McKenzie scowled, his monobrow knotting into a V. “And why do they have…googly eyes?”
“They’re my desk buddies.” She pointed. “That one’s Keanu Leaves, and this one is Morgan Treeman.” McKenzie’s scowl deepened, which probably wasn’t good for his infected hairline. “No?” she said, plucking the googly eyes off one by one. As he turned to walk away, she saw her chance. “While I have you here, Mr.McKenzie, do you remember we talked about me getting some experience on set?”
“Chloe.” He stopped, then pivoted back with a dramatic weariness. “Have you seen my inbox? Have you seen the state of the stationery cupboard? You are my personal assistant. In what world do you think you would be assisting me by not being here?”
“Right, I know, it’s just when I took this job, it was with a view to—”
McKenzie’s phone rang. He held up a finger to silence her, then stalked back toward his office, shoulders hunched around his ears. Chloe returned to her plants and carefully reapplied their googly eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she told Keanu. “I did try.” Then she sniffed and got a whiff of chip fat. Lifting an arm to smell her blouse, she realized it was coming from her. The office sat on the third floor of a narrow brick building in Southwark, CentralLondon. On the ground floor was a chip shop, and on certain days, the smell of triple-cooked fries seeped through the building’s ventilation system. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, but it was not exactly what you’d choose for your eau de toilette.
She glanced at her screen. Twelve thirty. Early lunch territory. She could nip out and get a sandwich, maybe even splash out on a proper coffee. But if she had lunch now, she would have nothing to look forward to. As she was mulling this bleak sentiment, her phone buzzed. Akiko. McKenzie disliked her taking personal calls at her desk, so she scurried over to the stationery cupboard. The light was broken, but she didn’t mind, the darkness a sweet reprieve from the unrelenting glare of strip lighting in the open-plan office.
“Have you seen the reunion email?” Akiko asked before Chloe could even say hello.
“No,” she said, pulling the cupboard door mostly shut behind her. “Hang on.”
She opened her personal email, scrolling through her junk folder. There it was, an email from Oxford entitledTen Year Reunion.She scanned the text:Lincoln College cordially invites you to a reunion weekend…Welcome to bring a guest…We look forward to celebrating this significant milestone with you.
“Are you going to go?” Akiko asked, her voice animated.
“I think I would rather stab paper clips into my thigh,” Chloe said, picking up a paper clip from the shelf beside her.
“Oh come on,” Akiko said. “Aren’t you curious what everyone’s up to?”
“Yes, I am curious, and that curiosity has been satiated by social media,” Chloe said, hearing the faint wail of baby Elodie in the background.
“You know that’s not real. Plus, loads of our college crowdaren’t even on social media.” Akiko’s voice shifted to her Calming Mum voice as she said, “Shh, Elodie, Mummy’s talking to her friend.”
“Well, I know the headlines—who got married, who got rich, who got arrested.”
“Oooh,whogot arrested?” Akiko dropped her voice to a gleeful whisper.
“Larry Fellas. Tax evasion. He lives in Monaco now.” Chloe shook her head. Was it normal to know this much about the lives of people you hadn’t seen in over a decade? Why did she know what color Lorna Childs’s new kitchen was and how many bridesmaids Harriet Townsend had had at her wedding, when she had no desire to see either of these people in real life?
“Maybe Sean will be there,” Akiko said. “I know John will. He’s on the alumni committee. Oh, I wouldloveto see everyone again.”
“Sean’s not going to go. He’s a big-shot film director. He’s not flying back from LA for a college reunion,” Chloe said, feeling a prickle of longing at the mention of his name.
“Ugh, Elodie!” Akiko said, groaning. “Chlo, can you give me two secs? Nappy situation.”
This is what phone calls with Akiko were like now—stolen moments amidst the relentless rhythm of motherhood. Chloe waited, leaning against the cupboard wall and rereading the email. Would she want to go if her contemporaries hadn’t all turned out to be such ridiculously high achievers? Or if her own life weren’t such a catalog of disappointments? A distant wail from Elodie bled through the line. Chloe picked up a stapler from the shelf and idly opened and closed it like a mouth.
“To go or not to go,” she whispered, “that is the question.”
The line cracked, then Akiko’s voice returned. “Okay, I’m back. Sorry.”
“So, areyouthinking of going?” Chloe asked.
“I can’t leave Elodie yet, it’s too far from Edinburgh,” Akiko said. “Which is why you need to go and get all the gossip.”
“If you’re not going, and Emma is in Canada, there is no way I’m rocking up there friendless and alone, and being all, ‘Hey, look at me and my sad-sack life.’ ”
“You don’t have a sad-sack life,” Akiko said, her voice softening.
“In the yearbook, they voted me most likely to succeedandmost likely to be famous. I am currently single, living at home with my parents, and I have the crappiest job imaginable.”
“Being famous isn’t a reasonable marker of success. You have high standards when it comes to men, and you’re only doing the PA thing as a stepping stone until the writing takes off. And, Chloe, you are an amazing writer.”
