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‘Have you known about this for ages?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. I wasn’t sure what was happening, which is why I urged you to apply for one of those jobs. I found out yesterday. I fought to keep your position and have you moved to the new team, but they wouldn’t budge.’ The anguish on her face is genuine and she’s always stood by me.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,’ I say.

She frowns. ‘I am too.’

‘They really expect me to work the next month?’

She huffs. ‘Fuck them. Don’t do that. You’ve got more than a month’s sick leave, right?’

I nod.

‘Go to your GP, tell them what’s happened, get a medical certificate for stress and take all your sick leave.’ She waves her hand in the direction of my desk. ‘If you don’t want to face anyone next week, come in over the weekend and do anything you need to do. Email us the certificate on Monday and tell HR you won’t be back.’ She gives another regretful groan and throws her arms around me. ‘I’m sorry we’re losing you. List me as a referee, won’t you?’

I return the hug and step away, my chest hollow. ‘Bye, Sasha.’ I take a last look around the office where I’ve spent the past seven years and leave.

Outside, the city bustles with trams, buses, cars and pedestrians. Everyone getting on with their lives with no clue that the person who has just exited this building has lost their secure, decent-paying, good-benefits job. I walk along Queen Street, welcoming the winter sun and cold air on my face. Instead of taking the normal route to my regular tram stop, I turn down Little Bourke Street to escape the noise and try to process what’s happened. But my only thought is, I have no job.

An old building on the corner of a laneway catches my eye. Chairs and tables are set up outside, Parisian-style, the overhead heat lamps aglow. Inside, behind the large windows, a few people nurse wine glasses. The aged concrete and uneven shape of the building automatically make me reach for my camera. I check the settings, which I fixed last night ready for architecture photography, and adjust them slightly to suit the soft light. So that the asymmetrical structure is prominent, I focus on the west-facing side of the building, snapping a series of shots until I have a few I’m satisfied with. I slip the camera away and move closer to the door. The plaque above it reads Caleb’s Wine Bar. A glass of wine is exactly what’s needed right now.

Inside, jazz plays on low volume and the space is warm from the overhead heaters. A staff member behind the bar is on the phone with a fed-up expression that vanishes when he notices me. As I approach, he gives me a ‘won’t be a sec’ finger-raise. He hangs up, huffs a little and says, ‘Sorry about that. Things always happen on a Friday arvo, don’t they?’

‘Ha, they certainly do.’

‘What can I get you?’

A wine list is written in white marker on the blue tiled wall behind him, which I scan quickly. ‘Something white? Any recommendations?’

‘Depends on what you like. And your mood.’ He wipes his hands on a towel and pulls a glass from an overhead rack.

‘I like crisp and dry. Nothing too sweet or heavy. And my mood…’ I frown. ‘I’ve just been made redundant, so…’

He winces. ‘Oof, that’s rough. Worse than my little dilemma.’ He gestures to a small table in the far corner. ‘Take a seat. I’ll bring you something.’

I weave between the wooden tables to one by window, get comfortable and dig out my phone to message Nat.

In a wine bar in the city. Just been made redundant.

Nat and I met at work, starting our jobs a week apart. We bonded over being the new employees and quickly became good friends. She left to go on maternity leave but didn’t return. Instead, she found a part-time job closer to home. Her husband works with Tom, which is how Tom and I met.

As I wait for my drink and Nat’s reply, it occurs to me that there are zero expectations on me right now because everyone thinks I’m at work. It’s strangely freeing and my body loosens.

The barperson appears with a tray and places down a carafe of water, a glass of white wine and a small bowl of green olives. He points to the wine. ‘Thought you might need a large.’

I give a short laugh. ‘Thanks. I think so, too.’

‘This is a fumé blanc from Tasmania. It’s fresh but has a creamy texture and a warm aftertaste. Good for a winter’s day.’ He tilts his head sympathetically, his kind eyes taking me in. ‘And for soothing the soul.’

I lift the glass to my nose and breathe in a delicate citrus scent. I sip and let the tangy flavour swish around my mouth. ‘Mmm. Lovely. Exactly what I needed.’

‘Let me know if you want anything else. Olives are on me.’

I pop one into my mouth as he walks away. Free olives and an expensive glass of wine on a weekday afternoon – already my life is different.

My phone buzzes with an incoming call and Nat’s name flashes on the screen. ‘Hey,’ I say.

‘Shit, Hols. What’s happened?’