Chapter 1 #5
deeply, deeply screwed. “Well, except for the leftovers, of course.” He attempted a smile, but it looked more like a grimace.
“I need . . .” Lauren started to say before realizing that the list of things she needed was way too long and jumbled. “I
need time,” she finally said. And Band-Aids for my heels and a double espresso and some sort of simple carbs situation, stat. “I need time to decide.”
“You can have until tomorrow morning,” Eugene said.
“That’s what I was about to say,” James said, then turned back to Lauren. “You can have until tomorrow morning.”
Eugene scoffed.
“Tomorrow is Saturday,” Lauren pointed out.
“Clearly, time is of the essence. Otherwise we’ll need to continue interviewing other candidates on Monday as well as find
another Amelia. As you most likely have surmised, her job is not one that can go unfilled for long. Things tend to . . . unravel.”
He stood up and did that same smile-grimace again. “Any other questions?”
Lauren thought fast, but all that came to mind was Sheryl Sandberg’s smiling face on the cover of Lean In that her mom had given to her when she graduated from high school. “I want double the salary that Amelia made.”
“Absolutely not,” James said. “It’s a taxpayer-funded position, so there is no wiggle room. The Palace does not negotiate
with job candidates.”
“Or terrorists,” Eugene added.
“All right, then.” Lauren reached for her bag. “You’ll have my decision tomorrow.”
In the black cab back to her hotel, it took Lauren all of twenty seconds to make her decision.
No way in hell was she taking that job.
What had she even been thinking? Moving to London on a whim for a job in a country that she last visited when she was sixteen?
She’d have to break her lease, pack up all her things, and finally clean out her hall closet, which was where she put everything
that she didn’t want to deal with.
Which, she realized, was a little too on the nose.
And besides, what kind of maniac would take a job that was given to her after a five-minute interview in which her prospective
boss quit on the spot and walked out? That was one major red flag, Lauren thought to herself. And that wasn’t even including the potential pay cut! Would Lauren have an assistant?
Her own office? Or would she have to sit in the middle of the office at one of those worn desks that looked like stale slices
of Wonder Bread?
No thank you.
“Nope, nope, nope,” she said to herself just as her phone buzzed.
She half hoped it was the Palace calling her so she could just tell them no now and be done with it, go back to the hotel, get some room service fries, and enjoy an afternoon in the city before heading home.
Maybe she could even go to a museum, see what exhibit was at the Tate Modern or something.
She picked up her phone and saw a Google News notification. Half the time she just swiped them away, but this one got her
attention.
“Is Brian Martinez the Next DC Wunderkind?” the headline read. There was a little photo of Brian, too, and before Lauren’s
rational, logical brain could stop her, she was opening the Atlantic article.
It was a really good photo of him. Obviously posed and with the faux-humble smirk that Lauren used to love before she hated
it. Fuck.
She couldn’t bring herself to do anything more than skim the piece, scrolling fast enough to catch keywords but not context.
Rising star. Moving up. In demand.
Lauren’s phone rang, a picture of her mom coming up on the screen, but she ignored the call, not in the mood for more true
crime warnings from Rosie. When she went back to the article, she saw another keyword, and this time she closed the app altogether,
a lump in her throat.
Brooke.
She had just enough dignity to not start sobbing in front of the cabdriver, but still.
But still.
London passed in a blur, feeling more gray and unfamiliar with each street that flew by. It was awful to be homesick for a
person rather than a place, Lauren thought to herself, but she supposed that was what happened when you fell out of love with
someone who used to feel like home.
A voicemail notification popped up and Lauren opened it, wanting to hear her mom’s voice, if not necessarily her words.
“Lauren!” her mom chirped. “I thought you should know that there’s an article about Brian and it mentions you. I wanted to send you a screenshot but I don’t know how to do that so I thought I would just read it to you. Where did it go? Ah, got it.”
Lauren put her hands to her eyes. Forget the Advil. It was officially time for tequila.
Her mom cleared her throat.
“‘Martinez declined to comment on the matter, but several sources confirm that his relationship with Brooke Geary—a staff
assistant at the White House Office of Digital Strategy—has swiftly become the talk among influential circles in DC. Martinez’s
former girlfriend, White House press assistant Lauren Morgan, has moved on to explore freelance opportunities, according to
a spokesperson.’
“Freelance opportunities?!” her mom said. “What the heck? They should have called me for a quote! I would have told them everything they wanted to know about that . . . that bozo! Anyway, honey, I love you
and I’m very proud of you. I mean, my daughter interviewed at Buckingham Palace today! I told the ladies in my cardio drumming class. And I’m sure it went great and you impressed the hell out of them.
Oh, and use those mini Clorox wipes I got you to wipe down everything in your hotel room because trust me, you don’t want
to know what I know about how the E. coli virus travels. It’s ugly. Call me when you land tomorrow, okay? Love you.”
Lauren didn’t know how it was possible to say both the exact wrong and exact right things in one short message, but her mom
always managed to do just that.
When she went back to the article, Brian was smirking at her again, only this time, it felt like he was mocking her, like
he was daring her to do something about the article, his relationship, his success.
The taxi drove past a traditional-looking pub just then, complete with tiny square windows and ivy hanging from the eaves.
A group of people who looked to be about Lauren’s age were meeting up outside, laughing and drinking.
It was Friday, she realized. One of the couples outside looked at each other and kissed, and Lauren found herself glancing away, tears filling her eyes.
Yes, she would leave London and go home to DC. But what was waiting for her there? No friends, no boyfriend, no other job
offers. Just an ugly couch she never got around to replacing and leftover takeout that, if she was being honest, had been
in her refrigerator for a little too long before she even left. It was sad. She was sad.
But in that cramped office in the back of a legit palace, Lauren had felt alive. Smart. Quick. Maybe even happy, just for
a second? It wasn’t going to be perfect or easy, and Lauren had no idea what the road ahead of her could possibly even look
like, but one thing she knew for damn sure was what it looked like behind her, and in the moment, watching the world pass
her by one pub and person at a time, that was enough for Lauren to change her mind.
Also, wunderkind? Please! Brian was thirty-four!
The cab turned the corner, and Lauren’s brain refused to stop her hands from flying across her phone’s screen and jabbing
at a number.
“James?” she said once he answered. “It’s Lauren Morgan. Let’s do this. I accept.”