“It’scatfish, not codfish,” I say, “and, no, I didn’t meet him through an app. It was fate that drew us together.” I can’t help grinning, feeling the heat in my cheeks as I do.
“Well. Who is he, then?” she asks, folding her arms on her desk and tilting her head.
“His name is Josef, and he plays the cello,” I say, feeling warmth rush over me as I recall him.
“Thecello.” She sayscelloas if it’s very la-di-da and, clearly disinterested in hearing any more about Joe, swiftly changes the subject. “Before I forget, Mara, you need to sort the accounts for Gerry on the play area upgrade.”
“I did that the Thursday before I left,” I say, confused.
“Yes, well, on Friday he brought in a new supplier, and it all needs reviewing again.”
“Great,” I say, scoffing audibly.
“No rest for the wicked,” Lynn quips. “I always say there’s no point in going on holiday.”
“Do you? You told me to go on holiday,” I protest.
“Well, yes, but you’re still relatively young and have no friendsor interests. We all worry about it. Oh, don’t look at me with that face—you said it yourself.”
I realize I’ve told Lynn, a terrible gossip, far too much about my life.
“All right. All right,” I say, logging on to my computer, then cursing as it asks me to update my password. “I just don’t know why we’re adding a children’s climbing wall above a cliff.”
“I know. I tried to fight it, but you know Gerry,” Lynn says, slipping a box of Marlboro Lights into her jacket pocket and heading out for her hourly break and gossip.
I gaze out the window and sigh. I didn’t mean to end up here.
Once upon a time, as a young and excitable Mara, I’d wanted to work in the movies. I’d been a video addict my whole childhood, dragging my parents to Blockbuster so often I’m sure I kept it afloat single-handedly in those last years. But things really ignited in me when Mum and Dad took us on holiday to the Peak District in 2003. As usual, my brother, Ben, and I were carted around between boring hikes and boring stately homes, dragging our feet and bickering the entire time. So, you can imagine our relief when hiking through the grounds of Chatsworth House, we came upon a man sitting in a camp chair, in a high-vis vest, informing us it was closed to visitors.
“Thank fuck,” Ben said, and we’d fist-bumped.
Then the man said, “They’re filming.” When he saw my twelve-year-old face gasp with excitement, he smiled. “You can watch through those trees for a bit if you like. No cameras, though.”
“Oh, God help us,” said Dad, shaking his head at me, “we’ll never get her home.”
Across the lawn an adaptation ofPride and Prejudicewas beingfilmed. I could just make out what turned out to be Keira Knightley in a pin-striped Georgian dress, bounding down the stairs in front of a massive camera on a long crane. I was mesmerized. I had never imagined what it looked like to make an actual movie.These people did this for a job.
Until that moment, making movies was a far-off magical mystery in a creative wonderland called Hollywood. I loved them. I obsessed about them. But I’d never considered the possibilityIcouldmakethem.
Who were these people? Who was this crew of dozens, adjusting lighting, dusting on makeup, sitting in cranes with cameras? What did they all do? CouldIdo it?
And that was it. I knew I wanted to be a filmmaker.
But film school ended in a nuclear-level disaster. There was my first love, Noah, a cruel betrayal, a very public meltdown, and then a finals failure. I have never been able to recover from the emotional fallout.
Ashamed to go home, I’d headed to London to take a job at a cinema in East London and ended up doing their bookkeeping too. Free tickets, easy days, surrounded by my love of movies. Then I met Charlie through a flatmate-wanted ad, and we became instant best friends. Two northern girls in the Big Smoke. It was all I needed, and I settled into a small but secure life in London.
A few years later, I found I needed more money, so I took a bookkeeping job at Westminster Council. I was hoping for film premiers in Leicester Square, but I ended up dealing mostly with parking permits. Before I knew it, almost a decade had passed since I left film school. Charlie spent less and less time at the flat and more time on a sofa somewhere in Richmond with her boyfriend, Alex.
Then, eighteen months ago, Charlie left London for Kent with Alex, her now husband, and a baby on the way. I had stood on London Bridge one starry night wondering what the hell I was going to do next. I’d had enough of my dead-end job, where there was no progression because I was constantly outmaneuvered by savvy, educated Londoners. I didn’t want a new person in my and Charlie’s flat, and I was burning through my meager savings living there alone. I had had enough of London. I was sick of the smells of the city—the asphalt, the diesel fumes, the forked lines of urine that ran from buildings to the curb every morning on my way to the bus.
And so, the universe responded in haste. The very next day, I saw an ad for a bookkeeping job with Broadgate Council. Just twenty minutes from Charlie. A beautiful art deco building with so much potential, right by the sea. I had never lived on the edge of the earth before, and the idea was invigorating. My star sign that day sealed the deal:
With the sun, Mars, and Mercury retrograde conjunct in Libra today, your ability to dream is felt tenfold. Use this moment to take a new professional step. Find a path with a great, expansive view ahead.
I think of that small paragraph a lot as I stare out onto the view, so wide, so filled with hope. And then I turn my head back to the electric glare of my PC, its outdated version of MS Office struggling to load up an Excel spreadsheet.
I think about calling Charlie, but just as I pull out the phone, senior lifeguard Ryan arrives at my desk.
