The Cupid Effect by Dorothy Koomson Page B

colours. It was like walking into a library of paper.
    â€˜Hi, I’d like these photocopied forty times for tomorrow,’ I said to the woman behind the counter. I even managed a smile with my dry, furry mouth.
    The woman looked up slowly from the book she was making notes in and gave me a partially-hidden sneer that suggested that I hadn’t actually asked for photocopying. I had, in fact, informed her that her biological mother and biological father were close blood relatives.
    Time crawled on as she looked me up and down from behind her large, plastic-framed Deirdre Barlow glasses. Once she’d appraised me, she opened her mouth, which had been so clenched it was almost caving in on itself, and sneered, ‘Photocopying has to be brought in at least fifteen days in advance.’
    â€˜Fifteen days?’ I said.
    â€˜Fifteen days.’
    Do you see this face? It is suffering. It does not need to be told it has to wait fifteen days for something it needs tomorrow.
    Sally had warned me. ‘ Show no weakness ,’ she’d said. ‘ They do not understand weakness. They do not respect niceness. They chew up nice people until they are mulch, then they spit you out and stamp on you .’ I knew all this, but I still said, ‘Can’t I get it done sooner?’ in a pathetic, ‘be nice to me’ voice.
    She sighed with her whole body.
    â€˜I do not have time to explain everything to you. You should know all this if you’re a lecturer.’
    â€˜How? By subscribing to the college’s psychic newsletter? Or by simply putting my head against the reprographics sign outside and letting it seep in by osmosis,’ I replied.
    â€˜You are a lecturer, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Yes, but I’m also a new lecturer so I don’t have a handle on everything yet.’
    â€˜That’s not my problem, is it. Dear .’ Her superiority had clambered up to a new level now she knew I was in a weak position, I was a novice. ‘Fifteen days.’
    â€˜But I don’t know what I’ll need that far in advance,’ I replied. ‘Sometimes I only find books and articles that are necessary a couple of days in advance.’
    â€˜That’s not my problem either, is it,’ the woman behind the counter replied, picking up a stack of forms and tapping them on the counter to straighten them while wiggling her head in an officious manner. ‘Maybe you should plan your lectures more carefully.’
    Even in my state, even as hungover and unwell as I was I couldn’t abide that kind of rudeness. (Particularly not from someone I could soooo take in a fight.) ‘Excuse me?’ I replied.
    â€˜I was under the impression that lecturers were meant to work to a set timetable. You know, plan things .’ As she spoke she waggled her upper body in that selfsame officious manner. ‘Be prepared.’
    I picked up my stack of books and articles. ‘Tell you what, you don’t tell me how to lecture and I won’t tell you how to press the little button on the photocopier machine.’
    â€˜You cannot speak to me like that,’ she said. ‘I will report you to your head of department.’
    â€˜Right. Well, you do that. Don’t forget to read the college’s psychic newsletter to find out my name, and when you’ve reported me to the head of department, why don’t you report me to God too because He’s the only person I’m really scared of.’
    Had I been able to, I would’ve slammed the swing door behind me. But I kicked it, leaving it fump, fump, fumping open and shut behind me.
    WHORE! I said in my head. Whore-faced old bag. Who does she think she is? No one talks to me like that and gets away with it. Stupid old mare.
    I’d stamped my way to the Senior Common Room before reason pierced my anger: I’d been insulted by some officious mare in a department. And she couldn’t do that if I wasn’t