On the platform, I looked down at the sprig of dry heather in my hand and snapped a photo of it. As I ascended the escalator at Bond Street, I uploaded the image to Instagram, with the caption, ‘Don’t just exist – live’.
It would be my new mantra. I liked the phrase so much, I even added it to my bio. Most of all I took the gift as a sign that everything was going to work out.
I had been asked to clear my desk at Selfridges today and now I was feeling good about it. As I left the Tube station, I dropped a five-pound note into the hat of a busker. Paying a kind act forward felt like the least I could do. Then I did a full three-sixty twirl around a lamppost, and I didn’t care who noticed.
Chapter Three
Ihad been working as a window designer at Selfridges, on and off, for the best part of two years, and I couldn’t really blame my tall, handsome, charming boss Joseph ‘don’t call me Joe’ Davies, for putting me in line for the redundancy instead of Shauna. He had been kind enough to grant me the chance to take a sabbatical for my Manhattan adventure. Besides, Shauna deserved to stay. I mean, she was prepared to spend a whole weekend making four hundred miniature origami swans when they were required for a Swan Lake-themed Christmas window. I had to hold my hands up – I could never be that committed, let alone that good at origami. Shauna lived and breathed the window-dressing life. A life that she took great delight in sharing with her three thousand strong TikTok following – a niche, yet dedicated community in which she extolled the highs and lows of her busy working life.
Entering the office today I already felt like an imposter. Ideally, I would creep in unnoticed, grab the stuff from my desk drawers (mainly Pret cutlery, Tampax, and chewing gum) and leave. But it was never going to happen with Shauna around. She was up and out of her seat and flinging her arms around me the second I appeared.
‘Babe, this is horrendous. I’m so sorry!’ she announced, trying her hardest to feign sympathy and failing. She shoved a Tupperware box in front of me. ‘Have a Mars bar slice. Approximately one thousand calories per piece. I guarantee you’ll feel better.’
‘I’m not into emotional eating,’ I responded, the smell of milk chocolate hitting my nostrils in a tantalising way. ‘But I am hungry.’ I lifted one out and held it to my lips, ready to take a bite.
‘Wait!’ she yelled, putting her hand on my arm to stop the slice just short of my lips. Her long fingernails decorated with little diamanté jewels on the ends dug into my leather jacket, while with her other hand she artfully lifted her iPhone and snapped. ‘TikTok opportunity!’
And there it was: me, lips parted, eyes wide, chocolate slice just shy of my open mouth, uploaded to TikTok and Snapchat simultaneously, complete with a salivating dog GIF and the hashtags #workOG #bae #missyoualready #solongamigo #ambergreen.
‘Thanks, Shauna,’ I mumbled, appreciating the sugar hit. ‘I’ll miss you, too.’
Joseph peeked over the top of the large screen on his desk and stood up. ‘Hey, Amber.’ He came over, ready to embrace me too.
‘It’s okay, no one’s died,’ I said. ‘No need to hug it out. I’m honestly fine.’
‘It’s shit and I’m sorry.’ Joseph hung his head. ‘We’ll do drinks, right?’
‘Sure,’ I commented noncommittally.
Tempting as it was to brag about my job news to them today, I was sensible enough to know that I had better wait until everything was agreed in writing before I made it public, and there was still no official word from Julie-Ann.
As I threw away most of the contents of my desk drawers – and put the spare knickers, box of Tampax, deodorant, and array of business cards I might need one day, plus a stash of unused Post-it Notes into a bag – my hand was never far away from my phone, as I checked my inbox precisely every three seconds.An email from Julie-Ann would be very welcome right about now.
Fridays can mean a lot of different things to people every single week. There can be special Fridays and insignificant ones; Fridays so full of fun that I have not wanted the night to end. And ones when I have been very happy to say sayonara to the working week. Fridays with a bottle of wine, TV, and the sofa. Fridays with girlfriends, Fridays with family, Fridays alone, and Fridays with Rob. It’s the day I generally enjoy the most in the week. The evening in which I regularly eat a family bag of Maltesers, and the night Rob and I nearly always have the best sex. But what about this Friday?
