Chapter One

E R R O R

May 15th

4 0 4 // E R R O R.

Ever feel like you're searching in the wrong place?

I hit the refresh button again but the same damn message springs up. At least the 404 internal server error and I are on the same page. Maybe it can read minds, or maybe it's just an ironic metaphor because I'm currently in the ladies toilets, desperately holding my phone up like I'm at some teeny boppers concert, trying to catch the dulcet tones of an auto tuned chorus. In reality I'm hoping that the fourth floors Wi-Fi signal will filter down to the third and I'll be able to get a stronger connection.

There's a knack to stealing something intangible - you've just got to find it's sweet spot. Which for the last few months has been in the second to last cubicle in the ladies loos - the one with the slack door hinges, cracked seat, and the nearly illegible ramblings of contributing editor Beth McKenna, back when she'd gone through a pretty turbulent divorce.

Tracing the words All Men Are Pigs with my finger some of the black eyeliner rubs off, and I try once more to connect to the web page.

Nothing. Zilch.

4 0 4 // E R R O R.

Ever feel like you're searching in the wrong place?

The message reads like something you'd typically find in a stale fortune cookie or on some badly printed, laughably ironic t-shirt down on Camden Road.

Refreshing the page furiously as if I'm attempting morse code does absolutely bugger all. I'm still stuck. Hitting the same wall - a 404 cryptical error.

Panic takes over, stakes claim to my mind like cordyceps on a first world problem rampage. And even though it's not quite a life or death situation it's pretty close in the all consuming microcosm of aspiretobe.co.uk, which I inhabit five days a week, from nine to five.

This should really only be a two minute task, three tops. All I need to do is verify the official hours of a new trendy circus themed cocktail bar and club that's just opened in Shoreditch. All this effort meant for a Top Ten Trendiest Bars feature that I should have finished writing, and submitted to the desk of Allie, our copy-editor precisely 1 hour and 32 minutes ago.

But nothings ever quite that simple when it comes to churning out these stupid lists that have kept me in food, cheap wine, and shelter for the past four years. I know this. We're not stamping out world hunger or finding a cure for cancer but when you're in it - such an overwhelming work environment, not getting an article out about the latest life enhancing after-hours joint can really feel like you're letting humanity down.

Which is what I'm currently doing one less completed Top Ten features list at a time. Denying our loyal readers the chance to drink fifteen pound cocktails under lycra clad trapeze artists and the bass of nonsensical EDM, and house music.

You might think there'd be some leeway considering the whole of the third floors internet is down but such a crucial spanner in the works doesn't really cut it here. Not to Norine Donham at least - senior editor and chief whip at the country's seventh most popular Women's online lifestyle site.

Internet or not I'm still way behind the deadline and if I don't sort something soon I'll have to suffer the consequences. Namely passive aggressive 'chats' with Norine about my time keeping, and general lack of focus. It's not exactly how I want to spend the rest my friday afternoon. My patience is already wearing thin, and my much debated focus has faded, because no matter how many times I hoist my phone up in vain, I still get the same message, now followed by a rather unhelpful apology.

4 0 4 // E R R O R.

Sorry. We can't find what your looking for. Please try again in a few minutes.

It's time for a new plan of action. And if I'm quick enough - deploy some serious ninja like skills then I might just be able to sneak out and reach the lift before Norine in her glass panelled watchtower catches me. Maybe I can make it down to the main lobby and hot foot it over to the Turkish cafe across the street, where they've got an impeccably fast optically enhanced Wi-Fi connection and great tea.

I decide to take my chances and chuck my useless phone into the deep abyss of my fake Mulberry handbag. Slightly annoyed that I'll have to escape without my umbrella and run the risk of getting soaked in the downpour I can hear trickle through the metal pipes above. But it's a sacrifice I'm just going to have to make, for the good of mankind - for our eager readers and their constant thirst for knowledge of what's hot and what's not.

As I fumble for the lock, the ladies heavy door swings open and hits the plaster wall. I hear a rush of footsteps and then the sobbing starts. Angling my body like a contortionist into the cubicles shadows, I hope I can hold my breath so I can ride out whatever's just that's blown in.

I've got somewhere I desperately need to be. My latest Top Ten list isn't going to write or publish itself.

