Nia coughs into her glass, but regains her composure. “I can’t confirm anything,” she says to a chorus of boos. “Let’s just say HR is in much better shape under me,” she adds, serious now, despite the effect it has on her gasping audience.
I’ve heard the stories at the office. What my aunt asked about is just one of many. From what I understand,Damian had perfected his power-abuse techniques; no one dared turn him down when he set his eyes on them. And no one dared report it.
“Mark Becker is an angel in comparison,” Nia says, and I swear her eyes gloss over for a moment. “Demanding, yes, but he’s a rule-follower, and it makes my job easier.”
“Oh, it’s so exciting that you both work for Mr Becker,” Mum says. “He seems like a wonderful man.” By wonderful she means he’s loaded, and she believes we adapt to those we are close to, which is why she always pushed me into the high-end art circles.
She hooks her arm in mine and tilts her head to meet my eyes. She looks … proud? I’ve not seen that since I graduated from UAL. A welcome heat spreads through my chest.
Just for a moment…
Then I meet Nia’s piercing stare. The warmth leaves me, and my heart sinks into my stomach. I raise my eyebrows in response, giving her the most discreet shake of my head.
No, I haven’t yet told my mother the job was a temporary favour.
“What do you do there again? Your mother is always so vague,” my aunt asks, and I dare another glance at Nia, but before I can answer, Mum’s voice cuts through the air.
“Oh, she’s integral to the creative team.”
Nia raises her eyebrows at me, and I grimace, but quickly morph it into a smile as Mum brags about me (sort of) to her sisters, whichneverhappens.
Ever.
At Christmas, she didn’t talk about me at all. At the time, I was a preschool teacher’s assistant, and before that, I was a part-time tattoo artist. Hardly the conversation topic for my mother.
So yeah, I’d consider this a win.
“Rosemary holds an art degree from UAL, you recall. They are lucky to have her,” Mum continues.
I can feel Nia’s eyes burning a hole in the top of my head as I stare at my feet.
How the hell am I supposed to break it to Mum I’ve only got a week left at Mark Becker’s Infinio Games?
CHAPTER TWO
not easy
REY
It feels different walking into the vast foyer of Infinio Games this Monday morning, knowing I’ll soon never lay eyes on this factory-turned-office again. Although the work itself has been soul-suckingly boring at times, the people are fantastic. And the candy-coloured modern furniture, juxtaposing the exposed brick walls, makes the artist in me squeal with joy.
This place is extraordinary.
I can bemehere. My range of colourful thrift-shop treasures fits right in, and there are enough tattoos around here to make my mother’s eyes water (albeit, it doesn’t take much).
Strolling through the vast open office toward Nia’s HR corner, I savour the sound of fingers tapping on keyboards, the smell of freshly ground coffee from the break room, and how the ceiling-beams shimmer when the sun hits them through the tall mezzanine windows.
The teams wave hello as I pass, and I smile in return. I’ll miss them all.
I’ll miss watching the Thames sparkle below the London Eye.
Nia couldn’t justify keeping me. But at least she got meone more week, which I’m grateful for. I also got a message from my modelling manager this morning.
Confirming the gig for this Saturday, are you still available?
You know it. Can you tell me what it is yet?
Will send you the details on Wednesday, and you’ll finally see what I meant by BEST EVER
