When Sarah appears half an hour later, Aladdin and Jasmine are flying high over Agrabah on a carpet and Alfie is fast asleep.
‘Well, that’s adorable,’ she remarks quietly, staring down at us. ‘He looks so comfy. You’re like his human pillow.’
‘Post-Christmas weight,’ I reply, pointing to my belly. ‘Once I hit the gym again, I’ll be far too ripped to cuddle. It’ll be like snuggling up on a steel washboard.’
She snorts as I pretend to flex the arm that’s not wrapped around Alfie.
‘Good for you,’ she replies. ‘You’ll have the gym bunnies clean-eating out of your hand in no time.’
Sarah wakens Alfie and helps him put his jacket on while I try to remember where I put those weights that I ordered from Amazon last year.
‘Penny for them?’ Sarah says, redirecting my attention. ‘You look concerned.’
‘I’m good,’ I reply. ‘Just thinking about getting my shit together, you know. New job, new me, lose a few—’
‘Uber is here,’ Matt interrupts. ‘I’ll carry Alfie down, he’s dead on his feet.’
‘Night, Alfie, see you soon,’ I say as he nestles into Matt’s shoulder. Sarah picks up her bag and leans in to hug me.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ she says softly. ‘You’re wonderful just the way you are.’
I watch her leave and continue to stare at the door once she’s gone. I miss them already.
I drag my infatuated arse into my room and lay out my clothes for the morning. I’m not particularly nervous about tomorrow – in fact, I’m looking forward to getting back to the real world, with a real job, where I can use my training. Then again, the significant salary drop, and their huge staff turnover, makes me question this company’s legitimacy.
Even Greta was reluctant for me to take the position, but understood that having no money was completely untenable, so working for a firm which is notorious for playing hardball with everyone, especially its staff, was still better than remaining unemployed. Plus, judging from the job spec, I should be able to do this with my eyes closed. This might be exactly what I need to take my mind off Sarah and focus on building my career again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Portman Brown LLP boasts an impressive postcode near Bond Street station in the heart of the city, but from the outside, it doesn’t quite match the imposing exterior of Kensington Fox or any of the other magic-circle law firms in London.
The right-hand side of the street is undeniably charming with converted, clotted-cream-coloured Victorian townhouses, which wouldn’t look out of place in a Richard Curtis film, but the left side,my side, is half building site, half purpose-built office space in a fetching shade of prison grey.
My heart sinks as it dawns on me that my days of working in a bazillion-square-foot, glass-structured modern office, complete with restaurant, gym and rooftop terrace are well and truly over. Shit, are those actual bars on the windows? What the hell have I let myself in for?
I take a deep breath and pull open the heavy brown doors, which lead into the small IKEA-inspired lobby, where a receptionist calls ahead to the second floor to let them know I’m on my way up.
‘You Nick?’
The lift doors have barely had time to close behind me when I’m ambushed by a frowning woman in black hipster glasses who’s clutching a pile of manila envelopes.
‘Um, yes, that’s me. I’m due to—’
‘This way.’
I follow her along the side of a large open-plan office painted in shades of blue and lighter blue, which looks more like a call centre than a law firm. It smells like fifty different types of takeaway breakfasts and even at 9am, the place has clearly been buzzing for hours. At the back of the room I see four private offices overlooking the floor and a large boardroom to the top right which is currently occupied by three men, all with folded arms and the same glazed expression.
‘Your desk,’ hipster lady informs me, stopping beside a vacant workspace at the end of the room. She reaches down and snatches up a solo photo frame, featuring a bride and groom which was obviously left by the last occupier.
‘Dump your stuff and I’ll take you to see Sophia.’
‘Um, my agency told me to report to Marion Thomas. I thoughtyouwere—’
‘Marion no longer works here.’
‘Oh.’ I get the feeling some poor sod is now missing a wedding photo. We march over to the offices at the back.
‘I’m Kim, by the way,’ she finally offers, knocking on the third door. ‘Office manager.’
