Read The Zoo for Free Online

fill a plastic cup with water and swill my mouth out. Fetching my cigarettes out of my bedside table I study The Zoo.
    â€˜I don’t understand,’ I say to it and get the impression that it doesn’t want me to.
    Later I look about for Beth. When I catch Mark’s eye he hurriedly looks back into his magazine.
    Outside in the courtyard I spark up my fag and squat on the bench. In the corridor I catch a glimpse of blond hair and there’s Sally again. The night we met. Student halls. The first Friday. I’m young, drunk, cocky and stupid. She’s a couple of years older. Wiser. Sexy. Distant. She holds everyone off. It means we all want her.
    The whole hall goes into town. A grey Nottingham. Stumbling into pubs, unsure of which are student friendly. I’m laughing at the way they talk. The northern-ness of it all. A barman calls me ‘duck’ and I dive into Stella laughter. Later, a club, a Ritzy or a Park Lane or Dazzle or Razzle or Glitzy or fuck knows. She passes a pill from her mouth to mine, electric shocks as our tongues touch and I fall in love.
    Following day we’re all coming down and the reality of the world frays the edges. I knock on her door and she tells me to come in. It’s cold. I get under the duvet with her. She’s naked. She’s so tiny and skinny. My heart bounces off every one of her ribs.
    She says, ‘You’ve caught me on a come down, it’s not fair, I’m horny as hell,’ and pulls me in for a kiss that tastes of cigarettes and last night.
    She teaches me how to go down on her properly with tuts and guiding hands.
    I fall in love again.
    Inside the ward a door slams and I look at the cigarette, which is just a filter between burned fingers.

11.
    When the call comes I’m talking to Baxter in the kitchen. He’s hungover and trying to hide it so I’m forcing him to explain the complexities of a direct mail campaign he’s organising for a local university.
    â€˜How can you be so targeted?’ I ask.
    â€˜Because there’s only 100 targets.’
    â€˜What do you mean there’s only 100 targets? Surely what they offer can apply to everyone who wants to go to university?’
    He gets a cup out of the cupboard and drops it hard onto the work surface, where it bounces and rights itself. He looks at me with startled deer eyes.
    â€˜No, no. It’s not the students. It’s businesses. Didn’t I explain this?’ he asks.
    My phone rings. I recognise the number.
    â€˜Need to take this, Baxter,’ I say, and watch the relief wash across his face in a tide.
    I step out into the corridor, take a couple of deep breaths and when I answer the phone I am calmness and professionalism and nonchalance.
    â€˜Mr Berkshire,’ I say.
    There’s a pause. He’s making me sweat. This can be good or bad. Like the judge of some cheap talent show on Saturday night TV, the audience waiting for him with bated breath. Then he tells me we’ve got the work, asks me when I can come in to sign the contract and begin the creative process. He calls it this: the creative process. I pretend to consult a diary, tell him next Wednesday and that I’ll get my PA to confirm with his, but really I’ll cancel anything that’s already booked for that time. He tells me he’s looking forward to it. I thank him and hang up. Shout ‘Fuck yeah’ in an echoing corridor.
    I manage to keep a straight face as I walk back through the office and knock on Managing Director’s door. There’s a muffled response through thick wood, so I open it and peer round, ‘Hilary?’.
    â€˜Yes?’ he looks up from the pink pages of the FT.
    â€˜You got a moment?’ I ask.
    â€˜Of course.’ He folds the paper and puts it aside. I close the door behind me.
    â€˜Bank?’ He asks. I nod. ‘Well?’
    I don’t say anything, make a show of not meeting his eye.
    â€˜Don’t be a