Chapter 2
Chapter Two
I open the door to my apartment and drag myself straight to the bathroom. The small amount of time I had waited outside for a cab had been enough for me to leave a puddle on the back seat.
To anyone else the bathroom would seem ordinary.
To me, having a tub is my salvation. A small luxury that’s helped my overthinking more times than I can count.
There’s something about soaking in boiling water (the kind that turns your skin red) that forces my shoulders to relax and drowns out the part of my brain that won’t turn off.
I could use that right now—the call with Jeff, Harrison’s flirting—but I need to stock up on bath salts and oils, so I settle for a warm shower and change into my pajamas.
My new home is cozy. The semi-open floor plan makes the entrance look bigger than it is, the kitchen blending in with the living room. It lacks personality, but it’s got potential. To feel less out of place, I’ve unpacked some of my favorite candles. The master bedroom smells like mangoes.
I try to sleep, but the time change and jet lag have messed me up. I’m neither hungry nor tired. After thirty minutes, I desist. I’m restless, and there’s no way around it.
I don’t know what’s tripping me up, being in a different country or the impossibility of what happened tonight. Already doing exactly what I told myself not to, my mind wonders if he’s thinking about me too.
I check the time; it’s a bit past ten. That means that across the ocean, Emma is currently on her way home. I text her.
I miss you.
Emma
I miss you too, Jay.
You doing okay?
Barely getting by without you.
Guess what…
Emma
The sun is out.
Never mind, that’s impossible.
What?
I met someone.
Emma
Already?!
Operation Move-On is working fast, I see.
What’s his name? How old is he? Do you have a picture?
If not, a vivid description will do!
His name’s Joshua.
Emma
OMG, like Joshua Harrison!
I like him already.
Ha. Also, guess which British actor is no longer MIA…
I convince myself I’m telling her because we don’t keep secrets. He’s one of her favorite actors—I can’t hide it from her. But the truth? I hadn’t let myself entertain a real conversation with a guy in months. And somehow, something about Harrison had suppressed that fear. It was exhilarating.
My alarm goes off at seven a.m. I groan loudly. No matter how much sleep I get, my body still thinks it’s two a.m. I check the weather on my phone, naively hoping for some sun. No such luck today.
My goal for this trip, aside from regaining control of my career, is getting back in touch with all the areas of my creativity that got blurred out during my relationship. Photography is a work in progress, but fashion? That’s something I can start today.
I pull out a pair of black pants and a white ruffled blouse from my suitcase, pairing them with ankle boots and a grey trench coat. It should do the trick, if I manage to stay dry.
Outside, the sky is a blanket of grey clouds. People hurry past without missing a beat, too busy to notice me watching them. I force myself to open the camera app and snap a few shots of a group of suited men that scramble past. They’re blurry—like mornings here.
It reminds me of the first competition I ever entered. Candid shots of Hollywood Boulevard. Still busy but not frantic. Life in London runs at a different pace.
I force a smile and convince myself that if I act confident, eventually I’ll feel it. I’ve always appreciated a good dose of competition, but today it’s got me crawling out of my skin.
I take a cab to work, figuring it’s safer to get lost on the way home than on the way to the office—although driving on the other side of the road is slightly nauseating. I hadn’t realized how much I’d miss having my own car.
We pass The Anchor, and snippets of the weird encounter with Harrison come to my mind. If it hadn’t happened to me, I’d barely believe it myself.
I get dropped off at the door of the towering building that’s going to be my second home for the next few months. Mavericks is one of many companies housed inside, but that doesn’t make the setting feel any less surreal.
The entrance is very sterile and vague. A mix of whites and grays—it feels more like a hospital than a creative workspace.
I offer the receptionist a friendly smile.
She looks back at me questioningly. Her eyes drop to the tag hanging off my neck, unimpressed, and go back to typing.
My positive attitude takes its first hit.
Suddenly, I miss Jane—the over-talkative receptionist at home.
A crammed elevator ride takes me up to the thirteenth floor. Most of the cubicles are already occupied. Unlike in L.A., nobody acknowledges me. I walk all the way to the far-right corner, where the marketing department flourishes.
It’s like entering another world. Colorful printouts, magazine clippings, and a patchwork of Post-it notes cover the walls, forming a giant web of ideas. Three people huddle in the corner, deep in what sounds like an intense debate over a color palette. The rest are glued to their screens.
