“I don’t need more money.”
She pursed her lips, then wrote a figure on a sheet of paper and pushed it across her desk towards me.
I glanced at the figure. A 20% pay rise.
“Thank you, this is very generous.” I did my best to look and sound sincere. “But I really want to leave.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “This is the worst possible time to play this game. With the royal visit, we don’t want to bring in a new presenter.”
“I’m not playing a game.”
“We need time to find a suitable replacement. You’ll have to wait until after the royal visit.”
The royal visit was the biggest reason I needed to be out of there. “Please believe me, I understand the difficulties.”
“No, you don’t understand. Walking out like this shows the worst kind of disloyalty. In this industry, being reliable is super important.” She fixed me with a hard look. Her irritation grew into something malevolent. “No TV company will ever touch you once it gets out how you left us in the lurch. And believe me, it will get out. You can’t keep these things secret.”
It was a threat. What she meant was that they would make sure my name became poison. That I’d never work in TV again.
She didn’t need to spell out her threats; I’d seen this done to others. A few words carelessly ‘slipped in’ over drinks and unfair whispers about breach of contract would be enough. Reliability and confidentiality are everything in the industry. Any insinuations that I leaked programming plans, that I broke agreements, and my reputation will be ruined.
Two weeks ago, this didn’t worry me because I had zero plans of working in television again. People in the media cannot possibly imagine anyone saying no to stardom. I’d been only too glad to leave all that behind. But now, out of nowhere, a feeling of dread swells inside me. And the bigger it swells the more it frightens me.
My gaze travels to where my ten acres seem to reach the horizon. A hundred years of neglect. My breathing catches in my chest and gets stuck there. Why didn’t I think of searching out the guy who had the job before me and asking him for his reasons?
If I’ve bitten off more than I can chew – and ten acres is a hell of bite – then what? What will happen if I fail too? And it’s nearly the end of February already. I know Evan Kendric said I had ayear to generate some income. To show I had a viable business. But in the world of public gardens, summer is everything. If I don’t have something ready for visitors in two months… who’s going to pay to look at dead wood?
My family were right. I’m always too ambitious. Always ready to catch the ball and run before looking to see if anyone will run with me.
I start to hyperventilate.
Oh no, not again. I thought I’d left this behind in London. I came all the way here to put a stop to this feeling.
And it’s not as if I can go back to my old career. No TV company will touch me now.
Air. I need air.
I breathe faster and faster, but the air doesn’t seem to get where it’s needed. I fold my arms on the windowsill, let my head hang down and squeeze my eyes shut.
No air. The floor starts to tilt and sway under my feet.
My dad’s words: “Every pub has a sad drinker sitting in the corner talking about his grand dreams.”
Mum: “Evie, when will you learn to be more realistic?”
Now I’m going to prove them all right. Everyone who ever laughed at me will see me fall.
Suddenly. a firm hand grips my shoulder and stops me falling.
“Hey, hey.” Osian. Somewhere behind me. “What’s the matter?”
I can’t answer.
His hand on my shoulder. “Evie?”
I try to make sound but there’s a whooshing in my ears.
“Evie.” His voice is calm but commanding. “Count to ten with me. One.” His hand slides to the middle of my back and rubs firmly. A circle between my shoulder blades. “Two.” Circle. “Three.” Circle. “Four.” By the time he gets to ten, my breathing begins to follow the same rhythm.
