Yet ever since Craig handed it to me with that vaguely threatening smile, it’s taken over my life. I’m not aspiring to pull a Katy Perry and strut on stage with fireworks shooting from my bra, but maybe I could be more like Roy, my best mate at work,who can be ambushed with a surprise presentation without even blinking.
I, however, am Georgie. The woman who sweats through her shirt before saying “good morning.” Last week, I bumped into a mannequin at Zara, apologized, and then stood there—stood there—waiting for it to forgive me. Actually held eye contact with its soulless plastic stare before realizing I was an idiot. The shop assistant saw everything.
I’ve rehearsed this bloody thing everywhere: bathroom mirror, shower, even in the fogged-up microwave door while last night’s pasta shriveled into mush.
I made Great-Aunt Riri sit through it, though she kept interrupting to recommend hot yoga for my nerves and ask if I was “getting enough fiber.”
Then came the voice recordings.
Oh yes. I recorded myself then analyzed every syllable as if I were conducting a forensic linguistics investigation.
“Too fast.”
“Too mumbly. Speak up, for Christ’s sake.”
“Why are you breathing like you’ve just hidden a body under the floorboards?”
I even wrote jokes—little one-liners sprinkled in so I’d sound breezy. I added pauses for imaginary laughter because obviously middle-management Dan is going to throw his head back and howl,“Georgie, you comedic genius! Give us another one about hotel management!”when he’s never noticed I exist before now.
I scroll to the voice note where I almost sound like a functioning human and hit play.
I can do this. I just need to channel Tech Goddess Georgie, not burp-in-the-stairwell Georgie.
My phone buzzes.
Riri:
Knock them dead, darling! I’m so proud of you!
Even with the butterflies battering my stomach, I smile.
Three years of living with Great-Aunt Riri, and she’s officially my favorite human. When everything fell apart—when I dropped out of university, when I was convinced I’d never feel happy or normal or even… okay again—I showed up at her door. She didn’t ask questions. Just opened her arms and made space for me.
I want to make her proud. To prove that the girl who arrived on her doorstep wasn’t the final version of me.
The conference room feels too bright—like those interrogation lights in crime dramas, meant to expose every nervous twitch.
A few people trickle in, but to me, it might as well be Wembley bloody Stadium sold out.
I fumble with the USB connector. My fingers are so sweaty it takes three attempts before the screen flickers on with a triumphantdongthat sounds vaguely mocking.
Roy appears at my side. “You’ve got this,” he murmurs.
I shoot him a wild-eyed look. “What if I just email everyone the slides? Much more efficient. Saves us all the trauma.”
“And miss your big moment? No chance.” He nudges my shoulder. “Come on, this is cutting-edge shit. You’re basically the Stephen Hawking of hotel management systems.”
“He wasn’t exactly known for his public speaking either,” I mutter. Great. Now I’m disrespecting dead geniuses just to cope with my own pathetic anxiety. New low.
“Georgie, you know this system better than anyone else. Youbuiltthe thing.”
“Uh-huh.” It’s all I can manage.
He studies me for a beat, then grins. “Right, not sure if this helps or makes it worse, but you look stunning in that dress. Really makes your eyes pop.”
I choke out a laugh. “Thanks. I just need my mouth to cooperate.”
More bodies filter in: the UX lead, who can’t start a sentence without “From a user perspective…” The project manager who says “bandwidth” more than any human should.
