The Transition

‘It says it’s a “fully holistic approach to getting our lives back on track”. It says they give us advice on being married. As well as the financial stuff. We’ve been married four years! It’s enormously patronising. And what about privacy?’

‘I’m not trying to argue that this is a good thing, G.’

‘It’s humiliating.’

Karl looked at her. Saying he was sorry seemed redundant.

‘You’ve read this?’ said Genevieve, flicking to the fifth page. ‘There’s a section on healthy eating. There’s a section on how to vote. A generation suffering from an unholy trinity of cynicism, ignorance and apathy,’ she read. ‘That’s you and me, honey.’

‘It’s certainly me,’ said Karl. ‘You’re just getting dragged down by the rest of us.’

‘And who are they, anyway? Are we randomly assigned? Is it like a dating website?’

Karl looked at his feet. They had already been allocated mentors. Once he’d agreed to the terms and signed and dated two documents, the process had been seven mouse clicks on the other side of the notary public’s desk.

‘Do they pick us out like puppies?’

‘We meet them tomorrow,’ said Karl.

‘Oh God,’ said Genevieve. ‘What are their names?’

‘Stu. Stuart Carson. And Janna Ridland.’

‘Janna,’ said Genevieve. ‘Janna. The name sounds half empty.’

‘You’re doing this to keep me out of prison. Do you need to hear me say how much I appreciate it?’

Genevieve turned and kicked her legs over his. She shuffled closer.

‘This is what I don’t like, Karly, we’re –’ she put her head on his shoulder – ‘we’re going through the same ups and downs young couples have always gone through, and they’re treating us like we’re an aberration.’

Karl took a sip of his tea.

‘I’m thirty-four,’ he said. ‘When my father was thirty-four he and Mum already had my two sisters. And a Ford Escort. They owned a house. They went on holidays.’

‘When my father was thirty-four,’ said Genevieve, ‘he had my mother sectioned, dropped me and Nina at Granny’s and drank himself to death in Madrid.’

‘Madrid?’ said Karl.

Last time it was Berlin and, now that he thought of it, he was certain that Genevieve never mentioned the same city twice.

4 (#u8dbad0ef-bff8-5bc7-834e-390a1c7b55f6)

IN THE COUNCIL CHAMBER, every room looked like a waiting room, lined with low oblong benches and school chairs, one strip light flickering. It was hard to get up from the deep spongy bench when their mentors came through the double doors of 151.

Karl’s first thought was that they didn’t look any older than him or Genevieve, but then maybe there was only a decade or so in it. He had expected an aura of age and experience: authority figures, the way teachers looked when he was a pupil. Janna was angular and pretty, a white blouse tucked into a black leather pencil skirt. Her mouth was very small, like a china doll’s. Stu at least looked weathered. He was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt with a lightning bolt on it. He had a black and purple Mohican, four inches tall, five spikes.

‘God, this place is depressing,’ said Stu. ‘Sorry they made you come here.’

‘Don’t get up,’ said Janna, once they were up. They exchanged air kisses.

‘You probably weren’t expecting us to look like this,’ said Stu.

‘Oh, what, the Mohawk?’ said Karl.

‘The Mohawk actually wore a patch at the base of the skull and a patch at the forehead,’ said Stu. ‘This is closer to an Iro.’

‘Do you have any …’ said Genevieve. ‘Indian blood, I mean?’

‘Genevieve,’ said Stu, ‘I am merely an enthusiast.’

Stu busied himself collecting four flimsy cups of coffee from the machine in the corner. The two couples sat opposite one another over a pine and clapboard table too low for the seats.

‘Drink,’ he said. ‘It’s terrible, but, you know, ritual. Everything feels better when you’re holding something warm. You’re a primary school teacher, I’m told?’

‘That’s right,’ said Genevieve.

‘That’s brilliant,’ said Stu. ‘You’re one of the most important people in the country. And Karl?’

‘You know those fliers you see stuck to lamp posts that say make £1,000 a week online without leaving your house?’ said Karl.

‘You stick those up?’ said Stu.

‘No,’ said Karl. ‘I make a thousand pounds a week online without leaving my house. Except it’s not really a thousand pounds a week. I suppose it could be if you never went to sleep.’

‘So you’re self-employed,’ said Janna. ‘But what’s the work?’

‘Search-engine evaluation, product reviews,’ said Karl. ‘Literature essays for rich students. It’s actually duller than it sounds.’

‘A fellow middle-class underachiever,’ said Stu.

‘You know the type.’

‘I was the type. Look, you don’t need to rush into anything, but this is a chance to do something with your life. The Transition isn’t a punishment, it’s an opportunity.’

He took two thick, stapled forms out of his shoulder bag, and a blue pen.

‘You’ll be living with us as equals – we eat together, talk together, leave the house for work together. Or, well, Karl, in your case you’ll be staying in the house to work, but you get the point.’

Genevieve and Karl, who had never read a contract in their lives, both turned to the final page of their forms, wrote their names in block capitals, signed.

‘The thing is, with the hair, it’s a lightning conductor,’ said Stu. ‘People think, oh, the guy with the hair. Or they think, in spite of the hair, he’s quite a nice guy. Any opinion that anyone ever holds about me is in the context of my hair. It’s the equivalent of being a beautiful woman.’

‘To be fair, it is the most interesting thing about him,’ said Janna, giving Stu a friendly but very hard punch on the shoulder, which he rubbed, pouting. ‘The removal team are picking up your stuff now, so that’s taken care of. We’ll see you for the general meeting in the morning, okay?’

Stu folded up their contracts and slipped them back into his shoulder bag.

‘Tomorrow, then,’ he said. ‘The Transition will send a car. Eight thirty.’