“Totally.” I found myself nodding furiously. “Don’t you worry about me; I’ll work it out.”
Bex frowned. “You sure? I’ll help you as much as possible. I can come on viewings with you, and it goes without saying that I can sort you out with some deals on new furniture, if you need any.”
I swallowed a wave of panic. Most of the furniture in this place belonged to Bex, so if I couldn’t find a furnished apartment, there would be the added burden of paying for new stuff. “Great.”
“Hey.” Bex grabbed my hand. “You’re having thoughts. I see them.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“Nope, don’t do that,” Bex said. “Don’t keep your worries locked up in there because you think no one can help.”
“Bex, I’ll work it out.” I had to. Unless Bex was magically able to produce a winning lottery ticket or find me a job that paid double, my living situation was about to get much less comfortable.
Bex sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I’ll sort it, somehow.” I replied feebly, then fought off a yawn. “Damn, I’m knackered.”
“Then you’d best add a shot of espresso to that tea because we have a date this afternoon!” Bex jumped to her feet.
I looked at her blankly and she tutted. “We have tickets to some film thing you said I had to come to for my own personal advancement.”
My exhausted mind raced for a few seconds, then it hit me.Back to the Futuremarathon at the Prince Charles cinema. Bex was only going because I’d promised the cinema served alcohol. “Oh yeah.”
“Where is it we’re going again?” she asked.
I punched the air. “Somewhere we don’t need roads.”
Now it was Bex’s turn to look at me blankly.
“That would have been fucking hilarious if you’d watched these films when you were supposed to.”
“Namaste, bitch.” Bex stuck her tongue out.
“They’re classics, you’ll see.” I glanced at the clock over the kitchen sink and groaned. “We have ninety minutes to get to Leicester Square, so get a move on.”
“No problem,” Bex said. “Oh, before you sort out that bedhead, I was thinking of having a little gathering for my birthday next Friday. Sergio’s?”
I grinned. “Definitely. Thought you were going to act as if turning thirty-one wasn’t happening?”
“It’snothappening,” Bex said firmly. “Officially, I’m staying put at thirty, thank you. But Dan is insisting he wants to do something for me so I’m like, fine, you can pay for a little dinner party with my squad. You, me, Dan, Tiff – not Tiff’s kids,” she qualified with a shudder. Tiff was a university friend who’d married straight after graduation and her children were possibly the loudest human beings to walk the planet. “Plus Roz and Dean from work.”
“Count me in”. Sergio’s was a restaurant two minutes’ walk from our flat and Archway’s best-kept secret. The fresh pasta was arguably the finest in London and as for the limoncello, well, it was bottled in-house and served very generously.
“Great.” Bex clapped her hands. “Remember, Dan’s paying, so show up hungry.”
“But of course,” I agreed. “Right, give me ten minutes towash and change into something that doesn’t smell like finance bro aftershave.”
I trudged to the bathroom and powered up the shower. I loved this shower. The jets were strong, and the water always came out at exactly the right temperature. As I coated myself in a thick layer of citrussy shower gel it hit me that my days using the shower of dreams were numbered; Bex was on track to move into, no, own, a proper grown-up house in a town I’d never even heard her mention until now. And what of me? Unless something drastic happened with my salary, I was facing –shudder –a house-share with strangers or some kind of rancid bedsit situation. It seemed like every time I opened social media there was a story about evil landlords exploiting tenants with limited financial means. I’d seen the horrifying videos with creeping black mold and caved-in ceilings. I turned off the water and swaddled myself in an enormous, fluffy bath sheet Bex had scored from some impossibly hoity-toity brand for next to nothing. From behind the bathroom door Bex was tunelessly belting out her favorite Chappell Roan song and I was hit with another pang of realization: a day was soon coming where I wouldn’t have to endure her awful singing. I missed it already. I sat down on the toilet seat, fighting back a mounting wave of panic. What was I going to do?
Chapter Three
Ihit ‘send’ on our latest press release with a victorious grin. Since working for Lin, my writing skills had improved massively and now she had me writing up all sorts of trade pieces, even drafting articles for industry publications. I prided myself on being able to be efficient with words, effective and emotive but always to the point, and my latest work was no exception. All it needed was Lin’s approval. All in all, today had been a good day, if tiring. I’d sat in on some really interesting calls – ostensibly to take minutes – but being part of the creative problem-solving for one director’s budget issues had been a rush.
It was Friday, the night of Bex’s birthday dinner. I had endured packed lunches all week to ensure I could afford to buy a bottle of fizz for the table – proper prosecco, not the dodgy stuff that Sergio said came from his cousin’s winery in Trieste but tasted suspiciously like fruit juice mixed with battery acid. But it was now past 6 p.m. and I needed to leave soon to ensure I arrived on time. Although I was used to long hours, it often occurred to me the unpaid overtime wouldn’t be so bad if Temper Media’s office was nice, but it was atiny basement office down a central London backstreet with no natural light. Lin had tried to amplify what she called its ‘industrial charms’ by having the concrete floor painted a vivid turquoise. Turquoise was Lin’s birthstone apparently and was thought to have healing properties, thus her rationale was the color scheme in the office would keep us fighting fit. It mostly gave me a headache.
Lin breezed in on a cloud of Dior perfume, her expensively highlighted hair pushed back from her angular face with oversized sunglasses. “Lucie, darling, how’s the brief?”
My heart sank. Lin’s late lunch had clearly been mostly of the liquid variety. “In your inbox, just needs your eyes on it,” I said wearily.
