“Awesome. Okay, later.” He hangs up.
I grab my keys and head out of my flat into the hallway, crossing the corridor and knocking on her door. There’s no response. “Layla?”
“Now’s not a good time,” she calls. I frown. Zack’s right. She does sound… wrong. Her voice is all muffled. I waver in the hallway, not sure what to do. As I hang back, uncertain, I hear a sharp breath, and then a smothered sob.
Alarm runs through me. “Sweetheart, I’m coming inside, okay?”
There’s no answer, so I push open the door to her flat and freeze, staring at the mess.
Her lounge looks like a bomb has hit it. Normally Layla is ridiculously organised; she loves labels and files and containers. But now, there’s stuff everywhere. Packaging and invoices and fabric samples are strewn over the couch and floor and coffee table. There are empty mugs and bowls of half-eaten food on pretty much every flat surface, and the sink in her little kitchenette is overflowing with dirty crockery.
Something is wrong. This isn’t like her at all.
I hear another muffled sob, and follow the noise to the bedroom, pushing the door open gently.
Layla is sprawled on the floor in coffee-stained pyjamas, surrounded by stacks of papers. As I watch, she flicks through them frantically. Her hair is tied up in a sloppy bun falling to one side of her head, and her eyes are ringed with smudged makeup.
“Layla,” I say softly.
“I’m fine,” she mutters, not looking up at me.
“You’re not fine.”
“I’m just busy,” she snaps, slapping one pile of papers down and picking up another. “I j-just can’t find this stupid receipt. God, I’m so stupid, why the Hell don’t I file things better?!” She tosses the papers back down and tugs at her hair, breathing hard. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she mutters, her green eyes wide. “I don’t know how I can fix this, I don’t…” she trails off, her chest heaving. She’s clearly on the edge of panicking.
I step into the room, shutting the door behind me. “Layla, it’s okay. Get up, sweetheart.”
She ignores me, stirring through the papers again. “Maybe I didn’t print it out? Or I deleted it? Why would I do that, though? It can’t just have disappeared—”
“Layla.” I cut her off, my voice firm. “Get. Up. Now.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
LUKE
She squints up at me. Her fingers are shaking. “Are you using your teacher voice on me?”
“If that’s what it takes, then yes. This isn’t healthy. Come on.”
She looks down at the pages strewn around her and covers her face. “God,” she mutters. “I’m an absolute mess, aren’t I?”
Without even thinking, I drop to my knees and reach for her, pulling her into my arms. She’s stiff for a moment, tense and quivering in my grip. Then she tips closer to me, burying her face in my chest. I rub my hand over her back, trying to make soothing sounds as she shudders against me.
I wish she’d just cry, for God’s sake. This is almost worse. She’s just… tense and shaking in my arms.
“This isn’t just about clothes for you, is it?” I say quietly. “You’re trying to prove something.”
“No one ever thought I’d be good at anything,” she says into my shoulder. “But I am. I don’t need help.”
“We all need help.” She takes a little gasping breath, and I cup her cheeks. “C’mon, sweetheart. Breathe. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It is.” I look around at the papers scattered across the floor. They look like receipts. “Are you having money issues? We can help you.”
She cringes so hard I’m vaguely worried she’ll sprain something. “I don’t want your money,” she spits. “I… it’s not a financial issue.”
“Then what is it?”
She opens her mouth, trying for a few seconds to find the words, then runs a hand through her hair, frustrated. “I’m just so flippin’ stupid,” she spits out. “I’m stupid. I just need to be better at all of this. All of it. And it’s too much, and I can’t do it all—”
“Hey,” I say sharply. “You’re not stupid. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
She rolls her eyes, wiping her face, and I grab her wrist, pulling her hand down to make her look me in the eye. “I’m not joking, Layla. If I hear you saying this stuff about yourself again, all of this,” I wave between us, “this stuff with the podcast, it’s done.”
She looks up at me, breathing hard. “I just…” She looks down. “I don’t know what to do. I have so much that I need to get done, but I can’t do any of it.”
“You’re not in the right frame of mind to work. The more you try, the more you’ll struggle. And the more you struggle, the more you’ll panic. It’s a vicious cycle.” A few strands of hair are sticking to her cheek, and I stroke them away without thinking. “Do you want to tell me what’s upsetting you?”
She rubs her face. “I had a shipment of lace that was supposed to come in earlier this week,” she mumbles. “The company is saying I never ordered it. But I’m sure I did. And if I can just find the receipt, their customer service reps would have to take care of it, but I can’t, which means the entire release is going to have to be pushed back. And I’ve already booked promos, so I can’t do that.” She swallows hard and shakes her head. “And on top of that, there’s apparently something wrong with my email, but I don’t know what a DNS record is and I looked it up and nothing is making sense, so I don’t know what to do. And one of my favourite designers asked me to apply for a scholarship with her, but how the Hell am I going to win it when I can’t even answer a goddamn email?” Her mouth turns down. “I just want to get things right. And I keep screwing up, over and over and over.”
“You’re just overwhelmed.” I wave around the messy room. “I’ve coached thousands of students through their A-levels. Trust me. I’ve seen this more times than I could count.” I look down at the papers on the floor, reading through the dates. “What invoice were you looking for?”
“You won’t find it,” she mutters. “I’ve been looking for ages.”
“Humour me.”
She rubs her eyes. “S’from Pink Pearl Silks.”
I immediately spot the company name on a sheet half-hidden under her bed.
“The high-gloss lucent insertion lace?” I read aloud. “In shade 8793, thundercloud grey?”
She frowns, looking up at me. “Yeah? How did you...?”
I reach forward, carefully extricating the sheet and passing it to her. “Here.”
“It was right in front of me,” she says flatly, taking it. “It was right there. And I didn’t see it.”
“Well. It was under the bed,” I say charitably.
She shakes her head, dropping the invoice and tugging at her hair. “Jesus Christ. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I can’t think, or see, or breathe—”
“You’re tired. You’re overwhelmed. You’re human.” I reach up and untangle her fingers from her hair, twisting them with mine before she hurts herself. “But we can fix it. We have a tech assistant who helps with our website and email campaigns. We’ll have her look over your technical issues.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re refusing to accept payment for being on our show,” I say drily. “There aren’t really enough favours we can do for you. Until recently, I was pushing the others to pay you, but…”
She finishes the thought for me. “Now I’ve slept with Josh and Zack, it would be weird.”
A pang runs through me. “Right.” I drop my gaze and accidentally get an eyeful of white, soft-looking cleavage. Layla’s pyjamas are fairly skimpy. I quickly look away.
We’re both quiet for a bit. I keep rubbing circles on her back as her breathing slowly evens out, her body relaxing. Eventually, she leans against me and closes her eyes. “Thank you,” she says. “Sorry you had to come here. You can go, now. I’m fine.”