Next Time

One Wednesday, Hannah Stevenson decides she will not go out again until she finds a job.

She decides it over breakfast, while her mother sews a button onto a blouse that is not hers. She repeats it in front of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush in her mouth, and a third time when she opens her phone and sees that her account has not improved since that Saturday.

By the following Friday, however, she is already back in Shoretown.

“Don’t say anything,” she asks Paula.

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“I’m thinking that yesterday you didn’t have enough money to print some notes.”

Hannah smooths down the green dress she likes so much. This time she has paired it with a jacket far too thin for the rain.

“The notes can wait.”

“Economics is a fascinating science.”

“I know. That’s why I study it.”

The nightclub lights unfold over them as though the previous weeks had never ended. There is a considerable queue at the bar. Hannah checks her balance before ordering anything; she does not want to give another public performance with a payment terminal. Her balance is better than it was last time, though not by much. Her mother has lent her money for transport and food.

Hannah does not consider it necessary to tell Paula how much she has already spent on admission. For the first fifteen minutes she does everything she can not to look for Denise. At sixteen, she stops pretending. She looks at the table by the windows, the DJs’ platform, the stairs leading to a private area. A woman in a white suit passes behind a group and Hannah raises her hand hopefully, until she realises it is someone else.

“Looking for someone?” Paula asks.

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Well, a friend.”

“Oh. The one who bought you drinks last time?”

“She didn’t buy me drinks. She rescued me from a banking situation.”

“That usually means she bought you drinks.”

Paula heads for the dance floor. Hannah is left alone with her jacket and her limited patience. She checks Denise’s contact, which still shows the photograph taken in the rain. Their last conversation is short: an argument about which of them looks worse in the picture. Hannah types HELLO and deletes it. Then she types ARE YOU AROUND? and deletes that too.

“Why don’t you send them?” says a voice behind her.

Hannah nearly drops her phone. Denise wears dark trousers, light-coloured shoes and a silk blouse that looks as though it costs more than a family’s rent. She is not dressed in white this time, but Hannah recognises her before she sees her face: by the confidence with which she stops beside her, as though the space already belongs to her.

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to watch you type and delete two messages.”

“I was correcting mistakes.”

“In six words?”

“You have no idea how demanding I am.”

Denise laughs. Hannah wants to hug her, which seems ridiculously excessive after knowing her for just one night. She does it anyway. Denise takes a fraction of a second to respond, then puts her arms around her.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Hannah says.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It’s exactly what you just said.”

“I said I thought you weren’t coming. They’re different things.”

“Completely.”

Denise looks at her with a smile Hannah interprets as the triumph of being right. To avoid giving her any more advantages, she changes the subject.

“Today I can buy my own drink.”

“That’s extraordinary news.”

“So no Platinum.”

“You’ll leave me with nothing to do.”

They order two Frosts, one Frutilla and the other in a short glass with ice. Hannah pays for hers with a solemnity that makes the bartender laugh. The terminal shines white.

“See?” she tells Denise. “I’m very solvent.”

“Congratulations.”

“I could buy another.”

“Don’t.”

Denise raises her hands in surrender. The band playing that night begins a song too slow for the crowd. Impatient whistles, eager protests and the first claps trying to hurry it along come from the dance floor. Hannah listens to a few bars.

“The guitarist’s out of tune,” she says.

“Do you play?”

“Since I was six.”

“And do you sing?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are you any good?”

Hannah shrugs.

“My mother says so.”

“Mothers are contractually obliged to say that.”

“My father does too. And he never lies.”

Denise leans towards her.

“I want to hear you.”

“Everyone says that until I get the guitar out.”

“I mean it.”

The band finally picks up. Hannah lets herself be drawn onto the dance floor for a few minutes and comes back with flushed cheeks, finding Denise where she left her. There is something reassuring about that. Paula can disappear among strangers; her university friends answer messages two days later; her brother lives in another city and remembers to write every so often. Denise, however, stays.

“Do you always come alone?” Hannah asks.

“Not always.”

“What about your friends?”

“They work. Or have other plans.”

“How boring of them.”

“Sometimes I work too.”

“You still haven’t told me what you do.”

Denise watches a waiter trying to pick up a spilled tray while three people argue around him. She waits for him to pass, as though she needs to finish going over a document in her head.

“I run a company.”

Hannah opens her eyes wide.

“What kind of company?”

“Drinks.”

“And you’re the boss?”

“Managing Director, so... yes.”

Hannah sets her glass on the table.

“Seriously?”

“Quite seriously.”

“Which one? I mean, what company is it?”

“Pacific Oldtown Trade.”

It takes Hannah a second to put the words together. She looks at the Frost she is drinking, then back at her.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“The one behind the Frost brand?”

“Frost, yes.”

“But Frost is everywhere!”

“That’s what we try to achieve. It’s very difficult to do.”

Hannah laughs in disbelief. She looks around for someone to tell, but Paula is still dancing and everyone else is a stranger.

“I’m drinking your drink!”

“It isn’t mine. It belongs to the company.”

“It’s a little bit yours.”

“Perhaps. Well, yes, a little bit.”

“And why didn’t you tell me before?”

“You didn’t ask me directly.”

“I asked what you did for work. Several times, actually.”

“I said it took a while to explain.”

“Liar. You just explained it in five seconds.”

