Gradually, the iron band around my torso loosens.
There’s a hollow in my chest where something else should be. And perhaps I went on this bender to fill it. Or maybe I did it hoping someone would notice. No fucking clue.
I know only one thing for sure. Whatever happened here the past few days, it’s gonna cost me.
Chapter 1
Theo
One matcha latte and one oat milk cappuccino. Tick. Invoices filed, Charlie’s diary clear until three. Double-tick. Social postings scheduled. Triple tick. If organisation were an Olympic sport, I’d be draped in gold, singing Flower of Scotland at the top of my lungs.
Last night, I alphabetised my spice rack – from cinnamon to turmeric. What can I say? I like to begin the new year with outer order and inner peace.
Even if both never last beyond January.
Two days in, Edinburgh is a slushy grey mess of broken resolutions and discarded Christmas trees. Scottish January wind rattles the windows of this former warehouse turned co-working space. Inside Elite Edge Sports Management’s office, however, calm prevails. Mostly because I enforce it with the efficiency of a benevolent, caffeinated despot. That’s my job as assistant, after all, and I take that seriously.
Also, everybody else in the world is still at home, nursing their monumental Hogmanay hangovers.
I don’t drink. Am I a workaholic?
Possibly, possibly.
But I do have something to prove. Being kicked out of a global agency like Nectar London wreaks havoc on anyone’s confidence. Yeah, I tanked my first proper job, and it wasn’t even my fault. Unless you count gullibility.
The radiator in my tiny office hisses and clanks. The converted warehouse aesthetic might seem sexy on our website, but the heating system belongs in a museum.
‘Theo?’ My boss Charlotte Harrington’s voice cuts through the glass wall. ‘Got a minute?’
I grab my notepad and battered, glittery travel mug, and make my way into her office next door. My reflection bounces back at me in the partition. Wonky fringe, toner streak on my cherry-print blouse, and a high ponytail that resembles that of a wee Shetland horse at a rave.
‘Professional competence at its finest,’ I deadpan and smooth back the escaped strands.
She’s hunched over her laptop, hair twisted into that messy bun she turns into a statement. Wish I could pull that off.
‘Did you reschedule the MacInnes interview?’
‘Moved it to Thursday, ten sharp. He’ll be charming, guaranteed.’
Andy MacInnes, the cyclist, is one of our so-called heritage clients, like Brodie MacRae. They came with the list when Charlie acquired Henderson’s sports management last year.
She gives me a wry smile. ‘You make it look so easy.’
‘It’s who I am. Anything else?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. But honestly, you’re the glue that holds this whole thing together.’
‘That’s on my CV under special skills.’
Yep. The unshakeable Theodora MacMickin, purveyor of order, slayer of chaos, and secret hoarder of sparkly mugs and matcha. If only I could sort my anxieties as easily as my spices.
Just as I’m about to leave, a ping from her phone makes me turn around. She snatches it up, pink creeping over her face like a sunrise over the Firth of Forth. That tell-tale flush you get when you’re trying not to look bashful.
And I should know – chronic blushing is the bane of my existence. Honestly, it’s debilitating.
‘Everything alright there, boss?’ I lift the corner of my mouth.
She startles, tucking her phone away. ‘Yeah…erm…just Brodie.’
