Chapter 33
SARAH
Labyrinth | Taylor Swift
Sarah hated interviews.
Hated walking into a situation where she knew the other person’s primary objective was to judge her and deem her worthy or not. Especially when she needed them to approve. Needed whatever they were offering. Whether that was her first ever interview at a coffee shop when she was at school and her parents refused to buy her more art supplies until she’d used up the ones she had, or at uni when she’d started doing kids art classes at the local craft shop to support her daily triple cappuccino habit, or after she’d finished her degree and submitted her CV to every entry level job she could find, until one of them offered to pay her enough to survive—and continue buying irresistibly pretty watercolour pigments, even though she rarely ventured away from her beloved oils.
So it was a surprise, as she sat in her bedroom, a white sheet tacked behind her to hide the collage of drunk uni polaroids and borderline obscene sketches, to find herself entirely calm. It was inarguably the most important interview she’d ever had, given that this was—after full-time art in a way that meant something—her dream job.
But her heart rate was steady, her hands were still, and the beads of sweat not being chased away by her near-silent mini fan were due to the horrendous humidity of the first sunny day after a week of rain, rather than any sense of nerves.
She felt bubbly, practically effervescent as she introduced herself. With each word from her mouth, she could see the interviewers becoming more charmed by her, particularly when she spoke about Maria Blanchard and Remedios Varo, citing their influence on her work, and shared her admiration for the contemporary artists currently making waves—the exhibitions of whom she would be curating if she got the job.
Perhaps her lack of nerves, of self-consciousness, was a sign from the universe that she was taking the right step.
And yet…
And yet.
With each question, as the panel on her laptop screen grew friendlier, Sarah’s body felt a little colder. When they asked her why she wanted the job, she froze, unable to remember a word of the carefully constructed answer she’d rehearsed. It was their fault, dammit. She’d expected that question at the beginning of the interview. Who left it until the end, when the rest of the conversation had pushed her prepared answers clean out of her mind? A few words stammered out. When she thought back on it later, she’d find no memory of her response, only that they seemed as charmed with it as with the rest of the interview.
Despite the overriding feeling that she had impressed them, shutting her computer down didn’t fill Sarah with the sense of accomplishment she’d expected. Once they offered her the job, maybe. Or—she reached for her phone—perhaps she needed to celebrate the task being successfully accomplished to make it feel real. Zoe was always ready to grab a drink and bitch about her office nemesis. She’d be up for a night out.
Zoe was not up for a night out.
When her friend finally responded to her multiple texts that afternoon, it began with an apology, then a reprimand.
Zoe: Sorry, the professional asshat I’m being forced to work with has had me running laps all day.
Zoe: But no, I won’t give you an excuse to go out and celebrate you making bad decisions
Zoe: *heart hands emoji*
Zoe: CALL ALEX
With a frustrated groan, she tossed her phone to the side again, regretting once again that she’d spilled her guts to Zoe when she’d spent the night there after her fight with Alex, not prepared to endure the suffocating aroma of love pervading the air of her flat.
Zoe had immediately launched into a rant about how stupid Sarah was for pursuing the job, the culmination of which had been, ‘Not not because of the boy, but not just because of the boy either. I know you’re not exactly living your dream, but you’re closer than you will be if you take on a full-time job again. Don’t force yourself into a setback because you’re too scared to face a man you have feelings for. That’s not my friend. And that man, by the way, very obviously has feelings for you, which is why he was upset that you’re so ready to leave.’
Sarah wasn’t blind enough to think there was nothing between her and Alex. Schoolgirl flutters in her stomach had been plaguing her since that night in the bar. When she saw him, yes, but even when his name lit up her phone screen. When Abby or Erik mentioned him in passing, with no idea of the impact they were leaving on her—although Erik’s reaction at the jazz lounge had her wondering if they did . Her jibes had become less barbed and more tinged with affection with each piece of himself he offered up. Emotions had softened every moment they’d shared in bed, turning what had once been a purely physical outlet of pleasure into something brimming with intimacy.
But she kept going back to asshole Pete in his office saying she wasn’t his type. Seeing what his type was when she’d googled him that night. And maybe she could have written those flings off as easy pickings, if not for the sight of his last girlfriend—tall, willowy, elegantly dressed as she’d wafted around her gallery—running through her mind on repeat. It all picked at her old scars enough to make her sure he’d eventually move on to someone more like him. If Gregg had thought he could do better… And there was no doubt Alex was objectively superior to him in every way. Then there were the added risks. If he did move on, Sarah had a choice between having his happiness beyond her shoved in her face at regular intervals, or missing most of the major moments of her best friend’s life.
Still, a small part of her brain kept whispering what if? What if he did keep choosing her? What if they didn’t break up? What if she got to keep him?
This man who had broken through all her defences with smug smiles and ridiculous banter. Who had honed in on her carefully concealed insecurities and made her feel beautiful, strong, and powerful in a way no one had bothered to before.
Head swimming with mixed emotions, Sarah dragged her easel from her bedroom, set up a freshly primed canvas, and began to paint.