Free Marshmallows for Breakfast by Dorothy Koomson

up the second-in- command position in her company. “I caught my current head of temp recruitment doing lines of coke and a potential candidate on my desk one night. I need someone I can trust,” she'd written.
    I thanked God and the universe. I had an escape route home. I'd told her I was more than interested and could start in a month. With her going out of her way like that, I'd felt extremely guilty having to call in to say I wasn't coming in yesterday.
    I'd also slept very badly. After saying good-bye to the Gadsboroughs, I'd decided to go to the cinema. I'd had to sit in the dark, surrounded by strangers with something else to focus on so I wouldn't obsess about the kids and what was going to become of them. Absent mother, potentially alcoholic father. Nothing I could do about it. Except sit in the dark feeling angry. I'd been tempted to have another chat with Mr. Gadsborough. Get some assurances he'd pull himself together and pay attention to his children. So many people would kill to be in this position—to be a parent—and he seemed to be throwing it away. He couldn't see the blessings in his life.
    When I arrived back from the cinema their car was gone. I heard them return a few hours later and from my flat could see the light on in their kitchen. Hopefully he'd been shopping for food. Hopefully what I'd said had been the rocket he'd needed. I'd then spent most of the night lying awake in bed worrying about them.
    I climbed the stairs to Office Wonders Lite, which was on the high street in Brockingham, and as I raised a hand to push open the frosted glass door I experienced a sudden, unsettling feeling of déjà vu. It could be ten years ago, when I'd first started working with Gabrielle in recruitment. The same feelings I'd had way back then came over me as my hand connected with the door and I wondered briefly if I should be doing something else. Not something better, just something else.
    When I'd gone to college the first time around and studied English lit and media, I was meant to grow up to be the next Lois Lane. One half of the female Woodward and Bernstein. A hotshot reporter who would hunt out corruption and write about it. Politicians and fat cats of big corporations would quake in their expensive suits at what I was going to do with a keyboard.
    Then, everything changed. At some point everything became too difficult. Focusing on studying was a struggle. I worked hard, often pulled all- nighters to get essays done, but my grades kept falling from their usual average in the low seventies. Fell and fell, and no matter how hard I worked, I couldn't get them up again. I didn't have the confidence to argue a point in class. I knew I certainly wouldn't be able to hold my own in the media, not against a group of driven, ambitious people who were hell-bent on getting to the top. It was hard enough clawing my way out of bed of a morning let alone contemplating spending a few years clawing my way to the top of the press pack. My friends and lecturers became worried about me and I was press-ganged into going to the doctor. I sat opposite him in his small, sparsely decorated office while he told me that I was obviously depressed, that it was probably a result of being under too much pressure at college and that I should try to relax. I should drink less alcohol and eat more fresh fruit and vegetables. “Take up exercise, as well, young lady. Looking better will make you feel better.”
    I'd nodded at him and left, realizing I had to hide my feelings better. I had to buck up my ideas. My plans to become a journalist might have evaporated but I still had to perform for my parents, my friends, my lecturers. I still had to prove to the outside world I wasn't a complete failure, that I was normal. I pushed myself hard, to the limit and then beyond. Pretended I was OK so I could get through college. It was such a struggle, long nights revising and reading and forcing myself not to give up. I finished with a first, a