Read by Andrea Hall (first story in podcast, here)
The man opposite had started trying to make eye contact. I could tell by the way his shoe twisted quickly back and forth, grazing the scuffed floor of the waiting room in a timid plea for acknowledgement. I kept my gaze on the shoe—a worn DM, sketchily smeared with polish by its owner—for as long as my nerves could take it, which I doubted had amounted to very long at all. I looked up: ‘Hi—’
‘Hi!’ The man’s hope leapt from his throat so forcefully that another man, sitting to his left, visibly recoiled. ‘I don’t suppose you’d—’
‘No.’ Then I added, ‘Sorry.’ Because genuinely I was: sorry for him, whoever he was, sorry for all of us. Chances were he was decent enough, and he wasn’t bad-looking either—a bit sweaty, but all of us left had been waiting more than three hours now and to be honest I probably looked a lot worse.
I couldn’t blame him for trying—the waiting room at the Relationship Seekers’ Allowance Centre, offered, for obvious reasons, the perfect last-ditch opportunity for those hoping to save their personal lives from further judgement.
‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘I’m not actually looking for a…’
‘Oh. Right. Sorry.’ I guessed he’d assume my reluctance was a gender-preference issue, which was fine by me—it saved me from stating my case before the assembled strangers. The man stared at his feet, now mercifully still. I returned my eyes to the floor.
MISS HARRISON TO ASSESSMENT POD 12. The tannoy was at least twice as loud as it needed to be, and as always, its metallic voice hung unnecessarily on the ‘Miss’. MISSSSSS HARRISON, POD 12. Like a snake trapped in an air-vent, bloated on dead relationships and rotting self-esteem. I stood, and with an apologetic nod to my fellow singletons, stepped into the corridor.
The yellowing walls, which for as long as I could recall had never been repainted, were harshly illuminated by the bright white light. It was well-known that the RSA authorities kept the light in the waiting room deliberately low: partly to encourage the efforts of people like DM guy and save themselves some form-filling, partly to cut back on electricity. The glaring corridor lighting, by contrast, was designed to unsettle. In combination with the mirrors dotted in between the pod doors, it was there to emphasize that, if you’d failed to find a partner even in the gloomy desperation of the RSA waiting room, your situation was almost certainly your fault. Now you needed to do something about it, because the state wasn’t going to subsidise your costly, inefficient single existence forever. Perhaps not even for another month.
‘Come in.’ The voice from Pod 12 was male, reedy, bored. I pushed open the door to reveal the familiar shed-like space: single seat, thick partition window dividing the pod in two. Behind it, hidden by the one-way glass, the assessment clerk.
‘Miss Harrison? Please, have a seat. I’m Clerk 12, and I’m here to help.’
I sat.
‘I’ll just confirm your details, then we can discuss your current situation.’
I waited, mute, while he ran through the information on my file: name (still Joni Harrison); age (up one to 43). Number of certified past serious relationships: 3. Months claiming RSA: 24. Attempted relationships in last month: 0.
There was a pause, a sound of finger thumping keyboard.
‘Zero?’ He repeated. ‘Did you forget to fill this in?’
I fixed my eyes on a paint peel on the wall.
‘No, sorry. I didn’t forget. I would like—
I breathed deeply.
‘—I would like to apply for an exemption to dating. Please.’
A snort from the other side of the screen. Then a mouse click.
‘Well, Miss Harrison. I’m afraid it’s my legal duty to remind you, the current single occupancy premium charged on London rent is 25 percent, and given increasing housing pressures, we forecast it will rise within the year. It says here your income is £32,000, is that correct? Because if so—’ the voice continued, so assured of its own correctness it didn’t wait for a response— ‘it will unfortunately not be practical for you to continue living as a single person if you give up your RSA benefit. You simply can’t afford it, Miss Harrison.’
I kept my eyes on the paint peel. There was another one next to it, starting to bleed in.
‘Thank you, I realise that, but I was thinking—’
‘And in case you are thinking of house-sharing as a solution, which really should be a last resort—’ another snort ‘—at your age, I must remind you that as of last July all house-sharers have a legal obligation to be active relationship-seekers. Given the national bedroom shortage, I hope you understand we need two adults to a room wherever possible. So in the circumstances I think it would be unwise—’
‘No, sorry, you’ve misunderstood. I meant I would like to apply for an exemption to dating, with benefit.’
This time there was no snort, no click. Just a deep sigh.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I know it’s a lot of paperwork for you.’ No reaction. I dug my nails into the chair, trying to hold my nerve.