But the crying intensifies, louder and more erratic than my flatmate Abbie watching abandoned dogs being paired up with their forever families on the telly. Which she does often when her fiancé Dave works nights and I'm left to deal with the aftermath.

I'm not sure if there's such a thing as a signature style of sobbing but after a couple of minutes I begin to wonder if it's Louisa Jacobs, our health editor. Who might might've finally realised that her transatlantic fling with Brett, a New Yorker she met at some yoga retreat over Easter break just wasn't going to work out. Maybe she'd stopped subscribing to Kelly, our resident online psychology experts poor advice to keep the faith, and continue to repeat a jumble of positive mantras at her desk when in times of doubt.

Slowly and cautiously I lower my head, keeping my hands steady on the door in an attempt to see if the trainers match the neon pink soled ones she always wears but it's not her.

The sobbing continues, and a rush of water spills from a tap. Furious tugging at the paper towel unit, which always jams follows.

'Oh for fucks sake.' It's the cry of someone on the brink.

Ducking my head under the door again, I realise it's not anyone familiar from the office, definitely not Louisa or Annabelle Copes, our junior entertainment editor - known for being overtly melodramatic and a bit of a cryer.

I suck in another breath, and hold it. So far I'm doing well. The running water ceases and the metal bin lid slams. Just a few more seconds. One more and I'll be alone again. I balance my hand gently on the flush so I don't topple over. But the jigs up. The chugging cistern behind me kicks into action and water swirls in the toilet bowl. Swallowing up any shred of inconspicuousness I've tried to maintain.

"Hello?" She calls out, and there's a little crack in her voice. This isn't going to end well. How else do you own up to hiding intentionally or not in a toilet without loosing any dignity? Without feeling like a creepy peeper or worse, someone who completely lacks compassion, freezes up at the first sound of distress?

"Hello? Is someone in here?" She's definitely onto me now, pacing slowly back towards the sink. Tip toeing along the tile floor, stopping a couple of feet away. "I can see your shoes, you know."

Busted.

I push the flush down hard and pause for a moment before sliding the lock. Sheepishly I peer out from behind the door, and cough.

"Sorry. I was just finishing up when you came in," I say, keeping my tone cheery, upbeat. Not at all creepy.

"Have you been in here the whole time?" she asks, wiping away at her eyes. Mascara stains her cheeks. Her eyes are blotchy and red raw. When I step out and approach the sink they grow wide. She stares at my reflection in the mirror, then back at her own, understandably still wary of my presence - the lurker in the ladies toilets.

I try to calm her fears by offering up some kind of weak explanation.

"I was trying to get Wi-Fi in there," I nod back to the cubicle with a shrug. "The internet seems to be down at the moment. My phone's not working either."

The girl continues to stare through my admission, her lips tight, brow set low in a frown. There's clearly no pity for my predicament.

I feel like I'm on trial.

Turning on the tap to wash my hands, I try once more. "Really, I'm only in here for the Wi-Fi. I'm not some random weirdo. Promise." I lift up my I.D lanyard that's round my neck, point to my credentials.

Jemima Clarke - Junior Features Editor

Aspire To Be

She peers down at the photo and steps back like it's given her a proper fright, which isn't an uncommon reaction. Her expression is one I've witnessed many times, because I look like one of those old-timey Victorian ghosts. A spectre washed out by the heavy strip lighting turning my skin deathly translucent and pale. With eyes like black gapping holes because the printer packed up mid way through my first day induction. Tracey in HR promised she'd replace it, and yet four years later here it is, still hanging round my neck like a burden.

I clear my throat and flip the lanyard over. "It's an awful picture I know."

"You work here?" she asks voice shaking, though she finally looks up and releases her grip on the sink. Her face is ashen white, like she really has seen a ghost. "Aspire To Be, as in the website?"

"Sure do. That's the one."

"Jemima Clarke," She repeats my name, chews it round in her mouth. "You write those Top Ten lists right?"

"That's me," I reply with fake optimism and then surprise. Kids her age aren't the demographic I usually cater for.

Studying her face again for any familiarity I wonder if maybe she's someones niece or little sister coming in for the day to write about our workplace for a school report. Dodging a dull tour of the departments. It happens sometimes, it's just usually we're told in advance. A life saving rule put in place to stop some of the editors from turning up with their kids unannounced during half-term, which is a special kind of chaos the office always struggles to recover from.

