CHAPTER TWO
EMILY
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I can’t believe I’m doing this. I mean, I know I applied for the job, did the video interview and signed the contract, but moving to New York? Am I crazy?
I throw my two pairs of black heels into my suitcase and spin around.
“Am I crazy?” I ask Lexi, my best friend.
She does that fish lips thing as she ponders. “Like on a normal day or for this specific life decision?”
“Not helpful.” I flop down on my bed and sigh.
“Babe”—she lowers her phone, giving me her full attention—“it’s an adventure. Anyway, I’m excited to visit in a few weeks for your birthday.”
Lexi is excited that I’ll have a Manhattan apartment so she can come shopping and hit the clubs without having to pay for accommodations.
London and New York might be on par with one another when it comes to the cost of living, but staying in a hotel in NYC is very pricey.
Which is why I’ll be living in an apartment the size of a shoebox when I get there. So, I hope she’s ready to sleep on my sofa.
“You better. I’m going to get so homesick.” I continue packing. My flight leaves late tonight and arrives early on Saturday morning, so I haven’t got long to get everything finished then say goodbye to my parents.
I refused to let them come to the airport.
“Good,” Dad replied a week ago when I told them I was leaving and would catch the train to Heathrow. “No one likes to drive to the airport. Anyway, you’ll be back in three weeks.”
“Roger!” my mom exclaimed.
“What? She’s been through eight jobs in four years. You don’t think she’s going to suddenly change because she’s flown to the other side of the world, do you?”
“Standing right here.” I held up my hand, but they continued to ignore me.
There’s nothing new there. I might be an only child, but my parents have bickered between themselves all my life. Often I’m the focus of their attention. Or rather, my failing. In my father’s opinion.
He’s very critical.
I know that, but still, when he judges me and makes cruel comments, it hurts. I’m never good enough. Too short. Too quiet. Too chubby. And lacking commitment and direction in life.
He’s not wrong.
I’m five foot five, curvy and not overly outspoken. I didn’t do all that well at school. Average at best. I’ve never known what I want to do.
One of my teachers said that some people peak when they’re older and not to worry. My father hit the roof when I quoted the teacher and went to the school. Since then, he’s ridden my ass and pushed me into jobs I never wanted to do.
To motivate me, he kicked me out of the house.
Good one.
All that did was make me take jobs I never wanted so I could pay rent and live with people I hated.
Flatting is the worst.
When I stormed out of my job two weeks ago, after a manager pinched my bottom, my father told me to—and I quote—stop being one of those snowflakes.
“Are you kidding me? That was sexual harassment, Dad.”
“Oh, come on. The problem with kids these days is they take all of this stuff way too seriously.” He chuckled over dinner.
I glanced at Mom with big round eyes absolutely mind-blown that he was okay with a creep touching me.
She just shook her head. My parents had me later in life and the generations between us are...big.
Right now, they feel enormous.
“It doesn’t work like that anymore, Dad. It’s not acceptable behavior and I will not apologize for speaking up for myself.”
He lowered his knife and fork, looking at me from across the dinner table like I was an idiot. “Come back and tell me that when you can’t pay your rent or feed yourself.”
I’d gasped.
“I’ve never asked you for money. Ever.”
He began eating again. “So far. How long do you think this employment record of yours will last? Soon, no one will employ you.”
My eyes darted to Mom again, who shrugged. “He’s not wrong, Emily.”
That night I’d returned home furious. I was not going to put up with assholes and sexual abuse in the workplace, but being so junior, the power ratio was imbalanced. Hadn’t the #MeToo movement taught anyone anything?
Clearly, my dad had missed the memo.
What was I supposed to do? My business degree wasn’t opening as many doors as I’d hoped.
Despite my grievances, I had enjoyed being in a business environment, listening during meetings, and learning. I’d picked up more in the past few years than I had the entire time at university.
On-the-job training was far more my thing.
Problem was, being a PA, no one took you seriously. I’d spoken up in one meeting only to be glared at and then pulled aside afterward and told not to cross the line.
How was I supposed to get ahead?
So that night, after leaving my parents place, something had driven me to open my laptop and search for jobs in the United States. I applied for a few, then snapped it closed, not expecting to hear back.
I honestly forgot that I’d done it until three days later, I was invited to an interview.
Thinking I wouldn’t be successful, I accepted the interview, planning to use it as experience. I met with the HR manager, Julie, who said the CEO was overseas.
“He’s a strong leader with high expectations and requires someone bright and organized,” she told me.
My father would have snorted.
“Well, I love lists and always meet deadlines,” I piped up. “And have a degree from London Metropolitan University.”
It worked; I was offered the job two days later.
That was when I realized I was moving to America to live.
Holy hell .
My visa was arranged by the company, so all I had to do was pack, give notice on my flat...and deal with my father.
“What? The United States?” he exclaimed. “Great. So, we’ll have to fly you home when you lose this job too and run out of money.”
“Give her a chance, Roger.” Mom sighed.
“Thanks Mom.” I crossed my arms. “My astrology said I’d be moving overseas, so maybe this is fated.”
“Jesus.” My father groaned.
“Not helping, Emily.” Mom frowned.
Throwing out my arms, I finished loading the dishwasher and left them to their night, wondering what I had to do to make my father believe in me.
Or at least stop being so critical.
Now, I’m just a few hours from flying across the world.
I’m nervous, excited, and determined to make this work.
I never saw myself living anywhere else, certainly not America. I visited Disneyland as a kid and have always planned to go to New York one day, but never to live.
God, this might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Or, like Lexi said, an adventure.
“Just think of all the gorgeous American men you’re going to meet. I’m so jealous.” Lexi sighs, snapping me back to the moment as I chuck a skirt in my suitcase. “That Texan accent is panty-melting.”
“I’m going there for a job, not to sleep my way through Manhattan.” I remind my best friend.
“It can be both.” She smirks naughtily.
Nope.
I am going to prove my father wrong if it kills me. Once I have my career sorted, then I’ll consider dating.
There is no way in hell I’m coming home jobless.
I will show him.