Happy input, happy output.
Cue Lenka and her honking big dose of realism.
I rub my hands down my cheeks and cringe at myself, opening the jar of Nutella nestled between my knees andscooping with a teaspoon. Full disclosure: I only opened this family-size jar yesterday yet there’s only a quarter left and this little spoon is the only piece of silver to my name. This is where my notions of grandeur have got me – fakin’ it till I can’t take it.
Real talk: It’s Friday, 8 a.m. Breakfast is served. Hair is greasy. Flat is small. Lenka is mad. Dream is dissolving. I already need a nap and then a shovel to start digging myself out of this hole I’ve painstakingly dug for myself. But for now, at least it’s my hole. And it’s the only hole I’ve got.
It’d really help if I could schedule my panic attack before I leave home.
CHAPTER 2
THE GAME
I hug my portfolio close, my fists turning cold and clammy, as I wait in the lobby of Lenka’s exclusive city-centre office; sun-lit, spacious and unashamedly Instagramable. My stomach flips with nerves as the time ticks by.I’ve been sitting here for forty-five minutes now.It’s pure torture – how long will she keep me waiting like this?
I think I’m actually, officially done now.I’m ready to give up, to call time on this bonkers venture and go back to the call centre, back to reciting a standard customer-service script within regular hours and with a new appreciation for the mundane. At least in that predictable, beeping, grey-shaded world everything made sense; I know who I am and where I fit in. And where I don’t.
And I definitely don’t fit in here, in this uber-chic, uber-modern office block. Or even in the professional world of illustration. I’m punching above my weight here. I’m not sure if I even qualify for imposter syndrome. I’ve poured everything into this latest commission, moving from paper to screen, sketching and drawing and painting and then erasing, scrapping and starting all over again.
Butit’s a special one.
Forest Fablesby Matilda Wilder. The most special one I could ever dream of working on; the highly anticipated release of the year, the updated edition of an already beloved picture-book classic; a wonderful fairy-tale world of furry friends and life lessons back on bookshelves for all to enjoy. And, truthfully, if it wasn’t so close to my heart, I feel like I’d walk away right now.Give up freelancing. Give up art and new starts and everything I ever thought I wanted.
But I loveForest Fables. So,I’m here, showing up for Godknows what.
I gulp and take in my surroundings, noting the walls of the lobby. Three framed photographs draw my attention, each adorned with a different memory. One is of Lenka posing proudly in her formal gown, arms outstretched to receive the medal she was awarded for her contributions to children’s literature from the King. Another shows her beaming as she accepts a trophy for winning an international book fair prize. The third is an award for being an inspirational figure in global publishing.
She knows her stuff: so, if I get fired today, at least I’ve been rejected by the very best. A beacon of genius. A world-renowned expert hates my work. Go me.
Lenka’s PA looks up from his desk and smiles reassuringly at me, revealing a mouthful of pearly-white teeth. I’mpretty sure he hasn’t got a jar of Nutella jammed between his thighs. I highly doubt he chows down on any monochrome muck that comes from jars or cans or tins; his dewy skin glows with health, his green eyes sparkle. Whatever designer diet he’s following is evidently working for him. Vegan? Pescatarian? Flexitarian? Lacto-ovo-vegetarian?I can only guess what’s in his fridge, but I’m certain that there’ll be no sign of my beloved value-buy hazelnut-cocoa concoction.
‘Daisy, Lenka will be with you shortly.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, forcing a smile while trying to remain calm.
‘I apologise for the wait. I’m not sure what she’s doing in there either. Can I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?’
Wow. I pause, taken aback by the genuine warmth radiating from behind the reception desk. The last time I was here, a different receptionist looked right through me – frosty and dismissive, their stony expression had made me feel invisible, as though I didn’t exist. But this guy is altogether different. Maybe I was too hasty in my judgement of Lenka’s staff? I hereby retract any impure thoughts I had about his fridge.
I decline with a nod, noticing the familiar accent in his voice.
‘You’re from Ireland, right?’ I ask him.
He smiles and nods, his kind eyes twinkling.
‘Yes, I moved over here a million years ago, but you never lose the accent, do you?’
‘No, not at all,’ I agree. ‘My mother was originally from Ireland and her accent never faded even after living in London for years.’
‘Which part of Ireland is she from?’ he asks curiously.
I hesitate. ‘Innisfree.It’s just a small village, from what I understand.’
‘Have you never been there?’ he asks with raised eyebrows.
I shake my head.‘Not yet, but one day, hopefully. I’ve always dreamed of seeing it for myself. Have you been?’
‘Indeed, I have! Ah, the Wild Atlantic Way – on the western coast. That’s a great little spot! My grandparents used to take me there. Market fair every year.There was music playing on every corner and people dancing in the streets – good times! Is she from the town or from the countryside?’