‘I see. Well. Which route?’
‘I was thinking Route A. The career one. You see, I’m a primary school teacher, and given the dates I’ve had over the past two years, I know I could be of much more use to society by spending more time on the reading skills of the seven-year-olds at—’
‘Not possible I’m afraid. You don’t have the current or future taxpaying potential to warrant a career-based exemption to dating.’
I pressed my feet against the floor, trying to keep my voice steady. I’d been prepared for this.
‘Well, ok, maybe not directly—but the children I teach—’
‘We cannot grant you an exemption on the basis of the future earnings potential of a class of random children.’
I bit my cheek, swallowing the urge to point out the government was already betting a hell of a lot on the future earnings potential of random children, given its apparent disregard for the soaring birth rate that would follow its relationship push, and what that would do to the housing crisis long-term.
‘It would be more than one class though. I’d guarantee it. With the extra time I could take on some tutoring, maybe kids who need a bit more help? Or those with high potential?’
‘It’s 5.20, Miss Harrison, shall we move on? Now, the system is showing that 8 out of your 10 dating app registrations have lapsed, so I’ll need you to reset some accounts…’
The paint peels seemed to be bending, looping.
‘I don’t know where I’m going.’ The words had slid out, and now hung dangerously over the partition.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I don’t know where I’m going!’ Apparently I was now shouting. ‘I could do something useful—teach more, or better, maybe even study something new myself, but I can’t even think about it because I spend every evening meeting and drinking with and fucking with people who I’m not interested in and who aren’t interested in me, just so we can sign each others’ RSA forms and continue living in some kind of peace in our tiny dark one-bed flats, paying way over the odds for individual-sized packets of food.’
The voice was saying something, but I needed it to listen.
‘I’m exhausted, ok? I’ve tried, you can see from my records—but I’ve had so many depressing involvements, so many weeks smiling inanely at someone because we had nothing to say. There were a few that started out good but quickly went bad, and a ton of others that were just … weird. I’d just like a few months to get back to being me, without ending up evicted. Is that too much to ask?’
Silence. Then the mouse again, click, click, click. My eyes were stinging.
‘I meant to add,’ I muttered, ‘I feel this temporary exemption would ultimately make me more conducive to being in a lasting relationship.’
‘Miss Harrison,’ the voice kept to its same flat monotone, no inflection, no real sign of life. ‘As you should know, establishing a viable relationship is a numbers game. However, there is something I can do to help.’
There were several rapid clicks here. For a brief, glorious moment I felt my heart speed alongside them.
‘There you are, Miss Harrison. I have taken the liberty of enrolling you on one of our RSA courses, it’s called Control Your Emotions and Control Your Dating Experience. Details will be sent to you, and you should complete it within the next month. I will have to temporarily pause your benefits on account of your recent …’ he coughed … ‘inactivity, but once you’ve passed, and reset those eight apps, you are welcome to come and see us again. Providing of course you can prove you have resumed your dating efforts.’
The pod door swung open, signalling the end of the interview. In the corridor, the walls were almost blazing.
I stumbled towards the waiting room and fell into its darkness, onto the nearest seat.
The room was pretty much empty—a lot of those who’d been there earlier must have been sent away, doomed to come back tomorrow. But as I adjusted to the gloom I could make out DM guy, still there in the corner.
My eyes were still stinging; my face burning. There was no way I’d look a good prospect now. But maybe, if he was as desperate to get out of this as me, we could come to some arrangement.
‘Hi,’ I said, and pulled my mouth into a smile.
He looked up, and in his eyes I glimpsed our future: paper lovers, as stuck as anyone, and one wrong move away from being done for benefit fraud.
‘I just—I wanted to say good luck,’ I said.
Without waiting for a reply, I stood and headed for the door.
(c) Sarah Richardson, 2023
Sarah Richardson is originally from Essex and now lives in south London, where she works as a journalist and editor. She writes short stories with the encouragement of a writing group she formed with classmates from a course at City University. This is her third story for Liars’ League.
Andrea Hall trained at Atlantic Theatre in New York. Theatre includes Ravenscourt (Hampstead Theatre) Shook (Southwark Playhouse), Ares (Vaults Festival), The Wild Duck (Almeida Theatre), The Notebook of Trigorin (Finborough Theatre) and Hyacinth Blue (Clean Break). Television include The Dumping Ground, Broadchurch, Unforgotten, Trauma, Humans, Flack. Film includes The Child in Time.
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