Page 45 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
‘No,’ I reminded myself, flicking back throughThe Guide: ‘Negative talk will only take you to negative town, Alice. Come on, Alice – don’t erect those mental blocks – maybe this upcoming merger is an opportunity?’ I finished my glass of wine in a fortifying way, and shut my eyes.
‘I believe,’ I said. ‘I believe like the Universe believes in me.’
Then I repeated my manifestation about having a job. And I imagined me walking into work tomorrow, bright and early, hair swinging, Lydia on security standing up straighter and beckoning me through, a look of respect in her eyes. And then me up on my floor, the team gathered round my desk, taking notes, learning from me. And then me and Guy Carmichaelwalking towards the lifts, going off for lunch together. And then me and Guy Carmichael in the lifts and him turning to me with unrestrained animalistic desire in his eyes and saying,About touching in, Alice…
I opened my eyes and looked at my surroundings: if I could manifest this house in Chiswick, I could manifest more.
I’ve got this.
I have totally got this.
I am letting go of:
Saving the rest of this bottle – it does say ‘best enjoyed now’ and it is important to relax and unwind and get the full biodiverse benefits.
Date: Wednesday 4 JanuaryTime: 5.05pm
My thoughts and reflections:
I booked out this privacy meeting booth so I could spend some time reflecting and thinking in peace – obviously I’ve got my laptop in front of my journal if anyone looks in, so it seems like I’m working. But I’mnotworking because I’ve been here all day and I can’t be bothered now; it’s not like anything important ever happens on the first day back. Frankly it’s ridiculous, given they’re always talking about wellbeing in the workplace, that no one more senior has suggested a staged return to work after Christmas – something sensible like ten to three would work. I’ve certainly been ready to go home since three.
It wasn’t the ideal start to the day: I slept through my alarm and then woke up with a headache and a dry mouth. It’s the biodiverse wine of course – I mean when you actually think about it, you’re putting your life in someone else’s (probably unwashed) hands when you go the biodynamic route as they’re not subject to the same regulations you get with chemicals and stuff. In fact, the more you look into it, the more you realise you’re effectively subjecting yourself to something that could be moonshine. I should have exercised greater caution with the Friulano: I’m lucky I haven’t gone blind. I certainly shan’tbe finishing off the second bottle I opened last night, and will mention to Astrid and Aziz they may want to stick to proper sulphite-rich wine from now on.
I stood behind a woman with a huge ponytail on the tube and every time the train slowed down, she whipped her head round to peer anxiously out the window and check the station, thus flicking me right in the face. It wouldn’t have been so bad but she’d evidently just had a haircut, as the ends were blunt and uniform, plus she’d used straighteners, so the whole situation was genuinely hazardous and extremely abrasive. And then when I arrived at the building, my ID card didn’t swipe properly and joy of joys, it was Lydia on security, who hates me for some reason. This morning, Lydia was on her phone, texting, and she didn’t even attempt to hide the fact. When I tried to ask her for help, she just held up her left hand, in my face, cutting me off mid-syllable, and said, ‘Wait.’ But then when the Head of Foreign Rights came in, after me, and without his card, she immediately stopped texting and used her special card to open the gate and waved him through with a ‘good morning’ and a smile! So I loudly said, ‘Excuse me, I’ve been waiting for a while and I really need to get into the office but my card’s not working.’
And she took it from me, without even glancing at me, and studied the card and said, ‘You’ve got the wrong name on the card; it won’t work.’
‘No, it’s the right name so could you swipe me through?’
And, then she did look at me. ‘No, it’s wrong. It says Alice. You’re Alison.’
‘I’m not.’
And she turned away in irritation, pursed her lips andtapped on her computer and said, ‘Yes, you’re Alison – it says on my system. Can’t let you through now. It’s a security risk.’
‘But I work here. I have done for three years. You know me?’
Lydia folded her arms and shook her head.
Just then, Drunk Stephen appeared at the lifts carrying a package which he handed to Lydia for a courier. And Lydia was all smarmy and nice to him, so I said, ‘Stephen, can you tell Lydia my name is Alice, not Alison, so she’ll let me in? I’m already late for work.’
And Drunk Stephen said, ‘Yeah, you really are – you’ve missed the 9.30 team catch-up.’
Lydia stopped smiling. ‘Her card says Alice. Can’t let her through. Got to be the right name.’
And Drunk Stephen looked at me, and then Lydia. Then he shook his head at me like I was a proper nuisance. ‘Alison, Alison, Alison,’ he said. ‘Always making trouble.’ He turned back to Lydia and raised his eyebrows in solidarity with her. ‘Lydia, any chance you’d just swipe Alison through for now, and we’ll contact HR and get the typos sorted?’
Lydia drummed her fingers sullenly. ‘I’m putting myself on the line for you, Stephen,’ she said, before swiping me through.
I had to spend the whole stomach-lurching lift journey up to the seventeenth floor listening to Drunk Stephen giving me graphic details about sex with New Steven, whilst enduring more mocking about Decorator Dave and this latest wrong-name fiasco, with him hilariously and repeatedly calling me Alison. Okay, the lift journey is in reality only seconds but I wasn’t in the mood this morning and as I said to Drunk Stephen, given the adverse effects of biodynamic wine production on my system, and the fact that the lift makes me feel a bitpukey at the best of times, he’d better be a bit more careful about stressing me. And that if he told anyone at work about Decorator Dave, I’d wear espadrilles into the office every single day. Drunk Stephen swallowed. He finds espadrilles really offensive. ‘Canvas?’ he checked.
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Wicker.’
He gasped. ‘That’s so low.’
But as I said to Drunk Stephen, needs must.
So frankly, it was an ordeal even getting to my desk. And then I only had time to get my laptop out and log on, before rushing off to the bathrooms, because it was a whole division briefing with Guy Carmichael at 10.30 and I wanted to touch up my make-up first. Yaz was her usual self – ‘Off already, Alice?’ she called after me, ‘You’ve just arrived! Going to do your make-up, I suppose?’ She’s like a prefect, with her pen pot and little disinfectant wipes and disapproval.
