1
She wasn’t always like this.
It’s Saturday and her alarm goes off at half past four in the morning. Last night’s wine still coursing through her, a near-empty glass sitting on the nightstand. Cassi starts the day, as she does every day, by knocking back what’s left in it. It’s as if she’d thoughtfully prepared a small breakfast in bed for herself before passing out a few hours earlier.
The brown, eighteen-kilo lump at the foot of the bed, aka Maine, doesn’t even bother to look up, but he does stretch all four paws before going back to sleep, while she herself unsteadily throws her feet over the edge of the bed and onto the cold floor. She puts on the same trousers and hoodie she wore yesterday – not a stylistic choice, just one of convenience. That seems to be her thing these days.
In the bathroom, Cassi downs two toothpaste-smeared glasses of water but doesn’t brush her teeth. The fact that her hair, with its split ends and greasy, mousy roots that are a good ten centimetres long, has grown halfway down her back isn’t something that she can be bothered dealing with, so she ties it in a messy ponytail. Her clothes, clearly too big for her newly small frame, hang off her awkwardly. She never looks at herself in the mirror if she can avoid it, but for some reason she decides to do it now. She hardly recognises the face reflected back at her, with chapped lips, hollow brown eyes and washed-out skin.
Anyone who knew the old Cassi would barely recognise her now. The person she once was would have despised anyone who looked this grimy, let alone letting herself get this way. The person she once was had needed at least forty-five minutes to complete her morning routine, an internal checklist for the day she finalised every evening. The old Cassi had had no time for half measures.
If you’re doing something, do it properly would have been her life motto if she’d been the kind of person who needed peppy catchphrases to motivate herself. Before everything happened, Cassi worked out with a personal trainer twice a week and three more times without him. She kept her bright, newly renovated, tastefully decorated flat neat and tidy, with fresh flowers delivered every Friday. She scheduled facials and Botox and hairstyling and eyebrow threading and mani-pedis at a salon as frequently as the beauty therapists recommended. Her clothes always looked brand new. She spent at least ten hours a day at work – doing a job she loved! – and had a relationship with a man she – also! – loved. She put time and effort into her friendships, made sure she kept up with current events as well as the weather forecast and celebrity gossip. She was the one who threw birthday parties, bought presents, issued dinner invitations. Cassi had trained herself to make do with four hours of sleep, her waking hours divided into fifteen-minute increments, her calendar chock-a-block and colour-coded months in advance. She made sure everything turned out the way she wanted. That everything turned out the way it should.
These days, the chances of Cassi running into someone from her old life are remote. She’s no longer in contact with anyone she knew back then. And by ‘back then’, she means a little over a year ago. The undeniable fact of her continued existence is the only proof that former life was actually hers.
One thing, out of all the things, that has happened over the past year is that she has stopped caring so much. She’s learned to shut down. It was a process that took several months, but she came out on the other side a purer self. Stripped down. Clear. As though everything that could be deemed unnecessary had been scraped off, leaving only her core. Her core doesn’t need perfectly plucked eyebrows and lip filler. It barely even needs a bra anymore. She goes through her days thinking as few thoughts as possible.
The basement room she lives in now – or ‘garden flat with en-suite bathroom’, as the ad put it – is in a house owned by a divorced woman she doesn’t know. Her tenancy is a practical solution for both of them. The woman gets to keep her home while making some extra cash and Cassi doesn’t have to worry too much about taking care of it. She leaves her tiny room only when she has to use the kitchen – and every other week she does her best to avoid that too, not wanting to run into the woman’s two sons when they visit. Six and eight years old, they have only one redeeming feature between them: they like Cassi’s dog and don’t mind taking him for walks.
Changing her ponytail into a messy bun, she climbs the stairs to the kitchen and turns on the tap. She grabs an empty plastic bottle from under the sink, which she sniffs half-heartedly before pouring in instant coffee granules. Once the water is hot, she fills the bottle halfway and adds a splash of milk from the fridge. She shakes it a few times then grabs her bag, puts her shoes on and leaves the house.