“Hello,” I say, hesitant, hanging my bag on the back of the chair. Heads turn sharply. “I’m Julia Thomas. I work for Mavericks back in L.A.”
“Welcome,” says the guy sitting in the far corner, next to the window. The skyline behind him is breathtaking. Not far off, I spot Tower Bridge, its architectural detail a masterpiece. “Claire will be with you in a minute.”
He brushes a mop of brown hair from his eyes and turns back to his screen. The others nod vaguely, then resume their work.
What is it with this place and people being so impersonal? It’s nothing like the lively, collaborative teams I’m used to. I think back to my old crew, wondering if they’re feeling my absence as much as I’m struggling being away.
I take off my coat and settle into the empty cubicle. Last year, I rallied a last-minute seasonal pitch and organized the team to pull it off in less than a week. Now, I’m the new American weirdo.
I curse the moment in which my breakup left me drowning and in shambles. I know—cliché—but it seemed like there was nothing I could do to pull myself up. All for a guy.
I’ve never been a quitter. I’ll go as far as to say that I’ve never quit anything in my life, but when the promotion I wanted went to someone else, I came this close.
The London three-month opening was my lifeline.
There’d been a few nibbles, but nobody was rushing to take it—too cold, too rainy.
Too far from overpriced, celebrity-sighting supermarkets.
And don’t get me wrong, I’ve been downright cranky since I left my natural dose of vitamin D behind. But I’m also determined to save my career, despite the terrible welcome… and with no distractions.
“Hiya,” a voice says, popping over my monitor. “You must be Julia Thomas. I’m Claire. I’ll be helping you find your way around the office.”
I look up to find a warm smile and hazel eyes. Her short blonde hair falls messily across her forehead, and a friendly energy radiates from her. I smile back, instantly relieved to feel acknowledged.
She drops her purse on the desk next to mine and extends a hand. I shake it, feeling a lot more grounded than I did a few minutes ago.
“Hi. You have no idea how nice it is to meet you,” I say, glancing around.
Either she’s sharp or my face speaks volumes—the strained smile and the way my eyes linger a moment too long.
“Don’t worry about them. They can be a bunch of twats sometimes.”
The brown-haired one turns around and shoots her a deadly glare.
“Don’t even try, Daniel,” she says without looking at him. “Come on, let’s grab a coffee. I’ll catch you up on everything you need to know, honey.”
Claire turns out to be a lifesaver. She gives me a tour, introduces me to—how she puts it—people worth knowing, and most importantly, provides caffeine.
Turns out, things are more relaxed around the office than they first appeared. The team operates a six-sided unit: Daniel, the non-expressive welcome master, is joined by Oliver, Henry, and James. In a non-official capacity, Claire and Lucy keep them in check.
Each person pitches independently, but once one idea is selected, the whole team functions together to bring it to life.
Back at my desk, I try to dive into my proposal, willing ideas steaming from my fingertips like heat off sunbaked pavement down Sunset. I even channel my inner one-season L.A. life straight into the doc. The summer vibe? Easy.
The romance? Not so much.
So far, it stands more like a single’s escape instead of a couple’s retreat. I stare at the screen long enough, hoping the inspiration catches up. But how is it supposed to when I’m trying to sell a fantasy I no longer believe in?
Claire, clearly the social leader, flawlessly gathers everyone up for an impromptu lunch. Oliver and Lucy, mostly in control of Mavericks UK socials and perpetually aware of all the latest trends, take us to a fish and chips spot that’s been recently voted as ‘local favorite.’
“I’m not sure about this,” Daniel says, as we march past sharp suits and heels clinking against the stone, his market research brain scanning for flaws. “How big of an area is this ‘local’ referring to?”
“It’s gotten over a thousand followers in two days,” Lucy beams. She’s so excited; I wonder if she gets the same dopamine rush from finding gems like this as she does from getting a new like.
“That’s not really a viable sample,” he argues back.
“Neither is your spreadsheet obsession,” Henry smirks, holding the door open.
“Right, because it’s a safe bet to believe every caption out there.”
James gasps so loudly, I question if he’s truly offended. “At least we can come up with more than a sour ‘welcome’ for the newbie.”
Daniel shoots him what I’ve labeled as his signature ‘death stare’ and then looks back at me apologetically. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t sweat it.”