As he takes his biro and fills in the spaces, I notice the network of individual veins running beneath his skin, like tiny inky rivers.
I slide one of the biscotti from my apron pocket and lay it beside his mug. George shakes his head. When he grins up at me, I think he was probably a bit of a heartthrob when he was young. ‘I really shouldn’t.’
‘Two can keep a secret.’
He unwraps it, snaps it in half and hands me a piece. I know I should go back to work, but I can’t make my feet move in the direction of the counter.
‘Elodie, are you alright?’ George’s words are gentle. Kind. I want to crawl into his lap and weep.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I lie.
‘You know,’ he says, ‘there’s always someone worse off, that’s what my father used to say.’
I look down at the biscotti in my hand because I hate that saying. How is knowing there’s someone worse off supposed to make you feel better? As though it’s socially acceptable to take a little bit of comfort in the knowledge that there’s someone out there suffering more than you are right now.
George clears his throat. ‘But my father was a drunk. Most of what he said came out on the back of a whisky.’ He waves a dismissive hand. ‘Terrible advisor, my father.’
I manage a wan smile.
‘You’re a very intelligent girl, Elodie. Brighter than that oik you work for.’ His eyes glitter mischievously, and he rests a cool hand on mine. ‘Whatever’s happened, I know you’ll come up with a creative solution.’
Since I’m not going to be around anymore, I slip the handful of biscotti into his satchel when he isn’t looking. A parting gift.
On the way home, anxiety churning in my stomach, I call Arabella’s office. After I left ACH, she reached out on more than one occasion to persuade me to come back. Maybe I could pick up some part-time work from her for a while.
I’m sick with nerves as I wait for the receptionist to put me through. I’m just cutting across the children’s park through a group of shrieking kids when Arabella’s familiar, coppery voice glitters down the line. ‘Elodie, darling, this is a surprise. How are you?’
I can’t tell her the tragedy my life has become; I don’t want to guilt her into helping me. ‘Fine,’ I say, forcing myself to sound casual and light. ‘How’s ACH?’
‘Busy, busy, you know, late nights, early mornings. I don’t even remember what my husband looks like.’ She laughs.
‘Great,’ I say, ‘that’s great.’ I take a breath. My heart slams against my ribs. I’m nervous and desperate and lightheaded. ‘So, I’ve had a think and I’d love some freelance work. I mean, if there is anything, I’d really like to get stuck in—’
‘Elodie, darling,’ she trills, cutting me off kindly. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have any freelance work. All our staff are inhouse now.’
My heart slides to my ankles. ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘maybe I could come back full-time but work from home?’ Obviously, I won’t be able to write as much as I do now unless I get up super early and write before sunrise like some authors do. It could work. For a while. Working every hour of the day until I figure out a permanent solution is, well, it’s my only option, isn’t it? ‘I know you don’t usually do that but I’m good at my job and I’ll—’
‘Elodie, listen, you weren’t just good at your job, you were amazing at it but … we simply don’t have any openings right now. We’re working with a skeleton staff and it’s not in the budget to hire more people.’ Remorse is thick in her voice. ‘If I want this company to thrive, costs have to be kept low …’ She pauses. ‘I wish you’d called sooner.’
‘Oh,’ I say, the word rolling out of my mouth, fat with disappointment. I swallow. ‘If something comes up, will you …’
‘You’ll be the first person I call but, Elodie, I don’t want you to hold your breath on this one. Unless someone leaves, I can’t hire anyone else. But I can give you a glowing reference.’
When she rings off, I don’t go home right away. I do a loop and end up back on the high street where I began. I’ll apply for more marketing positions but how long will it take to get hired? There aren’t any jobs like that around here and I don’t have any money to relocate.
Beneath my panic is anger at myself for repeatedly shunning Arabella’s job offers. The crest of my despair is my parents’ inevitable mortification; their daughter, the bumbling graduate who owes ￡28,000 in student loans, can’t even hold down a coffee shop job.
I don’t have a book deal.
I don’t have a job.
I don’t even have a career to go back to.
I’m going to lose everything.
My chest is tight, and tears are streaming down my cheeks. I come to a sudden halt, someone crashes into the back of me and swears. I think I could be having a panic attack. I stagger towards a bench and sit, waiting to feel better. It’s a cloudless day, the kind of summer afternoon people spend in parks or gardens with Pimm’s and music and laughter, but I am bone-tired and sick. I want storm clouds and thunder and the kind of rain that pours like water from a bucket. I have this childish longing to curl up on the sofa with my mum and cry my heart out, but I can’t because she warned me not to leave marketing and I did it anyway.
A feeling creeps over me, settling into my bones like concrete: loneliness. I have never felt more alone in my life than I do in this moment.
What am I going to do now?
Chapter Eight
16 Days Before
Elodie Fray
My phone vibrates angrily in the darkness of my bedroom. I roll over and snatch it from the bedside table. It’s Mum. Again. I decline the call; I am drained and hopeless, and worried she knows I’m unemployed.
Seefer is curled up beside me. It rained last night, and I couldn’t leave her outside. Today marks one week since I lost my job and none of the Crosshaven restaurant or retail positions I applied to have invited me to interview, which makes no sense because I know how to serve drinks and work a damn till; so, I rang around this morning only to be told that I’m overqualified. I’ve also applied to a dozen admin jobs and marketing roles, but I haven’t heard back from a single one.
My phone buzzes again. I’m about to turn it off when I see the caller ID. Ada never rings. We aren’t exactly chatty, not anymore. There’s a hot lance of terror across my stomach – what if something’s happened to Dad?
Seefer meows loudly, as though urging me to answer.
I sit up and jab at the green button, adrenaline spiking my blood. ‘Ada?’
‘You know how to answer your phone then.’ She is somewhere loud and echoey and I immediately picture a hospital corridor.
‘Is Dad okay?’
‘Of course he is. Why would you even ask that?’
I wilt with relief.
‘Mum’s been calling you all week,’ she says accusingly. ‘Have you broken all your fingers?’
‘No,’ I say, equally as snippy. ‘I have not.’
‘Good, so you can still operate a phone.’
I press my lips together to hold in the ‘fuck off’ which is on the tip of my tongue. Seefer lets out another loud meow and presses her head into my free hand, wanting some fuss.