Page 13 of The Happiness Blueprint
“Good morning!” I say in a voice resembling a cheery primary teacher welcoming her class to a day of endless mental math practice. I’m wearing my large hoop earrings. When they hit my cheeks regularly, I know that I’m smiling and nodding enough. I often wear earrings to help me remember to smile. Today I am going for every forty-five seconds, since this is asemiformalmeeting.
“Morning,” he grunts. I get no hand stretched out in response to mine. Mateusz is a strawberry blond man in his late forties who would benefit from walking more, eating less and washing better. Orthodontics would also be advisable. He must be a very good carpenter, I conclude, watching him walk into the office with a reusable cup in hand.
“Usually there is coffee brewing when we arrive,” he grumbles, appearing in the doorway again. “Now I’ll be late for my first appointment.”
There was no question there to answer so I simply smile, the earrings dangle, and I remain in position as welcome committee to anyone who arrives in the parking lot.
The next person to arrive is Ram, who appears quieter, not particularly smiley but nevertheless polite enough to greet me.
“Nice to meet you. Do you need anything?” he says as he pulls his ash-colored hair back into a ponytail. He is the youngest of the employees, but he is probably still ten years older than me.
“Thanks, I’m all right at the moment. I was going to ask you the same thing. Let me know what I can do to make your work easier. That’s why I’m here.” My earrings dangle.
Mateusz cuts in, exiting with his coffee in hand, pushing his chin forward when he speaks. He has obviously forgotten that only minutes ago he was complaining about having to do a very simple thing himself as he remarks, “We are used to running things ourselves.”
“Right, great, that’s good to hear. I will just be back-office support.”
“Like our secretary? Great. Do you mind making a good cup of coffee next time?” Mateusz says. I ignore the insult for the sake of peace and the good of the company.
“I’m hoping to learn a lot as well,” I reply.
“There are schools for that. This is a workplace, hon.”
Thankfully, Gunnar rushes in, saving me from answering. He is the oldest in the team, about my dad’s age, a slim and muscly man.
“Good morning, Klara. Let’s go inside, shall we?”
When Mateusz has left, I pluck up the courage to speak again.
“So there will be just one small change while I’m here. You can use the fridge for your lunches and other foods, but please keep the fridge’s penthouse free,” I say. Blank stares meet me from two sets of eyes.
“That would be the top right compartment in the fridge door, to you nondiabetics. Perhaps where you would keep your butter. It’s where my insulin lives. Lastly, please refrain from bothering my father while he’s out. He needs rest. You can bring up any problems or other issues with me, and I’ll deal with them.” More blank stares. I force a smile again, making sure I can feel my earrings as they gently brush my cheeks, and decide this is good enough for now. “So I guess that’s it, then. Thank you all.”
Gunnar and Ram fill their thermoses, and they all leave in their vans, a line of white vehicles splattering dust on one another as they drive just that little bit too fast. I walk back inside the office and pick up a sponge. I wipe the area around the coffee machine. I can only hope these men have greater precision in their craft than they do when filling travel mugs.
The first half of the morning went smoothly. I responded to emails and fixed appointments. I’ve made a template email to make this process quicker, much like I had standard responses at YourMove. I only had two near brushes with death while driving (or rather, the van had one brush with a lamppost and one with a box of tiles), which, keeping in mind the size of the van and the fact the only vehicle I’ve driven recently is a supermarket shopping trolley, has to be considered a success.
At midday I packed a bag and waited to be picked up by Mateusz, who was meant to show me our biggest ongoing project.
“Let’s go,” I tell my pump, glancing down at my tummy where it’s currently placed, as his van comes into sight. I open the front passenger door to find his backpack and leftover McDonald’s lunch on the seat.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask politely. He laughs but doesn’t stretch out a hand to move it for me. Usually people move their bags when I ask them this on the Tube. I begin to close the door to get in the back.
“Chuck it in the back, will you, and hop in.”
“Sure. Thank you.” I clench my knees together until my inner thighs are sore, trying to take up as little space as possible. The van has an unfamiliar smell, and it’s very much in need of a wash. I wish there was some soothing music playing, but Mateusz appears a fan ofBest of Eurovision 2005.
“You don’t look Swedish.” His teeth are even bigger close-up, and he seems to have used whitening only on the front ones. Maybe he ran out. “Where is your mum from?”
Well, surprise, we can’t all be blonde Viking goddesses. Some of us are dark-haired, short and plump.
“My mum is from Gothenburg, Sweden,” I share.
I can conclude that Mateusz does not follow my rule of ten percent below the speed limit. I try to calculate which percentage he hovers at, but my math skills fail me. In this instance I’m grateful as it shortens the journey significantly. We’ve stopped outside a large, leafy nursery playground, and I unbuckle my seat belt before the engine is turned off.
“There’s a litter bin on your side,” he says as I open my door to get out.
“Yes, there is.” I’m unsure what’s so special about this bin, but I study it carefully when I wait for him to take his things and catch up with me. It’s green, which seems a good color choice for blending in with the trees around us. When I peek inside, I see that it’s not even half-full, which indicates that it has been recently emptied. There is no time to googlesmall talk about litter bins. I’m wondering if I should say something intelligent, and what that thing might be, when Mateusz appears and dumps the brown bag with leftovers into it.
