‘See? You’re a superstar. My art skills peak at drawing a cock and balls,’ he explains and I laugh, grabbing at a chocolate digestive. ‘Thank you for this, for coming round. The boys love seeing you, but I’m also pleased to entice you out of the office and finally see your face. How’s things?’
I fiddle quietly with a mug and take a sip of tea to avoid the question. George works flexible hours as a graphic designer so that he can be a present dad and he and his wife can live their big, busy, colourful family life. I am always in awe of it even though I am also mildly scared by the schedule on their fridge.
I hear a baby babbling under the table and look down to see my other nephew, Thomas, smearing a biscuit down my brother’s leg.
George reaches down and lifts him up. ‘You are grim. Come and see your Aunty Chloe.’ He props him up on his lap. ‘I’m fine, George. I’m thriving and happy and I’ve been promoted to Chief Architect,’ he says, making the baby talk like a puppet and doing a rubbish job at imitating my voice.
‘That’s not a thing, Thomas,’ I retort quietly.
‘Then tell us everything,’ George says.
‘Can I say bad words in front of the baby?’ I ask him.
‘He’s very likely heard them all already but if he grows up to be a criminal then we’ll blame you,’ he replies, grinning.
I force a smile and take a deep breath. ‘Brief notes: I love my job, I’m bloody good at my job but I’ve realised I’m putting in too much, and I’m totally under-appreciated at my practice. I also recently found out that the worst person in my office, literally freshly married, is shagging the boss, heard them doing it so…trauma…and I’m just trying to work out if that’s the reason she has a job and wondering why I’m hanging around in a company like that.’
My eyes glaze over as I say this out loud because, for the longest time, these words have just been thoughts floatingaround my head, questions I’ve asked myself repeatedly, echoing into nothing. To sound them out feels like a release at least.
‘Chloe. Jesus…’ George reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly. The baby’s expression even looks sympathetic. ‘Look, I don’t know anything about architecture at all but for the last year or so, you’ve been working so, so hard. I can see how much you care about your job and I love you for it, but we’ve hardly seen you and you look tired all the time. You’re twenty-five and you just seem burnt out. It’s no way to live.’
I rub my forehead. ‘I think I’ve only just figured that out. I’ve taken the last two days off work by saying I’ve had food poisoning, and I’ve basically slept for the whole time.’
‘Chlo…’
I didn’t just sleep. I also ate a lot of oven chips and watched9-1-1and became so obsessed with one of the characters that I’ve joined an Instagram fan page like some teenage fangirl.
‘You see, we’re very different. If I was going to throw a sickie at work, I’d go to a festival. I’d get so drunk and dance until I couldn’t feel my eyeballs and shout loudly into an empty field. Isn’t that right, Tommy boy? I’d go freaking nutso,’ he says in his most cheerful, child-friendly tone. The baby laughs. ‘You could just quit,’ he suggests, turning back to me.
‘I have a mortgage to pay. I could get my CV out there, but it would take a while to find something new,’ I explain.
When I left the office that day, I thought about just walking. Disappearing. But I realised that the consequences for my career would be huge. Julian’s a terrible boss but he has influence in the industry. Word of mouth would kill me. I am also under no illusion that there is drama with Julian and Nancy that I don’t want to get embroiled in.
‘Then take a holiday. A proper holiday! You’re entitled to one by law but it would also help your mental health. What about acity break where you can get some inspiration looking at all the architecture?’
‘Perhaps,’ I say reluctantly.
George pulls a face at me because he knows I’m the sort of person to talk about a holiday and never book one. I’ll argue it’s too expensive or I’ll talk myself out of it because I’ll be scared of things like pickpockets, natural disasters and the tanking exchange rates.
‘OH! I’ve got a thing…’ he suddenly announces, jumping out of his chair.
‘A thing?’ I reply.
‘I go to a baby group on Wednesdays. Don’t laugh. We sing songs with tambourines and the cake is free.’ He picks up Thomas and goes to the sideboard in their living room, pulling out leaflets, school letters, keys and muslin blankets. ‘There’s this woman there called Jess who’s just had twins – really nice girl. She’s going on some retreat soon. It’s at this stone villa on a mountain in Ibiza. It has a pool and you do yoga in the gardens and get fed nice food. There are goats.’
I scrunch my face up as he explains it me. ‘Yeah, I don’t think some hippy-dippy retreat in Ibiza is my thing. Is it all tie-dye and quinoa?’
He’s still looking through the mounds of paper and debris on his sideboard. ‘I don’t know. But she went to some restaurant in Notting Hill and the waitress gave her this flyer and it’s hilarious. Here, found it…’
George returns to the kitchen table and shows me said flyer. It’s bright and colourful; there are none of the serene pastels that you’d expect from a peaceful, yoga-style getaway.LOVE YOURSELFit states in big letters.
‘That’s Pedro Pascal,’ I say pointing to a photo on the flyer. I’m a workaholic but I’m not too far removed from modern life to know they’ve stolen that from a meme.
He laughs. ‘Naturally, I think it’s a sales gimmick. I don’t think he’ll actually be there. But you love Pedro. You once shared a post about him wearing tight trousers.’
‘That’s well remembered. He is a good-looking man. But busy too. It’s very doubtful he will be at this retreat,’ I say, laughing and reading the flyer again. ‘PlusLove Yourself… it sounds like it could be one of those s-e-x retreats.’ I look down at the baby, worried that our conversation is corrupting his little mind.
‘You can say the word sex in front of the baby, you know,’ George replies. ‘It’s basically how he got here. What do you mean “sex retreat”? Like an orgy?’