Getting to work takes only fifteen minutes on the bus if she’s lucky, and on this particular Saturday morning she is. Cassi sits next to the buggy space, drinking from her plastic bottle of coffee while gazing out at misty football fields and desolate roundabouts. The driver listens to a foreign radio station, the incomprehensible words filling the silence.
She clocks in at work no more than five minutes late. She changes into her uniform – beige trousers, a beige chequered button-down shirt worn with a brown gilet – and steps into the hypermarket.
Eight hours later, she changes back into her own clothes and makes the same trip in reverse. At this hour, the buses, the roundabouts, and the football fields are populated by a sprinkling of weekenders. The evening driver is singing a jingle to himself. Children are screaming and phones are ringing all around her; the sounds feel like they’re perforating her eardrums so Cassi gets off two stops early. She takes a shortcut through the woods. Well, maybe not exactly woods – more like a stand of trees, just big enough to play hide and seek or secretly stash issues of Playboy.
She knows this small town like the back of her hand. When she and her friends moved away to Stockholm after school, Cassi had sworn she’d never come back. And yet, here she is. And even though it is in many ways the opposite of where young her had imagined she’d be living at this stage of her life, her basement room is the only place where she feels truly comfortable. Most of her days now are spent waiting for them to end. It’s not that Cassi wants to die, not really. It’s more that she doesn’t want to take part in that thing other people, the people out there, call life. Her own life is lived on the outskirts of society. Her life is what’s contained between the four walls of her room, and when she has to leave to go to work, that life is put on hold. Once, not long after she’d moved in, temporarily buoyed by the relief of being in a place where no one knew who she was or how to find her, she’d organised a treasure hunt for her landlady’s sons and Maine. A simple map with tricky riddles and hidden treasures in the form of tinfoil-wrapped treats for both children and dog. The joy in their little shoulders, the admiration in their eyes had warmed her heart. But that creative surge had been a blip; afterwards, she’d sunk even deeper into lethargy and isolation. The boys still talk about it and ask her when the next treasure hunt will be every time they see her. This saddens her if she thinks about it too much, but it’s not her fault, it can’t be. They need to accept that Cassi’s not their fairy godmother. If anything, she’s more like a troll, only she pays rent to a divorcee and her cave has a mattress.
This Saturday, the house is empty when she gets home. This isn’t unusual, in fact, it’s the very thing that makes it possible to live with a stranger and her joint-custody children. The residents of the house live their lives on different levels, both figuratively and literally. The others spend time together, barbecue, have visitors. They make lasagne. Laughing and shrieking, they chase each other around with water pistols. They watch TV together on Friday night, cuddled up on the couch. Cassi can hear them from the basement, but she wouldn’t dream of joining them.
Maine meets her in the hallway, his tail wagging – at least someone is happy to see her! Even though she knows she’s not supposed to, Cassi lets him out into the small fenced front garden so that he can walk over to his usual corner and do his usual business. Once done, he immediately comes back inside. He’s a dog with the right level of expectations in life.
Cassi boils macaroni and pours herself a pint glass of boxed wine. According to Cassi, red wine is a daytime drink. It’s more like food, nourishment, because it’s opaque and compact. White wine is for the evenings, because it’s abstract – it’s barely even there, really. To the old Cassi, these new habits would have been unthinkable. Absolutely insane, drinking wine at all hours of the day, going to bed with a glass by her bed to drink first thing in the morning. But in the here and now, it feels like a perfectly logical routine. Nothing weird about it. Cassi doesn’t view herself as someone with an alcohol problem. Wine is a tool that helps her get through things. Getting through her days with as little friction and pain as possible, aided by a constant and comfortable alcohol level, that’s what Cassi’s all about now.
