Shipshape

My constantly hard-up state was a source of entertainment for my colleagues. Then I met Darren... I might need to launch the lifeboat known as Getting A Second Job

I’d been steering the

Good Ship Penniless through the choppy waters of financial difficulties for some months. Ever since Matt and I moved in together. Every month he’d say to me – I worked as a finance assistant, so he left it to me – he’d say, ‘How’s it looking?’ And I’d say something like, ‘Well, there’s the rocky outcrop of Melanie’s wedding expenses to navigate around, but if we can avoid any dodgy currents sucking our cash into unexpected repair bills and…’

Then he’d say, ‘In English, Sarah, please?’

So I’d tell him that we’d be OK with an economical choice of wedding gift and a following wind. And he accepted that.

My constantly hard-up state was a source of entertainment for my colleagues. ‘Will there be any distress flares fired this month, Sarah?’ they’d ask. And I’d give them the original, imagery-rich version of the situation, making them laugh. Really though, I was worried. I thought anytime soon I might need to launch the lifeboat known as Getting A Second Job. Matt told me he couldn’t possibly do this because he already worked very hard and needed to unwind in the pub sometimes in the evenings. He did spend more evenings in the pub than you’d expect for a cash-strapped person, but we both had a small allowance, so how he spent his was up to him. He made it clear he certainly wasn’t going to be spending any evenings in the local chicken factory or catalogue warehouse anyway.

Next payday, I was regaling my colleagues with my monthly, financial strategy as usual, when a new customer overheard and asked if they could speak to me.

‘You’re funny,’ she said, and it was lucky she didn’t pause too long, because I couldn’t think of an appropriate response. ‘Would you fancy a spot on our community radio money show? Just 10 minutes, maybe? We’re all volunteers so there’s no pay, but it’d be fun.’ I thought for 30 seconds then accepted, and one evening a week later I was inducted into the team by a chatty guy named Darren. He was the Proper Money

Guy; I was light entertainment. So, the usual induction stuff – coffee breaks, toilets, fire alarms, and colleagues. And then one conversational thing led to another and he offered me some free financial advice.

‘You should be doing OK, though, with your boyfriend’s job. Didn’t you say he’s a manager? I know someone who’s a manager at the same place and he’s on a good wage.’

‘Oh no,’ I said, fool that I am. ‘They don’t pay well at all.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘Are you sure?’ he said. I had no idea what Matt was paid, but I didn’t say that.

By the following week, my foolishness was clear for all to see when he took a plane to Ibiza with the busty blonde from Accounts and no obvious intention of a speedy return. Turns out me and Matt were all washed up and I hadn’t realised. He’d been top-slicing his salary before making his contribution to the joint pot, effectively obliging me to shore up his lifestyle and his affair. And now I was mere jetsam, thrown away without a second thought. Gloomily, I decided I didn’t deserve a job as a finance assistant; I didn’t even deserve a fun post as a quirky radio volunteer. But I wasn’t about to leave either; I needed the money from one and the distraction of the other.

Over the next few weeks I made arrangements to rent a smaller place, made a few economies Matt would never have agreed to and generally got my finances into a better state. And I saw quite a bit of Darren, both in work and out of it. He gave me advice; rebuilt my self-esteem; laughed with me, not behind my back. And OK, it helped that he had kind, blue eyes that crinkled when he was puzzled. And a slow smile. And that he was totally dedicated to the community radio idea, connecting the local lonely and disengaged. We’re not talking about moving in together or anything but, if we ever did, I think I could be pretty sure he’d be honest with me about stuff. Especially financial stuff.

And then, just last week, as compliments had started coming in for my little radio slot, someone from the regional station rang, asking me in for an ‘informal chat’.

‘We like your style,’ they said, once I was seated in their state-of-the-art studio. ‘You’re different.’ And I knew what they meant; I used to feel like that watching Wincey Willis. ‘You could do something similar on finance for us, or you could do a slot along the lines of Not The Shipping Forecast or…’

‘Would I still be able to work in community radio, do you think?’

‘Ah…’ They looked uncomfortable. ‘No, sorry. We require exclusivity in broadcasting terms. You could be a hairdresser the rest of the week if you wanted, or continue as a finance assistant or whatever.’

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry, I wouldn’t be able to work here.’ And then I left and headed back to the humble back room, which served as the community studio, and Darren. It was early days for our budding relationship, but I intended to give us every chance I could of sailing happily, and financially solvent, into the sunset together.

THE END