I laugh as she stretches languidly, the picture of contentment, and I can’t help but feel a pang of envy. Here I am, wound tight, while she looks like she’s on a yoga retreat even though she’s perpetually broke.
The thought of living Lizzie’s life—hopping between temp jobs, clinging to the hope of a random acting gig, never knowing when the next paycheck or script will land . . . That’s my nightmare scenario.
I need structure. I need to know that I’m not going to end up living in a cardboard box, subsisting on Pot Noodles, and talking to pigeons in Trafalgar Square.
I inhale deeply, letting the fresh evening air fill my lungs. Maybe she’s on to something. Maybe it is time I started living my life rather than just managing it.
One thing’s for sure—I need to stop bringing cat shit to work. That’s a good place to start.
“I’ve got my work ball next Thursday night,” I say, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. “At least I’ll be out and about, mingling with actual humans, even if they are my morally bankrupt colleagues.”
Lizzie lights up. “Ooh, can you bring a guest?”
I hesitate. “Technically . . . yes. But I usually go solo.”
“Do other people bring dates?”
“About half the crowd,” I admit.
Lizzie claps her hands together like a deranged seal, practically vibrating with glee. “Then it’s settled. I’m your date!”
I internally groan at the idea. “Fine, but you’re on a tight leash—no mingling on your own.”
She rolls her eyes with theatrical flair. “Yes, Mum, I promise not to embarrass you in front of your stuffy work friends. Jeez, am I really that bad?”
“Sometimes, you absolutely are.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior. What are you going to wear?”
“A gorgeous pantsuit I’ve been saving for a special occasion,” I reply proudly, already picturing myself strutting into the event like a boss bitch.
She narrows her eyes. “Show me.”
I sigh, hauling myself out of my chair and trudging into the bedroom to retrieve the outfit. I return a moment later, presenting it with a flourish, waiting for theoohsandahhs.
“Why are you dressing like the prime minister at a funeral?”
“Excuse me,” I splutter indignantly, clutching the pantsuit to my chest, wounded. “This is designer, I’ll have you know. It’s perfect for a work event. It says ‘I’m professional, but I also know how to let my hair down and have a good time.’”
“Those shoulder pads beg to differ, babe. They scream ‘I’m here to talk about your funeral bill.’”
I huff, draping the pantsuit carefully over my arm because it cost a fortune. “What exactly do you suggest I wear then? That regency frock you dragged home?”
“That’s two ends of the spectrum. We’ll find something in between, something that shows off your fun side.” She points to the pantsuit with disdain, like it’s one of Winnie’s dead mice I’ve just presented to her. “That one is strictly for Mondays at the office.”
“HR isn’t meant to be fun. We’re the reliable ones, the voice of reason.”
I’m rewarded with an eyeroll.
“You don’t have to wear your HR manager hat twenty-four seven, do you? Surely sexy-yet-classy-casual is the way to go.”
I heave a sigh of resignation. “Maybe.”
Lizzie grins. “We’re going shopping tomorrow. We’ll find you something that’s moreI’m fun, I’m flirty and I don’t have a cat stool sample in my purse. Her smile turns wicked. “Trust me, by the time I’m done, even your horrible boss McLaren won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach does a little flip at her words. “As if I’d want McLaren’s eyes on me. All I want is for him to view me as professional.”
And right now, his opinioncannotget any worse of me.