"Cool." She smiles back weakly. Tears still spill out but she's lucky enough not to have crows feet yet to catch them all. She's young. Youthful. All tight skin, no blemishes, and perfectly applied eyeliner that's relatively unscathed in spite of the continuing waterworks. They're also expertly flicked out to the side of her lashes, which makes me want to ask for some tips but I doubt she's really in the mood to give away such a secret.

"Something like that. They're just lists," I reply less enthusiastically than I planned on, my attention still stuck trying to figure out how she get's the eyeliner to sweep out in such impeccable even lines.

Casually she brings her long dark hair forward. It falls in mermaid-like waves down past her shoulders, and I wish I'd been less trusting of the hairdresser who'd convinced me to add more layers to mine, before cutting too much off. It's taken months to grow it back to a more manageable, less 'abandoned scarecrow' state.

If I was ten years younger, I'd take a picture of her, cut it out and keep it as a guide, because in spite of the tears and slightly puffy cheeks she's still effortlessly cool. Practically radiates it, aided along by the thin silver hoop earrings that peek out from behind her hair to the striped crop top she's wearing, and the spray on black skinny jeans that I'd have to schedule a whole day off for just to get one leg in.

"My sister subscribes to your Top Ten weekly features," she says, peering down at her feet like she's ashamed to admit such a thing.

I smile, pretend it's a compliment. Then I lean in, and quietly ask if she's okay. "I don't mean to pry but you sounded pretty upset just now." Really it's the last thing I want to ask but what else can I do? I can't just wash my hands and leave. Not when she's giving me the doe eyes, hovering by the sink with tears still rolling down.

"It's just... nothing. Just me being stupid... well it's not but-" She pauses, another sob escaping. "Do you have any tissues, or like a make up wipe I could use? There's no paper towels left." Just for dramatic effect she slams her palm hard against the unit and the empty echo reverbs off the thin plaster board walls, rattles the door hinges.

"Got tissues in here somewhere. Hold on a minute." As I dig through my bag I realise I'm definitely not the right person to be dealing with such a situation. I can just about tolerate Abbie and her puppy dog shelter weepfests once a fortnight, and I do that by bringing her ice cream, then hiding out in the kitchen until I'm sure she's pulled herself together.

This girl poor deserves better. She needs a person who can be patient and listen without judgement. Who wants to listen, has the time too.

Someone ready to dish out an endless supply of ice cream to clear out the tears.

I don't have such a luxury to hand, and I know we certainly don't have any chocolate left in the office as a last ditch option. Not since Louisa switched to a diary free diet and made the rest of the department vow to follow suit.

A really good and decent person would offer out a shoulder to cry on, and perhaps some wine but she looks underage and the travel size bottle I've been keeping in my filing cabinet is nothing but an empty keepsake from an all-nighter I pulled before a big deadline a few weeks back.

I'm not at all prepared. I never asked for this. All I wanted was a few seconds of Wi-Fi - a quick connection.

"Thank you," she says quietly, pulling out a tissue from the pack I offer out. "God I look such a disgusting mess. No wonder he doesn't want me anymore."

It's obviously my cue to be reassuring but I miss the mark. After some silence and awkward glances, she turns away from the mirror and slumps down against the wall. Her trainers squeak across the tiled floor as she buries her head in her hands.

"I can't believe he's done this to me, especially today," She repeats, over and over until I've got no choice but to crouch down low opposite her. "He doesn't care at all."

"Who doesn't?" As soon as the words are out I know I've made a big mistake. I should've just pretended I didn't hear.

Bugger. I've well and truly opened up the flood gates now.

"My boyfriend," she replies, before shaking her head. "Actually he's my ex-boyfriend now. Dumped me. I was on the tube on my way over here when I got a text message. He said something like he isn't "ready for a relationship" and that he doesn't even want a girlfriend anymore, blah blah blah." She's talking so damn fast I struggle to keep up, forgetting the words just as quickly as they form in her mouth and spill out. "But I know that's a lie, total bullshit because he's kept his status as "in a relationship" and changed his profile picture to him and some new girl. How fucking insensitive is that?"

"They have Wi-Fi on the tube?"

She lifts her head, and gawks. "Did you not listen to a word I said?"

