FOURTEEN
I had to admit it to myself if no one else: the pressure was getting to me. Nicki sending me photos of winter wedding themes, Dylan emailing about whether we needed to add two more slides to the presentation. Ben asking if Eric liked old movies. Eric asking if Ben had said anything about him. Felix asking why my reports weren’t submitted early and why I hadn’t brought him new ideas to support team morale, like I normally did every month even when they were ignored. Hunter asking why I looked tired. Matthew asking my opinion on every single tiny decision he made, like a dog afraid of the postman.
And then there was Tola, silently wondering why I was so obsessed with a job that clearly wasn’t fulfilling me, every doubt she had showing on her face.
On top of it all, there was my mother. Who was texting and calling and finding every reason to check on me so she could ask me everything but the one big question: Do you have the money to save my home?
I sent Mama to voice mail for the second time that morning as I tried to get on with my work. I couldn’t hear about my father anymore. I couldn’t hear her make excuses as I made more and more questionable decisions to get this money for him.
“Aly Baba! How’s it going?” I closed my eyes and took a second to compose myself, then I swiveled in my chair, gripping the arms.
The great big galumphing moron was back again, with his styled hair and smooth voice. He wanted something. Again. I’d only just finished redoing his last brief.
“Hunter.” I painted a smile on. “I’m fine. Busy, but fine. How are you?”
He swept a hand through his hair. “Actually, I’m in a bit of a pickle, babe.”
No, no more. I saved your cheating arse, I’ve done enough, leave me be.
I saw Tola peer over her computer screen and give him a death glare, then a warning glance to me: Don’t you dare help him.
I nodded at her.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. You should get a burger,” I said, not looking up from my screen.
He blinked. “What?”
“You’re in a pickle . . . they’re good on burgers.”
“Ahar, ahar-har!”
Add Hunter’s laugh to the list of terrible things.
“The thing is, Aly Cadabra . . .” He tried again, leaning on the edge of my desk and towering over me, so that I had to stand up to even out the power balance.
“The thing is, Hunter’s-actually-your-name-so-I-can’t-make-it-sillier, I’m afraid that this time, at this precise moment, I have reached my limit. I just don’t care.” I took a deep breath and met his eyes.
He frowned in confusion, his features seeming to crumple like his very expensive handkerchief.
Oh, crap, this was happening. I’d broken. Once I’d started, I couldn’t stop. “I don’t care that you didn’t get around to analyzing the data because your sister bought a puppy, or you were featured in the Guardian Blind Date, or you ended up winning a really intense game of high-stakes poker . . . I don’t care. I just want you to do your job.”
He recoiled, all attempts at friendliness now retracted. “Well, that’s not very nice.”
“Neither is pawning your work off on your colleagues so you can go and have beers with the boys. Or me having to get a train to Birmingham to apologize for you coming on to the wrong woman.”
He briefly looked abashed, but it was gone in a flash, like his face didn’t know how to wear shame. Say thank you. Say sorry. Say something!
“So you’re just . . . not going to help me?” he asked, as if he truly didn’t understand.
“Nope, sorry, not this time.” I sat down and resumed typing.
He wrinkled his forehead. “What if Felix wants you to?”
“If Felix wants me to prioritize fixing your work above producing my own, then he’s going to have to meet with me and reorganize my calendar so I can accommodate that on top of my clients. Including the meeting with Teddy Bell I’ve got next week because you were more interested in your dick than your career. Are we done here?”
I briefly stopped typing to look at him, and saw that scowl, that moment men turned on you. I almost forgot it was coming.
“Well, there’s no need to be such a bitch about it.”
I held up my hands and made a face. “Apparently there is. Good luck with the report.”
As he trudged off, mumbling, Tola punched her fists in the air in silent triumph. I gave her a wink and settled back into my work. I might be collapsing under the pressure, but like hell was I going down without dragging him with me.
I watched as Hunter headed across the office to Felix’s door, and my stomach sank. A brief moment of victory and it likely wouldn’t matter anyway. God, I needed a run. Or a solo delicious meal. Or dancing all night where no one knew me, or could ask me for anything, or expected me to be Aly-with-the-answers.
But I didn’t have time for that.
On my lunch break I replied to Dylan and Ben, ignored Nicki, and went for a walk to clear my head. I didn’t call my mother back, but sent a text saying everything was being handled and not to worry. I wondered if she thought I was carrying out a bank heist or moonlighting as a call girl.
The fact that I hadn’t told Tola and Eric the truth about the money was worrying me, too. Sure, they’d get a cut, but not explaining the stakes felt so inherently unfair, like I was tricking them.
Surely they would understand, though, if I told them? But that would involve explaining about my dad and what he’d done to my mum, and they’d look at me with something like pity. This look would appear on their faces: Daddy issues, of course! The only path available to a grown woman with bad relationship history. And no one ever blamed the dads, only the girls who got screwed up by them.
