Page 28 of Last Christmas in London

‘The never-ending work-life balance challenge,’ I said, leaning against the counter.

‘It’s not even about balance. It’s about space. Alex and I were in each other’s pockets every day when I worked from home. It was… suffocating.’ Her shoulders tightened as she stirred her coffee a little too vigorously, the casual tone at odds with the tension in her. ‘I didn’t realise how much I needed my own space.’

I glanced at her, trying to gauge how much she wanted to share. ‘I thought you two were good at giving each other space. You used to brag about how you could spend whole weekends in separate rooms and still feel connected.’

She let out a brittle laugh. ‘Yeah, well… things change.’ Her fingers tightened around the mug before she took a long sip, as if to stop herself from saying more.

I hesitated, then ventured, ‘Everything okay?’

‘Oh, sure,’ she replied too quickly. ‘It’s just… different now. He’s at home all the time with Alfie, and I’m here or at meetings. We barely see each other during the day and when I get home, it’s like we’ve run out of things to say.’ Her eyes flicked to the floor, her voice dropping. ‘He used to ask about my day. Now he just… hands me Alfie and goes to his laptop or the gym or wherever he can get a break.’

The word break lingered for a moment. I wondered silently what, exactly, Alex needed one from. The baby? Megan? Or the version of their life that no longer resembled the one they – or he – imagined?

I kept the thought to myself. I could tell Megan was trying to sound nonchalant, but the tightness in her jaw gave her away.

‘Maybe he just needs some adult conversation after a day with a toddler. It’s a different world.’

‘I get that,’ she admitted. ‘I really do. I just… I thought we’d still be us, you know? But it’s like we’re roommates who swap childcare shifts. We never talk about anything and the sex…’ She gulped some of her coffee and shuddered. ‘It’s like going through the motions or acting like we’re not doing anything when we’re doing it. No fun whatsoever, just in out, in out, done.’

‘The kind of sex where you’re thinking about whether you got the bread out of the freezer and if you locked the back door?’

‘Precisely,’ she said. And I nodded, thinking that that basically described most of the sex that I had had in my life, and I’d had sex in hotel rooms with views of the Eiffel Tower. Yet on that occasion all I was thinking about was whether or not I could manage the 674 steps up the tower or whether I should skip it and go ahead with visiting Shakespeare & Co instead.

She shook her head, forcing a smile. ‘Listen to me, getting all melodramatic. It’s fine. We’re fine. The sex will be fine.’

‘Maybe introduce a toy or something.’

‘The only toys I could produce are a Paw Patrol car or a lightsaber.’

I went to speak but her hand shot up so fast she knocked her coffee cup. ‘Don’t you dare ruin lightsabers for me.’ So I closed my mouth.

She straightened, brushing an invisible crumb off her sleeve. ‘Anyway. Enough about me. How many applicants are you seeing today?’

‘Four. I narrowed it down from the twenty-two who applied.’

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Twenty-two? I didn’t realise being a personal assistant was so sought after.’

‘Neither did I,’ I laughed. ‘But I guess people see the travel perks and think it’s glamorous.’

‘If only they knew.’ Megan’s smile was genuine this time, a flicker of the old her. ‘I still don’t know how you did it for so long. I can barely handle a business trip to Manchester without losing my mind.’

‘That’s because you like routine,’ I teased. ‘You always have. Even when we were kids, you planned our sneaky midnight feasts down to the minute.’

She laughed, but it was a little hollow. ‘Yeah, well, routines are safer. You know where you stand. And you don’t get caught raiding the chocolate cupboard at 11.45 p.m.’ She shook her shoulders to loosen herself up. ‘Anyway, I should get back to it. I’ve got back-to-back calls all afternoon. But let me know if you need anything.’

‘Will do. Thanks again.’

She waved it off with a casual flick of her hand. I watched her go, a knot forming in my stomach. Something was definitely wrong but, if Megan wasn’t ready to talk, I’d have to wait. She never did like admitting when things were falling apart. If she admitted to feeling anything less than perfect, she’d see it as failing. She’d always been like that – even in school, she couldn’t admit to a bad grade without laughing it off as a fluke due to a bad period or a mistake by the teacher.

The buzzer from reception downstairs wailed suddenly.

‘I think your first interviewee is here,’ Megan called from behind her standing desk in a sing-song voice before accepting the call and instructing the receptionist to hold them downstairs so I could go and fetch them. ‘I’m not even here.’ Megan lowered her desk in dramatic fashion. It whirred and we both stood there waiting for it to finish.

‘No,’ I said sarcastically. ‘You blend right in.’ She threw a paper ball at my head as I left to fetch the first applicant.

To say the interviews were terrible would be an understatement.

The first applicant, a man dressed more for a day in Camden Town than an interview, clearly only wanted the job to get access to people who could help him with his acting career. Halfway through answering a question about time management, he launched into a prepared monologue from Angels in America, and that monologue is flipping long. Megan’s head popped up over the alcove we were sitting behind, and she mouthed ‘what the fuck’ as he was doing it. I bit my lip to keep from giggling, nodding politely until he was finished.