Denise laughs so much she has to put her glass down. Hannah feels even more fascinated. It is hard to imagine a woman capable of running a brand advertised on trams, on Shoretown’s screens, in Eastown’s shops, while also laughing with her over an absurd joke.

“And what exactly do you do all day?” she asks.

“Meetings, decisions, more meetings. Some good news, lots of bad news. And making sure everything is still standing tomorrow.”

“It must be incredible.”

“Some days it is. It has its moments.”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I get distracted watching water move inside a glass.”

“I’ve seen that.”

A new song shakes the floor. Hannah wants to keep asking questions, but their voices are buried beneath the powerful bass. Denise points to the dance floor.

“Go on. You can tell me about the guitar afterwards.”

Hannah takes both her hands and pulls.

“You’re coming with me.”

“I don’t dance, especially not to this song.”

“You do now, because you’re coming with me.”

Denise resists just enough to let Hannah believe she has persuaded her.

The following week brings Hannah two unsuccessful job interviews, an Economics class she never quite understands and a minor argument with her father about coming home so late. At the family table, he sets aside his uniform from the Powertown plant and asks whether she is sending out CVs. Hannah shows him her phone with a list of applications.

“I’m looking, Dad.”

“I know, baby girl.”

He does not say it as a reproach. That is worse: Hannah feels guilty for almost three whole minutes. On Saturday she receives a message from Denise. ARE YOU GOING? Hannah looks at the words and smiles so openly that her mother looks up from her sewing machine.

“Who’s writing to you?”

“A friend.”

“The one with the drinks?”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’ve told me the story four times.”

Hannah types: I’LL GO IF YOU CAN GET THEM TO LET ME IN WITHOUT CHARGING A FORTUNE. The reply takes less than a minute. I’LL TAKE CARE OF ADMISSION. THIS TIME, THE DRINKS ARE YOUR PROBLEM. On the third night, Denise is beside the bar when Hannah arrives. There is no Platinum in sight. She greets her with a hug and a warning:

“Don’t make me dance until sunrise. I have a meeting on Monday.”

“Monday’s a long way off.”

“Two days.”

“Exactly. Like I said.”

They go out onto a covered terrace, where Stormport’s almost constant rain slides down glass panels and disappears into a drainage channel. The music reaches them muffled; for the first time they can talk without shouting. Denise asks about the unsuccessful interviews. Hannah describes a virtual recruiter that made her repeat an answer three times because it could not recognise her voice over the noise of nearby building work.

Then she shows her some campaigns she worked on in previous jobs: posts, witty replies to furious customers, simple videos she managed to edit on her phone. Denise looks at the pieces without interrupting. She asks permission to zoom in on one, checks the statistics Hannah still has and opens two more.

“Did you do all this yourself?”

“Well, yes. I didn’t have a robot to help me. That’s too expensive now.”

“The reply to that comment got more engagement than the original advertisement.”

“People were angry. If you talk to them like a person, sometimes they stop shouting at you.”

“And do you know how to manage a website?”

“Two, actually. I also designed forms, fixed broken links and organised messages. The ugly part was when the boss wanted to publish fifty things in one afternoon.”

Denise hands back the phone.

“How much were they paying you?”

Hannah tells her. Denise does not laugh or frown; she simply lets a few seconds pass.

“And are you available now?”

“Ever since I was replaced by an artificial intelligence with the voice of a grumpy lady.”

“You could come and see the office on Monday.”

Hannah blinks.

“What for?”

“I’m thinking of expanding our social media work. We need someone who understands what they’re doing and treats people well.”

“Are you offering me a job?”

“I’m offering you an interview with me. And, if we come to an agreement, the job.”

Hannah opens her mouth. She realises she is smiling too much and tries to close her mouth, but cannot.

“What does it pay?”

Denise does not answer straight away.

“Six thousand two hundred eCoins a month, to start with. Plus performance bonuses.”

Hannah thinks she has misheard.

“Six thousand two hundred? That’s more than my last boss earned.”

“Yes.”

“Per month?”

“Salaries are usually paid monthly.”

“Denise.”

“Hannah.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

Hannah looks back into the nightclub. A couple are arguing beside the door, a waiter is dragging a container of glasses, and above them a screen advertises a new edition of Frost Frutilla. It is the same world as five minutes ago, but now it seems to have changed in size.

“What if I’m not good enough?”

“I’ve seen your work. What I don’t know yet is whether you’ll arrive on time.”

“Of course I will!”

Denise raises an eyebrow.

“Well... almost always.”

“We can start with that almost.”

Hannah laughs, but her hands are cold. She holds one out to Denise, suddenly very serious.

“I accept the interview.”

Denise shakes her hand.

“Monday, nine in the morning. I’ll send you the address.”

“Nine?”

“In the morning.”

“That’s corporate cruelty.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

Hannah cannot help hugging her. Harder and longer this time. Denise closes her eyes for a moment, her cheek against Hannah’s apple-scented hair. By the time the young woman pulls away, she is already talking about what she could buy with her first salary.

“Don’t spend money you haven’t been paid yet,” Denise says.

“Don’t take my dreams away.”

“I’m giving you one.”

Hannah looks at her, surprised by the answer. Denise has already returned to her usual expression: calm, a little amused.

Inside, a song Hannah recognises starts playing again. She throws up her arms.

“This one!”

“Go,” Denise says.

But Hannah takes her hand.

“No. Tonight you’re dancing with me. Life is short.”

And Denise follows her, smiling as they cross the terrace towards the lights.