By the time I reached the end of the day, I was exhausted, and ready to collapse into bed with a portion of garlic bread and a late nineties rom-com. Heath Ledger, singing in front of the whole school. That was what I needed.
“You ready to go?” Eric said at five, looking particularly dashing in his suit and slightly ridiculous with a matching fedora.
“Where? Why?”
“Fixing up? Amy and the writer boy? In about half an hour at Hoxton Lounge?”
I sighed. Crap.
“You forgot?” Eric frowned. “You never forget anything.” Well, you try starting your day with a call from an heiress worried that your ex–best friend’s romantic gestures aren’t loud enough and see how you do.
“Even elephants have off days,” I said tiredly. “Give me ten minutes to freshen up my makeup, and I’ll be my sparkliest self.”
“I’ll grab you an energy drink and meet you downstairs.”
“You’re an angel.” I smiled as I grabbed my handbag.
“Yep, and then we have the whole journey there to talk about Ben. His likes, his interests, his taste in men. And what you think I can do to avoid fucking this up.”
I sighed, feeling that weary exhaustion settle around me like a cloak. “Excellent. Can’t wait.”
—
Tonight’s client was Amy Leyton. She’d been with her boyfriend, Adam, for four years, all during uni, and they’d been living together for a year since then. Amy had been offered an internship abroad for three months, and Adam was feeling a bit sensitive about being left behind. He’d been hinting about going with her, but she wanted to do this for herself. Her big jump into her first career role. She wanted to stay together, it was only three months, but understood if he didn’t want to wait for her.
I filled Eric in before we entered the bar, making sure we weren’t overheard. “They’re both writers. Amy got a journalism internship. He’s decided that if she was going to launch her career, he was going to launch his. By writing a novel.”
Eric shrugged. “I mean, chance in a million, right? But good luck to him. What?”
“The plot is the story of a girl who leaves her boyfriend to go do a journalism internship abroad.”
He snorted. “Okay, fair enough, that’s how he’s processing. He can write whatever he wants, it’s in his head.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s not what?”
“It’s not in his head.” I winced. “He types it out on yellow note cards and pins them up on the walls to keep the timeline in order . . .”
“Types, as in . . .”
“Old-fashioned typewriter? Yup.” I sighed. “And they live in a studio flat.” I pulled up the photo on my phone. Amy had sent it to me earlier. In the middle of the tiny room was a bed, and that was it. The walls were covered in yellow scraps of paper, their aggressive typed capitals yelling out a nonsensical story.
Currently, my opinion was that Adam was very likely to be a trash bag of a human being, but she loved him.
“Do you ever think maybe this shit should be dealt with by a professional? Someone with a degree, who has experience with narcissists?”
“I’m a single female in my thirties, working in a male-dominated industry. I have experience with narcissists.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I guess we’ll see!” I pulled him by the arm and walked through the door. “You remember the play?”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve been practicing my ‘pretty boy genius’ vibe for this one.” He gave a pout, a strange mix of angry and bored.
I caught sight of Adam, slouched over a notebook at the edge of the bar, the way Amy said he always was in the evenings, since she’d almost thrown the typewriter across the room.
We took seats behind but to the left of him, close enough to grab his interest, but not so far back he’d have to swivel in his seat. Let him spy on us for a bit, let him think he was the one doing the chasing.
We ordered two drinks, and I launched into my spiel.
“Darling, I adore the new draft, adore it. We’ll get it through copyedits, and I think it’ll be out on the shelves by early next year,” I said, briefly referring to the notes on my phone.
Eric assumed a bored expression. “And you’re sure it’s better than my last? I don’t want to be embarrassed or seen to be . . . derivative.”
I could almost feel Adam’s ears prick up.
“You? Never!” I laughed. “I think we’ll have a good chance at film or TV rights this time. It’s just so . . . visceral, you know? Man, woman, betrayal. How she leaves him at the end, him in that little room, her out in the world, it was poignant, you know? Really heartfelt. I think people will get it.”
“Well, I just write what I know.” Eric looked up at the ceiling. “Heartbreak, being underestimated, misunderstood.” God, dial it back, Eric, you’re meant to be a successful writer, not a minor royal onstage at the Old Vic.
I wiggled my eyebrows at him, and his lips pursed.
“Well, that certainly comes across . . .” I said. “You’re an absolute genius, sweetheart. There’s no way anyone who reads this could doubt that. And I think whoever she is who inspired it, she’ll regret having gone.”
“Eh.” Eric flicked an imaginary cigarette with his fingertips and seemed to suddenly develop the rumblings of a French accent. “She needed to grow, little flower that she was. I have roots here. Trees stay where they are. They grow upward.”
“So very wise.” I gave him a look, and Eric looked like he wanted to laugh.
I glanced at the mirrored back wall and noticed Adam watching from the bar, so I tapped my fingers three times on the table. Eric nodded. “I’ve just got to make a quick call. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not. I can catch up on my emails.”
