My heartbeat doesn’t.
I stare at the sea.‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because,’ she says, ‘I love you and I know you’re trying.And I thought maybe you’d want to know.’
I shake my head.‘I don’t.’
‘Jamie—’
‘I don’t want to know what Luke’s doing.Or how happy he and Lauren are.’
There’s a pause.Then a sigh, full of unsaid things.
Before Ella can reply, Rodrigo appears in my peripheral vision like a bronzed, energetic ghost.He claps his hands.‘You must not give up!’
I blink up at him and then say to Ella, ‘I’ve gotta go.’
‘Okay.Call me later?’
‘Yeah.Love you.’
We hang up, and I turn to look at the shadow looming over me.‘Rodrigo,’ I say, calmly, ‘go harass a tourist.’
At work, the slogan they landed on is: ‘Black is the new white.’
I’ve officially hit the ceiling of my creative tolerance.
We’ve been workshopping this toothpaste campaign for weeks –charcoal-infused,naturally derived,approved by influencers and dentists alike– and that’s the best they could do.
I’m not even mad.I’m … creatively numb.I’ve overcooked the left side of my brain trying to make dental hygiene sexy.
‘Black is the new white,’ I repeat, deadpan, as I click to the final slide.‘Minimal.Clean.Memorable.’
Someone across the boardroom table clears their throat.I blink and realise I’ve been staring blankly at the slide, probably thinking about horses again.Specifically, about Stella.And specifically-specifically, about how much I want to feel her galloping under me – not trotting politely through Centennial Park.
The meeting room nods with collective enthusiasm, as if we’ve reinvented the wheel instead of given a goth makeover to toothpaste.A few people clap.The clients look thrilled.My boss gives me a thumbs-up like I’m a gifted child who solved a Rubik’s cube with her elbows.
I smile like a woman who flosses daily and who definitely doesn’t fantasise about abandoning her career to go wrangle horses.
As they all pack up, I grab my phone and fire off a message to Abbey.
Still on for lunch?
She replies before I can even open my inbox.
Obviously.Already dreaming of kale.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re seated at the same table outside the same salad bar as always.
We both order the same thing we always do – Abbey gets the Glow Bowl because she’s committed to skincare, and I get the Harvest Crunch because it’s the closest thing to comfort food that still contains chickpeas.
‘So,’ I say, poking at a sad-looking roasted carrot.‘How’s the PR apocalypse going?Did the animal fat cream finally take someone down?’
Abbey sighs, deeply.‘We’ve had three influencers drop out, five returns and two customers post videos crying because they broke out in hives after applying it.So … yes.Full-blown disaster.’
‘Ooft.’
‘Yup.We’re calling it “collagen-enhanced organic tallow balm” now and praying the rebrand distracts everyone.’