When the macaroni’s done, she carries everything down to her cave, where time has stood still since the morning. Maine used to be on a special diet for his stomach, but now he gets regular supermarket dog food. It’s hard on the air quality in the room. The transom windows are hidden behind tartan curtains that match the bedspread that hasn’t been discarded on the floor since she’s lived here. The cushions on the sofa are invisible under piles of clothes but Cassi sits down anyway, pulling her legs in under her. Maine settles in with his head on her thigh. She devours the pasta in a few bites, it’s the first thing she’s eaten today. In many ways, Cassi feels like she lives the life of a seventeen-year-old (she’s actually thirty-seven). It becomes quite obvious when she opens her laptop to watch a show in which British couples, desperate for a change, tour properties in warmer climates. She simultaneously scrolls through her social media. Someone’s been to a family get-together while someone else has stayed at a spa just a few minutes away from her place. There’s also a hen night in full swing made up mostly of girls from her old life. Cassi was invited, but obviously never acknowledged the message.
Now, she has a sudden urge to go away. Far away. Where’s that spa place? No, she doesn’t want to go to a spa. She can’t imagine anything worse than being in a crowd of wet bodies sipping from glasses of lukewarm bubbly, stale strawberries floating on top. What does she want? Present-day Cassi usually tries not to think about things like that, but sometimes the thought pops into her head and every time it’s more annoying than the last. She reaches for her plastic fan and directs the breeze at Maine, who lets out a smug-sounding sigh (the sign of an impending bout of flatulence).
She heads up to the kitchen to refill her pint of wine. When she gets back downstairs, the full box in hand now, the hen night has, according to the most recent pictures posted, moved on to a go-kart track. The party is nowhere near this town, but they still feel intrusively nearby. As though they could appear outside Cassi’s window at any moment and laugh at the state of her.
Should she leave the country? Go join the Britons in Costa del Sol? She sips her wine and googles ‘flat Nerja’, because that’s the town that was just recommended to the prospective buyers on the show. The excitement fades as soon as she sees the prices. She clicks absently on a few other properties, but her interest is already waning. Weariness takes over and as the go-kart winner is celebrated with a plastic trophy and a gazillion jubilant group photos from the most prolific poster of the hen night, Cassi lies down next to the dog and shuts her eyes.
She wakes up a few hours later when the divorcee comes home and yells ‘Cathrin!’ at the top of the stairs. Cassi realises she’s left the used pasta pot to soak in the sink – rookie error. She checks the time on her phone, it’s still early. Cassi chooses a film she’s seen before, tops up her glass, and tries hard to stay away from her social media, to no avail.
“Owning a shack in the woods was never a dream of hers. Liking this ad yesterday had been nothing but a sloppy impulse, if that, possibly just a finger slipping on the screen.”
2
In other words, Cassi was definitely drunk by the time the Facebook algorithm served her up a derelict cottage for sale, on which she clicked ‘like’. She was probably still drunk when she woke up the next morning to find that some rural estate agent had, in a fairly desperate manner, sent her a message about viewing times. His profile picture made her vaguely depressed. His hair was neatly combed and thinning above the ears despite his seemingly young age. He had a forced smile and was wearing a paper-like grey suit that looked as stiff as a theatre backdrop.
That must have been the reason why she didn’t immediately delete his message. She felt sorry for him! Her account was private, so he hadn’t been able to see the utter lack of content on her page. But Cassi’s profile picture – her in an intricate yoga pose on a beach at sunset – could definitely be one of the reasons things turned out the way they did.
Cassi’s had the same job for a long time. Forever. At least that’s what it feels like, when in reality it’s been just over six months. Before that, weeks could go by without her leaving the basement. She can barely remember it, though she does recall dragging Maine out for walks in the rain and freezing cold on nights when she couldn’t sleep.
She wasn’t actually looking for a job. It was Cassi’s landlady who had told her about an ad, urging her to apply. The woman was probably sick of always having her around. Cassi doesn’t expect people to do things for her without an ulterior motive. There’s always one. But even though Cassi wasn’t particularly interested in working, it felt easier to say yes than no. A no would have required her to explain herself to her landlady. And she had to say yes because she’d decided at a very young age that she was never, ever, ever going to end up on benefits. Logically, that meant working, even if she currently had enough savings to get by. A job was the necessary penance to uphold her principles. Had she been a medieval monk, a whip would have been a much better choice.
