‘Cool. OK, first task is clear, then.’ I grab a fresh sheet of A3 and put it in the centre of the table. ‘Let’s start by brainstorming popular destinations on social media– they’re the ones her attendees will want to see the most. Then we can. . .’
Aiden leans over and I watch in horror as he grabs my orange highlighter, dividing the paper into quarters.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Evie’s Nigerian, so naturally that can be number one. Then we’ve got Indonesia for two; her most-liked picture is from Mexico– that’s three– and for the fourth one we can throw in something for us.’ He pauses. ‘You’re St Lucian, right?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, eyes fixed on his scribbles.
‘Me too, so that makes number four.’
He draws a line under his ugly scrawled writing, pushing it closer towards me so I can take in the atrocity in all its horrific glory. There it all is in bright orange, a colour not meant for writing, fresh from a highlighter pen clearly not made for notes.
‘How’d you know I’m St Lucian?’ I ask, trying to distract myself from the abomination under my nose.
‘My mum. She used to beg me, day in and day out, to make friends with “the nice St Lucian girl” from my class.’
‘You never did,’ I say.
He scoffs. ‘Yeah, ’cos I was like ten years old. Who lets their parents choose their friends at that age?’
I concede. ‘Fair enough. For the colour scheme, I was thinking—’
‘I’ve got the hex codes for each bag colour from her new range. I also think we should make a mood board.’
‘A mood board?’
‘Yeah.’ He doodles on the corner of the already disorganised sheet. ‘This perfume brand came to her with one once and she absolutely loved it.’
He digs out his phone from his pocket, scrolling quickly before revealing a shaky photo of the mood board. Evie was right– on top of being an aesthetic dream, it’s personal and looks like it required a lot more effort.
‘Mood board it is.’ I reach into my bag.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks, face scrunched in disgust.
‘Writing all of this down.’
I’ve got some notebooks in front of me and a pen in my hand– it could not be clearer what I am doing.
‘You have two notebooks.’ He looks horrified.
‘Yes? The pink one for lists and the spiral-bound for jotting down meeting minutes.’
Two notebooks aren’t that outlandish. If anything, he’s the weird one for making it such a big deal. I straighten my spine and stare at him, solid in my convictions, but then I watch his eyes dart from my face to the third notebook poking out of my bag.
‘Fine. There’s two more.’ I ignore my burning cheeks. ‘My daily journal and my intention-setter. But they’re irrelevant right now.’
‘Your intention-setter?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, for my goals, aims, objectives. Professional, physical, five-year plan. . .’
‘Five-year plan?’ He has a judging look on his face.
‘I like documenting where I want to be in five years, every five years. It helps me stay motivated,’ I say, exasperated.
I don’t know why I’m justifying my notebooks to him; I know he doesn’t care. But I am not, and will not, be ashamed of having my life together, or at least trying to.
He mutters under his breath. ‘You haven’t changed one bit.’
