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Despite us having the same upbringing, Nel has never shared the same anxieties as I do when it comes to proving myself. She’s more than happy to take the connections our last name has given us, using them to propel her forward in her career as a realtor. If there are ever any whispers about her getting to where she is in her career simply because her father is Henry Hawthorne, pharmaceutical tycoon, she shuts them down immediately by showing them her track record.
I envy it. The confidence she has in herself to stand tall and proud among a sea of naysayers. I’ve tried to mimic it, but it never seems to work for me. Maybe because I’m still under my uncle’s thumb and Nel has long since branched out to create something for herself.
“Listen,” Nel says seriously. “You’re in London for three months.Enjoy it. Yes, the project is important, but so is having a life. Get out there. See the sights. Make some friends. Go on a few dates. Live a little. No one is expecting you to be working 24/7.”
I sense that I’m fighting a losing battle, so I force out a laugh and say, “Sure.”
* * *
If Nel could seeme now, I think she’d try to put me in a headlock. It was always her favourite attack of choice growing up and, to be fair, I think I deserve it right now.
Because it’s an uncharacteristically warm and sunny Saturday in London and I’m sitting on my beanbag, in an empty office, tapping away on my laptop.
I try to tell myself that this can’t wait until Monday. That it’s imperative I scan through these contracts and make notes right now even though our legal team back in New York won’t even glance at it for another 48 hours. That I’m actuallyhelpingfuture me by getting a jumpstart on this all now.
It doesn’t work.
I can practically hear the sound of Nel’s eyeballs rolling into the back of her head as I settle in for another day of nothing but work.
It’s a sickness at this point. But the call with Ernest on Monday rattled me more than I’d like to admit. He’s an ocean away, but it’s like I can feel him breathing down my neck, finding flaws in every single thing I do. So I pore through these contracts until my eyes start to water and my stomach starts to angrily protest, reminding me that, once again, all I’ve eaten today is a croissant.
I head out for lunch, intending this to be a quick one because I still need to go through the contract with the catering company we’re hiring. And itisa quick one.
Until I’m standing outside the building, fumbling around in my pockets for the keys. And then it hits me.
It’s an uncharacteristically warm and sunny Saturday in London and because of that, I’m not wearing my sweatshirt. The sweatshirt with my keys in the front pocket.
I’ve locked myself out.
Shit.
I rattle the door handle a few times, half-heartedly hoping it’ll develop sentience, feel some kind of sympathy toward me and swing open. No luck.
This is probably a sign that I should walk away and actually enjoy my weekend. I know if Nel were here, that’s what she’d be saying.
Get out there. See the sights. Make some friends. Go on a few dates. Live a little.
I take a step back from the door, fully intending to turn around and head back to my hotel. But then I remember I’m only halfway through the contract I was looking over and I still have a to-do list as long as my arm to get through. Ineedmy laptop.
For a few truly deranged seconds I consider trying to scale the walls up to the open window on the third floor, but then the rational side of my brain kicks in.
There’s another key.
Before I can really give much thought to it, I pull out my phone and scroll through my inbox until I find an email from Amber. It doesn’t take me long to find one — most of our correspondence happens through email despite being only a flight of stairs away from each other during the week.
I find what I’m looking for at the bottom of the last email to me. A phone number in her signature along with a curt “If your enquiry isurgentand I am unresponsive on email, please contact me on…”.
Does this count as urgent?
I don’t wait to talk myself out of it and quickly hit Call. It rings and rings and rings and I’m just about starting to realise that itisa bad idea and I absolutelyshouldn’tbe bothering her on a weekend when she’s already made her thoughts about me perfectly clear, when she finally picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Amber. It’s Finn.”
Silence.
I clear my throat. “From The August Room?”