When she’s at work, Cassi does what she’s supposed to, more or less. Or at least she tries to do things right, although she does clock off early every day. Looking at her now, no one would believe that she used to be a senior manager in charge of fifty employees and every aspect of one of the capital’s most popular restaurants, with queues around the block from opening until closing.
Nowadays, Cassi is a supermarket shelf stacker. She works in silence, doing everything she can to avoid contact with both customers and other members of staff.
‘Don’t just restock where you see big gaps on the shelves,’ her shift manager says in his muted way of speaking. It’s been a few hours since the sad estate agent messaged her and Cassi has yet to reply. The manager points at a lonely marmalade jar. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for smaller ones. They’re easy to miss.’
‘Absolutely.’ She always replies the same way. Her shift manager, who in Cassi’s head is called Tiny Face, studies her, stroking his chin, pondering whether he should clarify his instructions further. The fact that Cassi has replied ‘absolutely’ doesn’t mean that what he’s asking her to do will get done, and he’s probably aware of that by now.
If it were up to her, Cassi would get through her entire shift without stopping once. Unfortunately, she’s required by law to take a thirty-minute break in the middle of the day. Tiny Face doesn’t want anyone else to burn out, so he’s meticulous about the rules and regulations. Thankfully, he can’t dictate what she does on her break – which is everything but sit down and eat. It would never occur to her to eat at work. Not only because she’s so rarely hungry these days, but also because of the revulsion she feels when watching others wolf down food. The smells from her colleagues’ lunch boxes annoy her as much as how badly put together their meals are. Brown goop. Instant noodles with corn. Spaghetti drowning in anaemic-looking sauce.
If Cassi is in the breakroom, it’s only because she’s wasting time. She sits at one of the plastic tables, surrounded by framed motivational quotes like ‘There’s no I in team’ and ‘First coffee, then we change the world’. The one Cassi despises the most says ‘Inspiration. Joy. Community’. The three words feel alien to her.
Old newspapers stagnate on the communal tables for weeks at a time. Cassi cares as much about current events as the detailed list of workplace rules someone has taped up above the sink: very little. One time, when no one else was in the breakroom, she’d replaced it with a child’s Christmas wish list, which she’d found on a seat at the back of the bus. People had laughed. Then the workplace rules had come back. A week or so later, she’d put up a list of that year’s most common baby names, which she’d ripped out of a magazine. People had laughed. Wondered who was behind it. And the workplace rules had come back. The third time around, she was growing tired of her own shenanigans, but was still entertained by her colleagues speculating about who might be behind it. Early one morning, Cassi swapped the workplace rules for an infographic listing the people who earned the most in their small county, which had just been published by an evening paper, and on which the owner of the hypermarket held second place. After that, the workplace rules had come back laminated, secured to the cabinet door with long strips of sturdy duct tape.
It’s raining outside now. Sitting in the corner of the sagging sofa, Cassi tries to focus on her breathing. She has, reluctantly, let go of her fantasies about being sucked into a black hole, but she still reckons it should be possible to, bit by bit, fold her body into itself, a clump of atoms and nothing else. A kind of advanced origami resulting in her complete disappearance. Her focus is disrupted by a discussion about relationships at one of the tables. Or actually, more of a monologue.
‘It’s time you left that loser. He doesn’t deserve you,’ says the woman who’s in charge of fruit and vegetables to the woman who usually mans the customer service desk. ‘Move out, try living alone for a while. Focus on taking care of yourself. Self-care, sweetie.’
Fruit and Veg reaches across the table, grabbing Customer Service’s hand.
‘Loving yourself is the start of a lifelong romance. I read that somewhere, isn’t it beautiful?’