I watched Eric reach the door, opened my phone, and counted down in my head. Four, three, two . . .
“Hi, there.”
I turned with a look of calculated surprised delight to find Adam hovering at the edge of my table. “Hello . . .”
“Sorry to eavesdrop, but it sounded like you’re in the book business?” He waited for me to nod and then slid into Eric’s chair without asking. “I only ask because I’m writing a book.” You and everybody else, buddy.
“I see, and you’d like my . . . advice on how to submit it?” I tried to appear piqued. I knew I needed to be impressed, to say wonderful things about how he was clearly talented, but it was difficult. It felt like working with Hunter.
“I’d like you to publish it. It’s very good.” He gave me what he clearly thought was a winning smile.
“Is that so?” I snorted.
“I know that I’m good at what I do.” He shrugged. “When you’ve got the talent you’ve got to grab opportunities when they come along.”
“Okay, pitch it, then.” I looked at my watch and leaned my head on my hand, watching him. “Sell me your story.”
“It’s about a girl who has these huge dreams, and she wants to go off and see the world, but she leaves someone behind. Sort of a grass-is-greener thing. And then it’s his journey in growing on his own, and her journey back to him.”
I smiled, sighing in relief. Okay, that sounded like someone who was processing his relationship in a healthy way.
“So it’s a love story?”
Adam looked at me as though I’d just spit in his coffee. “No, it’s a story about justice and redemption.”
“How so?”
“The girl is working in Australia, and she gets her arm bitten off by a shark. And she comes home, realizing she never should have left, and the guy rejects her because she’s so ugly and selfish. And she has to live alone with the weight of her mistakes for the rest of her life.” Okay, I take it back. Completely looney tunes.
“And what happens to the guy?” As if I even need to ask.
“He becomes a very famous screenwriter and writes a movie about her.”
“Inspired,” I said. I was going to have to go off-piste with this one.
“Well, why don’t you give me your email address, and I’ll put you in touch with my assistant. So when you’re ready you can submit your finished draft.”
He smiled like he was doing me a favor writing his email address down. When Eric returned to find his seat still taken, he tilted his head at me. I just smiled.
“Pleasure talking with you . . .”
“Adam.”
I nodded as he scarpered back to the bar, and Eric assessed me.
“I don’t like that look,” he whispered.
“I don’t like that man,” I whispered back through gritted teeth.
We finished our drinks, enjoying our time together, and when we escaped out into the street, taking in the last of the summer evening’s warmth, I called Amy.
“Hello?”
“Amy, it’s Alyssa here, we spoke yesterday. When does your internship start?”
“I leave in two months.”
I didn’t mince my words. “Can you leave earlier?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Leave earlier. Go live your life, have your adventures, and do not waste a second’s thought on that man.”
She paused. “I . . . uh . . . really? So he’s fine?”
“Oh, no, he’s a selfish arsehole who will forever resent you for putting your own dreams above his. Don’t waste time, don’t look back. Go.”
Eric grinned at me, shaking his head.
“That’s very kind, but . . . I love him.”
“Of course you do, you wouldn’t have contacted me otherwise,” I said gently. “Obviously, it’s your choice. But Adam’s love for you depends on you putting him first. If you’re still doubting, read all the way through those yellow cards, see how the story ends.”
She was silent for a moment, and I thought of all the moments my mother considered leaving. Please, let this be it.
“Thank you,” Amy said quietly. I knew in her voice then that she’d already read all the note cards. She just needed someone to tell her it was okay to go.
“You’re welcome,” I said softly. “Watch out for sharks, okay?”
Amy snorted, and I hung up the phone.
I smiled at Eric as we walked along, feeling a sense of relief.
“Aly, what the hell was that? That wasn’t the goal of the Fixer Upper!” Eric laughed, and I waved away his concern.
I stopped walking and tried to find the words. “You know how we’re meant to make-do-and-mend? Like, previous generations lose their shit at us because we want something shiny and new instead of something old? But think about an old toaster.” I held up my hands as he pulled a face. “Stick with me. You have this old toaster and you don’t want to get rid of it, because it works fine, even though it burns the edges of your bread and you have to keep screwing the cover back on and it only works on alternate Tuesdays. But you feel guilty getting rid of that toaster, even though it’s not giving you what you need? Like you’re a failure.”
“Sure . . . ?”
“Adam is that shitty toaster. And I am tired of watching women stay with egotistical men just because they feel like they need a better reason to leave than their own happiness.”
“But aren’t we meant to fix the fixer upper?”
“You can only fix decent raw materials. I don’t fix up rubbish. We need to give them permission to leave—let them know that being unhappy is enough of a reason to go.”
Eric grinned at me. “I like this sassy, girl-power version of you.”
“Thanks. Me too.” I smiled, linking my arm through his. “Now tell me all about your guy problems.”