Right on cue, a new email appeared. It was from Julie-Ann.
Today would be remembered as the Friday I left Selfridges for the last time as an employee – and walked straight into a new job.
Chapter Four
The email from Julie-Ann was a job offer – a three-month contract to be Mandy’s in-house stylist during her time in the UK. When Julie-Ann said ‘in-house’ she meant it literally. As part of the deal, I was required to move into the mansion which Mandy and her entourage would be inhabiting for the full twelve weeks. During which time, they would document her life on social media and for her YouTube channel, work on brand endorsements and generally raise her profile this side of the Atlantic. After signing an NDA, I was informed that the house was in Surrey – a suburb just outside of London – which felt reassuringly close to my home with Rob. But here came the catch:This is an exclusive agreement whereby you will work full time for Mandy for the full twelve weeks, and not be permitted to see anyone outside of the house, aka your ‘work family’, for the duration of the contract, to ensure complete confidentiality. For the avoidance of doubt, this includes your spouse or significant other. Holiday days must be reviewed and agreed in advance and your contract is subject to termination without notice if necessary.
Yikes.
The salary was better than my pay at Selfridges had been,plus it included accommodation, food, a few expenses, and a very appealing bonus of the same amount again, payable once the twelve weeks were fulfilled, to serve as an incentive. With Rob and me saving for a deposit for a flat together, the bonus was a huge plus.
My role was to dress Mandy daily, for all engagements taking place both within the house and on location. Plus, there might be a trip abroad. It was going to be like styling a photoshoot every single day. It sounded exciting, different – a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And the fact my job at Selfridges no longer existed, there was little risk in accepting a short-term contract because it wasn’t as if I had any other job prospects at this moment. The only negative was three months without Rob. I wondered how he would feel about me moving out of our flat – and his entire life – for that period of time. It would be hard, but there was no rule about FaceTiming and phone calls, and when you broke twelve weeks down to eighty-four days, it didn’t feel too long.Did it?Plus, it would be worth it for the bonus at the end; it was the kind of sum that would add a huge chunk to our savings for a flat. It might actually make our home-owning dream a reality. Rob had to agree it was worth it. I decided to break the news to him this evening.
After years of ‘living in sin’ as my mum and dad called it, raising their daughter, Nora, out of a matrimonial home, Lucy’s boyfriend of ten years, Rory, had finally done the right thing – in my parents’ eyes – and proposed. He did it on Lucy’s birthday last October over dinner at a fancy Japanese restaurant in central London.
‘Very flashy for Rory, do you think something’s up?’ Mum had excitedly fished over the phone, while she was babysitting for Nora that evening. In retrospect, I’m sure she was in on it, as we discovered Rory had done the traditional thing and asked for Dad’s approval to marry his daughter the weekend before, and there was no way Dad could keep that secret from Mum. Sure enough, when they arrived home that evening, Lucy was sporting one of Nora’s toy rings on her wedding finger. Rory was far too sensible to purchase a diamond without seeking Lucy’s approval in advance, knowing how fussy my sister was. This was the person who would not enter a coffee shop until she was sure they sold her preferred brand of oat milk and the beans were a hundred per cent fairtrade.
‘Lucky I said yes, or he would have ruined my birthday forever,’ Lucy remarked dryly, as she retold the story to me with her trademark cynicism over FaceTime the following day. She may have tried to sound cool, but I could see the excitement ripple from the upturned corners of her lips to her eyes as she began to visualise what their wedding might be like. She told me Nora was already plotting what the bridesmaids would wear – herself as the chief, naturally.
By the time I arrived at Lucy’s house this evening, I had fully convinced myself that this job was my destiny.
Nora opened the door, dressed head to toe as Harry Potter.