Fruit and Veg doesn’t wait for a response, just ploughs on.
‘You deserve the best. And only by looking after yourself can you truly shine.’
Customer Service nods, wiping her eyes.
Cassi sighs, far too loudly. She finds it pathetic that people think they can tell others how to live their lives, as though they know anything. Both Customer Service and Fruit and Veg glare at her.
‘You don’t have to listen, you know,’ Fruit and Veg snaps. ‘This is a private conversation.’
Customer Service and Fruit and Veg exchange a look of mutual understanding. There’s a brief pause.
‘Speaking of which,’ Fruit and Veg adds, sounding suddenly more energetic. She turns to Cassi, her big forearms resting on the table. ‘I’m going to have to give you notice.’
Cassi doesn’t have time to filter her reaction. She looks up and meets Fruit and Veg’s beady eyes.
‘Eh, excuse me? You can’t fire me, you’re not my boss,’ she says.
Fruit and Veg purses her lips, pulls her mouth to one side. ‘The basement,’ she clarifies. ‘I’m going to be needing the room.’
The last part is delivered with a quick glance at Customer Service.
Fruit and Veg isn’t even trying to sound personable. She and Cassi passed that stage many weeks ago, probably around the time Cassi yelled ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY’ at Fruit and Veg’s sons, who were playing at the top of the basement steps. Because yes, Fruit and Veg happens to be Cassi’s landlady, who also happens to have found her the job she so hates. Cassi obviously knows Fruit and Veg’s name, but she can’t bear to let it into her mind. Acknowledging Fruit and Veg’s name would be like admitting her own inferiority. Her debt of gratitude. And Cassi has no intention of doing that.
‘No problem,’ Cassi says, studying her nails, chewed and splintered. She can still remember how smooth they would feel when she’d step out of the salon with a fresh manicure. ‘I was going to move out anyway.’
Then she stands up and walks out into the warehouse. She nods at Burnout, who’s recently returned from sick leave. Burnout’s hunched over in her chair, writing slowly with a quill on thick paper. It’s a mindfulness exercise her therapist recommended; she explained that to Cassi at some point when Cassi was feeling receptive to small talk. Cassi has noticed that she has an easier time putting up with people who are depressed. Burnout’s also an older woman, quite possibly the last segment of the population Cassi still has some empathy towards.
She goes to fetch the flask she’s stashed for emergencies behind the smoke alarm at the back of the store. It’s precious to her in more ways than one, even though it’s practically empty, and Cassi brings it out to the loading dock, tracing the engraved logo with her fingers before drinking the last few drops. When she goes back to the breakroom, her eyes meet Fruit and Veg’s again. The latter looks like she’s about to say something when Cassi’s phone dings. It’s that sad estate agent again. This time, he’s texting her to ‘gauge her interest in an afternoon viewing’, even though she still hasn’t replied to his last message. To avoid having to look at Fruit and Veg again, Cassi keeps her eyes fixed on the screen.
She hadn’t planned to respond. Why would she? Owning a shack in the woods was never a dream of hers. Liking this ad yesterday had been nothing but a sloppy impulse, if that, possibly just a finger slipping on the screen. The basement room has worked out well for her, she’d intended to stay there until she came up with a better plan. But now, the situation has changed. And action needs to be taken. Her heart hasn’t stopped racing. Cassi feels a powerful urge to get away. It wouldn’t hurt to look, after all. That estate agent might have some other, more appealing properties they could discuss.
As she starts typing her reply, Tiny Face enters the room. He looks at his watch as if to ask why Cassi isn’t back at work – her break ended two minutes ago – before going over to the sink to rinse out his thermos. She can’t bear this place for another second. Not one second. She has cut everyone she knows out of her life and finds it unfathomable that she still has to exist around these people. Which is why she sends the estate agent a thumbs up, then grabs her bag from its hook and announces: ‘I have a temperature, I’m going home.’
The door shuts behind her with a sigh-like sound. Cassi takes a deep breath and smiles to herself.
