips, thus revealing the genitals one would expect on a naked Cupid: small, perfect and male.

Santa doesn't seem to be disturbed by my androgynous statue, but I'm not to keen on a second opinion. While I wait for my desktop to start up, I stroke Santa's ears.

“Hey buddy,” I say. “Did I ever tell you about Elaine?”

Trophy 4 - The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.

We walk to her house together and she doesn't ask. Instead, she says: “We'll need to stop at Tesco's to get some more cider. And maybe another packet of bacon. I'm thinking of penne with leek and bacon, but I had two rashers for breakfast already this morning.”

This is why we haven't had a serious conversation since I did my GCSE's. Mum's made an art of avoiding the subject. As if she can sense what's on my mind, her defence mechanisms automatically switch on. Suddenly, I feel I've been waiting for this talk for five years and I'm running out of patience.

She chatters on about five-a-days and how she's gone off Delia Smith lately, when I finally lose my patience at the booze isle.

“You'll never guess who was at my desk today.”

“Who?”

“Elaine Johnson.”

She sighs. “Can we talk about this when we get home?”

“You don't even know what I want to say yet.”

She puts a bottle of Strongbow into her basket and says: “Let's get the groceries first and discuss this over supper, okay?”

I know she'll give me “not whilst I'm cooking” and “can we do this after dinner? It's giving me indigestion” later, but I shrug and shut up anyway. There's no point in making a scene in the supermarket. I don't even know what I want to say, let alone what I want to hear from her.

-----

Go to the opening scene of Trophy.

Trophy 3 - The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.

At five thirty, I go up to the first floor to pick mum up.

“You're mother is a very lucky woman,” Inga says when she sees me, “I'd be happy if I saw my boy once a month.”

Jeanette, who is a foot taller than Inga but no more than half Inga's bodyweight, winks at me. “I'd go insane if I had to see my children every day.”

“So would they, trust me,” says my mum.

“You don't mind if I join you for dinner tonight, do you?” I ask. Her eyebrows twitch, but other than that, she manages to hide her surprise perfectly well from her colleagues. I normally eat with her on Mondays and Wednesdays, but today's meeting with Elaine has been messing with my head. I'm not sure whether I want to talk to someone, but I know for a fact that I don't want to be alone.

-----

Go to the opening scene of Trophy.

Trophy 2 - The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.

She crosses her legs when sitting down at my desk, stuffs her hands between them and hangs her head. According to her CV, she's an actress. She isn't very good at the role of eager jobseeker, though.

“I really tried to find work, but there isn't much out there, you know. Especially not in my line of work.” Her voice is whiny and apologetic, but not genuinely so. She seems to think she has to beg for allowance, as if we're paying her for the show. I'm very conscious of her eyes, which are fixed on the name tag on my lapel, but she shows no sign of recognition. Playing with my father's wedding ring, I pretend to read what she's done to get a job.

“I'm sorry,” I say, “I can't read what it says here.”

She takes the form from me and reads out: “I emailed Christian Bale.”

I raise one eyebrow and brush the hair out of my face.

“I met him two years ago at a party in Shoreditch,” she explains, “and we had a lot to talk about, both being Welsh and such. So he gave me his private email address.”

“And why is that on your list?”

“It's called networking.”

“So your next step would be...”

“Wait till he gets back to me.”

“I see.”

She crosses her arms and says: “You have to be very careful when it comes to approaching famous people, you know. You don't want to ruin your chances by making it too obvious that you want to use them. But I'm working on it. Trust me.”

“Of course, but next time, perhaps you could include some more direct actions.”

She nods, I sign her card and that's it.

“I'll see you in two weeks from now, miss Johnson. Would Thursday morning suit you again, 11 o'clock?”

“That's fine.” She looks up from my name tag and says: “I'll see you then, Terry.”

-----

Go to the opening scene of Trophy.

Trophy 1 - The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.

Elaine Johnson is one of the people I hoped never to see again after I jumped off the roof of my first primary school, aged nine and encouraged to do so by half of my classmates. Sixteen years later, at the wrong side of a Job Centre desk, Elaine looks nowhere near as intimidating. She's wearing leggings and a long blazer in a colour that reminds me of winter skies; a fortune's worth of make up to create a natural look and a straggly blonde ponytail on the top of her head. Though she's been waiting for over twenty minutes already, she doesn't sit down and seems to be hugging herself, as if she's trying to keep out the artificial cheerfulness of this utterly depressing place.

According to my mum, who got me this job in customer care as soon as I graduated, there are three types of people claiming JSA: the ones that want a job, the ones that don't care, and the ones that don't want to work. “The first,” she explained, “are just like us. They're working people, except they happen to be unemployed. They'll try hard to find and keep a job, and usually succeed sooner than they expected. Members of the second category will occasionally find work, but they often lose their jobs and come back to us. They're the ones that sometimes 'forget' to cancel their claim when they've found something temporary. They're also the regulars you'll end up bonding with, because they're much more agreeable than the parasites that don't want to work. Parasites are lazy, arrogant and they look down on us, even though they've got nothing to be proud of. Like your father – who rejected one job because he couldn't use his creativity and the next because it would drain his creativity. They're full of lies and damn hard to get rid off.”

It's obvious that Elaine has grown up to be a member of the last group. Her file is next in my tray and I'm running behind on schedule already because I tried to stretch the interview with one of the regulars. I've had twenty minutes to prepare myself for the confrontation but I'm still not ready. The name Elaine has been on my lips while waking up from nightmares for sixteen years but now that she's here, in my territory, I'm not even sure whether she remembers me.