Читать книгу You Can’t Hurry Love - Portia MacIntosh - Страница 16

Chapter Eight

Yesterday I went to a wedding fair with Leo, so today I am browsing for jobs online, because weddings are so expensive and my unreliable income isn’t making me feel confident about being able to get married next summer, like we planned.

Everything at the fair was just so expensive and, for the most part, so stupid. I appreciate that rings, venue hire, food and drink are very expensive but unavoidable costs of getting married. But things like giant chocolate fountains, men who pose as topiary and to-scale ice sculptures that look like the happy couple are just excessive.

To say that it was just a money issue would be a lie. The truth is that working from home is so boring, and I spend so much time alone, that I think it would do me good to find a job in a place where I could make friends and see people every day. On quieter days the only person I see is Leo, and if you knew what a social butterfly I used to be, you’d know how hard I’m finding spending so much time alone these days.

So far, I’m not having much luck. I’ve looked at all kinds of writing jobs, from journalist jobs to copywriting gigs, but there’s nothing. On the off-chance, I even looked at the film and TV section, just in case anyone was looking for a writer of any description, but the only two jobs that came up were looking for actors, one listing looking for movie extras and the other staff for an escape game – and neither of these things appeal to me.

I grab the Playstation controller and fire up Netflix with the intention of putting something on in the background, but you know how it is with Netflix – sometimes you’ll spend longer trying to choose something to watch than you will actually watching something. In the end it’s just easier to put Gossip Girl on for my third re-watch, because there’s no ailment that can’t be cured by a little exposure to Chuck Bass.

It only takes a few minutes of observing the lavish lifestyles of the Upper East Siders before I start feeling bad about my surroundings. Our living room has looked worse, much worse, but it definitely looks better now we have flooring down and clean white walls, just a blank canvas ready for us to make our own. But I’m surrounded by boxes, most of them being used as furniture, and it’s been so long since we moved in I couldn’t confidently tell you what was in them any more.

I look over the job listings in the area generally, running a hand through my messy bed hair as I rule out being an army officer (just try and imagine a girly girl like me doing a job like that), a code coordinator (I have no idea what that is) or a bartender (sadly, although I have many hours of experience, they’re all on the wrong side of the bar). My fingers catch in a knot in my hair, which I’m careful to untangle. I need to go and slather my locks in coconut oil because I’m fairly sure that’s what’s helping it grow back so quickly and so much stronger than it was. I’ll probably cover myself in coconut oil, for good measure, because I don’t think I know of a health or beauty problem that coconut oil hasn’t been hyped as the solution for. Chuck Bass and coconut oil – that’s all I need.

Once again, the listing for a ‘Games Master’ at Houdini’s Escape Rooms comes up. I don’t really know too much about escape games, but I imagine they’re exactly as they sound. You lock people up and they try and escape for fun, right? The listing says its minimum wage and zero hours, but this could be exactly the kind of gig I need to fit in around my writing commitments; it could be fun, and could make me the extra wedding money I need. The application says to send in a CV with relevant experience, but I don’t suppose I have any. I’ve just always been a writer, ever since I graduated.

I glance at my watch; it’s 17:35. Looking up Houdini’s, I see that they’re open until late, and it’s only a short walk away – why don’t I go scope the place out and see what I make of it?

After washing my hair and applying my make-up, I open up my wardrobes (cardboard boxes) and see what I can find. An oversize black jumper dress and a pair of black over-the-knee boots seem like the right kind of thing, given how cold it is outside. I grab my leather jacket, pile on the rose-gold accessories (and my engagement ring, of course) and I’m good to go.

I am just about to walk out of the door when my mobile starts ringing. It’s my agent, Lindsey.

‘Hello,’ I say, answering quickly, terrified there’s a problem with the manuscript I stressed myself out to finish on time.

‘Hello, Mia, how are you?’ she asks brightly.

‘Great, ta. How are you?’

‘I’m doing well, thank you. I just wanted to let you know that Tamara is reading your manuscript and she’s really enjoying it, and I’ve already finished it and I think it’s great – maybe your best yet.’

I let out a huge sigh of relief. I’m pretty sure Lindsey tells me every book I write is my best work yet, but I do feel like she believes in me, and it’s always good news to hear that Tamara, my editor, is enjoying it too. Having a strong team around you, rooting for you and doing everything they can to make your books a success, is just as important as the writing itself – what does it matter if you’ve written an amazing book if no one reads it?

‘That’s great news, thank you,’ I tell her.

‘So, what are you going to do now?’ she asks. ‘Take a little time off?’

‘I wish,’ I reply. ‘I’ve got a wedding to pay for – I’m actually job hunting.’

‘What?’ Lindsey squeaks. ‘Mia, you’re an amazing writer, so early in your career as a novelist. The money gets better.’

‘In time for my wedding or my next cripplingly expensive trip to Ikea?’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘It’s not just that; I get so bored between books. Everyone is at work and there’s no one to have any fun with…’

‘Listen, Mia, I’m putting forward a few of my clients for a job – it’s nonfiction, but I feel like you could be great for it. Shall I put you forward?’

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘It’s a ghostwriting job,’ she tells me. ‘It will pay very well – two authors have dropped out already, so it won’t be easy. Let’s leave it at that – I don’t want to get your hopes up.’

I can’t help but pull a face. There’s no way a romcom writer like me is going to get a nonfiction gig that two other authors have already dropped out of, and even if I could, why would I want to work with someone who sounds so difficult? It would have to pay really well.

I finish my call and head for the door. Obviously I’d much rather have a writing job but I’ve got a wedding to pay for – and maybe the way to do this is by locking people up.