Shifting uncomfortably, with a cold numb bum I backtrack, stumble over words. "Uh, of course I did. Sorry, it's just you said the word Wi-Fi and it reminded me-" I cut myself off before trying again with what she expects, probably wants to hear. "...That's terrible. Really. Horrible of him. What a bastard."

Blowing her nose hard into the tissue she continues."He is right? I should never have trusted him. Like he cheated on my friend like four months ago, but I just didn't believe he'd do that to me as well. Alex said he'd changed, that it was different with me."

I can barely digest the information she prattles out at such rapid speed. "Whose Alex?"

Her eyes furiously shout duh but her mouth says, "My boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Alex."

"Shit. Well, I guess you're better off without him if that's what he's really like?"

"Maybe but right now I just feel broken. Like he's reached into my chest and set fire to my heart."

In a perfect world I should be able to tell her not too worry so much. That she'll get over it - we all do one way or another. How her heart won't feel so bad tomorrow, or the day after and how in years to come she'll forget just why she ever cared about him in the first place, or wasted her energy, because life goes on even when it feels impossible.

And I should be able to give some kind of reassurance that it gets easier too with the opposite sex but I can't. I'm not that much of a liar. Heartbreak hurts at any age, regardless if it's the first time or the hundredth. Because he won't be the first, and sadly he certainly won't be the last.

Still, she's young enough to learn from her mistakes, or make more of them. Even if it hurts. Time and gravity is on her side. She's not a lost cause.

"You know what they say about boys though," I smirk trying to lighten the mood because it's long overdue and I worry that I might have to call HR, and get them to come scrape her off the toilet floor at this rate if I don't.

Solemnly she shrugs, twisting the loose laces of her trainers between her fingers. "What do they say?"

With a grin I offer out a hand, and slowly rise back to my feet in the hopes she'll follow suit. "That boys are just like toilets - they're either taken or full of crap."

It works, seems to blow away any lingering tears.

"Oh god," she groans slowly, which after a pause turns into hearty laughter. Taking my hand she hauls herself up and when I turn to face the sink and mirror her reflection smiles back brightly. "That's a good one."

"I know it's bit lame but it helped right? Just a little?"

"It did," She nods and we stand together for a moment in contemplative silence. For the first time I don't feel awkward. I'm not mentally planning for an escape.

"Well, that's a start."

Scraping back her hair to blot the sides of her cheeks with the left over tissue, she nudges my side. "Thank you. I know the last thing you probably need is some cry baby like me taking up your time. I didn't want it to be this way."

"It's fine. Not a problem," I reply, patting her gently on the back because she's actually kind of bearable, sweet even when she's not crying rivers.

"I feel so silly right now, and embarrassed. Can you just forget that this ever happened, pretend like you didn't witness any of this?" She points to her tear stained cheeks before letting out a small chuckle.

"Don't be feel bad, honestly. We all have our moments."

Fiddling with her hair she sighs, "Yeah but as first impressions go, this one sucks."

I tell her I've had worse. And I ham it up a bit so she doesn't feel as awful.

"Can I keep these?" she asks, already placing a hand down on the tissue packet. "Just in case."

"Sure."

"Thanks."

Slinging my bag over my arm, I push them over. "Unfortunately, I do need to get back out there and do some work." I scrunch my face up in mock disgust. She laughs again.

"I'm okay. I mean I'll be okay," she says, quietly brushes out the creases in her jeans. "I'm gonna just take a few more minutes in here but honestly you're free to go."

"If you insist," I joke. "Fingers crossed they've sorted out the damn internet."

"I'm Ruby by the way."

"Nice to meet you. Maybe next time it'll be under better circumstances."

She casts her gaze down and slowly nods. I take it as my cue to head towards the door. Pulling it open I catch her staring down at her phone. The screens blank but I know that even if it is she's still thinking about the words and message it still holds - the cause of all her tears, and current heartache.

I feel bad. Genuinely so and even though I'm under no illusion that it'll make anything remotely better, I try and impart a little bit of wisdom, straight from a past column of Rachel, our resident love relationship guru.

It might not mean much right now but maybe it will after I've gone.

"Ruby," I say, almost like a whisper. The words aren't mine. I'm not that original but it doesn't matter. "Make sure you take care of that little heart, because it's the only one you've got."

. . .