I’m watching old episodes ofModern Familywhen the doorbell goes. Moving my laptop off my stomach, where it’s been balanced so that I can pretend to myself that I’m doing some form of work, I go to the door, wondering whether I unconsciously ordered another takeaway.
Working from home has been both liberating and suffocating: I’ve enjoyed the freedom of wearing tracksuit bottoms and my Miss Piggy slippers all day, but I’ve also felt slovenly and useless, trapped in my flat with no one to talk to but the orchid I bought at Sainsbury’s on a whim the other day. I’ve named him Bud and he is a pleasant, if somewhat minimal, conversationalist.
Most of my industry contacts are now aware of my redundancy. I spent Monday sending emails to all the agents and PR reps I could think of and received a torrent of support in reply. I thought it would make me upset, but actually it was nice to read their opinions on the matter. Almost all of them pitched me clients to interview on a freelance basis, which was promising—I suppose I could book some in to write up and shop around to publications until I find a new position.
The rest of the week has been spent wrapping things atNarrative,including telling the agents and managers of the interviewees that I was leaving, which was mildly embarrassing. The worst was telling Isabella Blossom. I sent her an email with her film publicist, Rachael, cc’d in, saying that I understood if she’d rather Ryan do the interview now, since I probably wouldn’t beat the magazine by the time we could arrange to come see her and the baby. Rachael quickly replied saying how amazing I was at my job and how sorry she was to hear about the redundancy, before concluding that she and Isabella would be in touch regarding the interview.
LeavingNarrativehas also meant compiling a handover file for Ryan, so he can stay up to speed on any features that are currently in the works. His request for a spreadsheet of interviews and dates has not been fulfilled because such a document does not exist. When I emailed to tell him that, I imagined him reading it with his secretive smile. The one he used when my chaos amused him.
I doubt he smiles like that now.
Whenever Ryan’s name has popped in my inbox, my heart has leaped into my throat, but he’s only matched the formal tone of my original email. Which is to be expected. He’s following my lead, and I did say some things during our rain-drenched spat that must have hit home. Ryan is the kind of guy who would respect my request for him to leave me alone. He’d believe me when I tell him that I won’t trust him again.
Still, I find myself toying with the idea of calling him—or, in more desperate moments, showing up at his door. After my outburst at dinner with my parents, I realized that he was the one who gave me the courage to speak my mind. If he had been there, I think he would have been proud of me.
But then I think about how I wracked my brain for days wondering what I did wrong, how I threw myself into work thinking at least I could excel in that area of my life, and my cheeks grow hot with humiliation. My pride can’t quite forgive him. Besides, I don’t have time to be thinking about matters of the heart. I need to get back on my own two feet first. I need to focus onme.
As firm as I am about this decision, I still wonder every timethe doorbell rings. Which is why, when I pauseModern Family, I have a teensy flutter of hope that it might be Ryan standing on the other side of the door, holding a bouquet of flowers, begging me to take him back.
It’s not him. It’s not a Deliveroo driver, either (who would have been equally welcome).
“Hi,” Juliet says sheepishly.
I’m so stunned to see my sister that I don’t say anything at first, staring at her open-mouthed. I wonder if I’m hallucinating, that maybe the three Nobbly Bobbly ice creams I’ve ingested today have gone to my head. For one thing, my sister has never been to my flat before. I don’t know if she’s even been south of the river before, let alone ventured as far as Brixton. And for another, it’s 2P.M. on a Thursday, which means she should be in an office somewhere yelling at people on the phone or taking important clients out for lunch in The Savoy. She definitely shouldn’t be at my door wearing jeans.
Oh my god, she really is wearingjeans.I haven’t seen her in casual wear since she was, like, ten. And that’s not even an exaggeration: Juliet was one of those kids who became conscious of her style early on and would select adorable little outfits with Mum that involved buckle shoes and bows in her hair. I preferred the oversized T-shirt and shorts look, an outfit that would be dirty within roughly two minutes of me throwing it on. I was literally made to star in laundry detergent adverts.
Juliet clears her throat expectantly.
“S-sorry, hi,” I stammer. “What are you doing here? It is Thursday, right? Is it Thursday? Have I missed a couple of days and it’s the weekend?”
“No, it’s Thursday,” she confirms. “Sorry to show up unannounced like this. Can I come in?”
Part of me would like to say no and slam the door in her face.I haven’t spoken to any of my family since the dinner last week. I wasn’t expecting them to contact me after the way I spoke to them, and as I made clear at the time, that was fine by me.
But there must be a reason she’s made the journey here, and somehow manners and curiosity override my feelings of anger.
Standing back to let her in, I watch as she treads carefully into the flat.
“Do I need to take my shoes off?” she asks, gesturing at her designer pumps.
I suppress a laugh. “Uh, no. You’re fine.”
She nods and shuffles in, standing awkwardly in the kitchen while I shut the door. She takes a good look around. It’s currently not the tidiest of homes, but it’s definitely not as bad as it’s been.
“Would you like a drink?” I offer.
“Thanks, that would be lovely. Do you have any herbal teas?”
“Peppermint.”
“Perfect, thank you,” she says as I go to fill up the kettle. “This is a nice flat.”
“Thanks. A little smaller than yours, I imagine.”
“It’s much more homey than mine,” she says carefully. “It has character.”
I snort. “One way of describing it.”
