4. Edie
EDIE
THREE MONTHS LATER
“What on earth are you doing now?”
Anna peers over my shoulder as I slam my laptop shut, trying to look nonchalant. Eleanor Roosevelt said nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent .
Eleanor Roosevelt never met my landlord and flatmate, Anna.
We’ve been friends since we met as interns on a newspaper, bonding over bad coffee and being invisible — two graduates typing up stories with no hope of a byline.
Only fifteen years later, she’s an up-and-coming investigative journalist, and I write puff pieces about cat litter.
“Just finishing up some work,” I lie. I’m not going to confess I was googling Rory + New York + bartender on the off chance it might pop up with an image of him.
At this point, I’m pretty sure I imagined the whole thing.
I woke up at 4 a.m. to find myself alone in the hotel room – which is the whole point of a one-night stand.
But it would be nice to have some sort of proof that just once I – Edie Jones, spinster of this parish, failed writer and complete disaster of a human – had a hot night with an extremely handsome man.
He could have done me the decency of leaving me a calling card like an autographed photograph; even a sneaky selfie on my phone would have done the trick. But no.
It’s late afternoon on a warm autumn Thursday and the window is cracked open so the sounds of North London blow in through the gap.
A siren blares and somewhere in the distance someone is playing reggae music.
The clanking of metal barrels outside means the pub downstairs is getting a beer delivery, and later on they’ll have a live band playing while I sit here like a lemon finishing my last ever piece of work for Super Pets.
Anna settles on the sofa with a glass of wine. “Edie,” she says, taking the remote from the cushion beside me. “I can’t believe you’re watching Pride and Prejudice again.”
“It’s research,” I protest, as she grabs the remote and switches the channel over, scrolling through Netflix.
Research for a book that is quietly dying on submission.
The lack of response is… not exactly heartening.
So here I am, still trying to make rent – a textbook millennial, juggling side gigs and self-doubt and the constant pressure to have my life together, with “how to adult” at the top of my search history.
Anna’s brows arch as she looks at me over her glasses. “What’s happening with the book?”
I grimace. “Charlotte said she wanted to have a chat . She’s calling at five.”
“Perfect timing. Maybe she’s got you a six-figure deal.” Her tone makes it clear how unlikely she thinks that is. Anna thinks my dream of making it as an author is nothing more than a pipe dream. She’s all about facts.
I make a non-committal noise. “She did say she had good news and bad news. ”
“Well, there you are then.” Anna tips nail polish remover onto a cotton wool pad and starts removing the varnish from her toes. “That would solve the imminent problem, hopefully.”
What she means by the imminent problem is the announcement from Super Pets that after this week, my job as copy writer, which was my one constant writing gig, was being made obsolete.
At the same time as I was trying and failing to get a foothold as a freelance writer, Anna had battled her way to the top, thanks to a combination of her seemingly unshakeable self-belief and a killer eye for a story.
Or so I’ve always believed. Lately, though, there’s something brittle under the surface, like a swan paddling hard beneath the waterline.
While she was figuring out how to go for the jugular, I was slowly realizing I didn’t have what it took to survive in the world of journalism.
She was building a reputation and climbing onto the property ladder with the help of a hefty inheritance; I was churning out copy and still living with my dickhead ex-boyfriend, Dave.
Anna’s like the this is what you could have won!
to my consolation prize. And now here we are: long story short, as Taylor would say, I’ve got no way of paying the rent next month.
Oh, and I still owe her three hundred quid.
There’s no chance of a hefty inheritance coming my way, either.
I’m on my own in the world. My mum died when I was nine, and my grandma Rose who brought me up passed away the year after I graduated university.
The only thing she bequeathed me was her overdue electricity bill.
It would be fair to say that financial acumen – and taste in men – wasn’t exactly a Jones woman strong suit.
“What’s happening tonight? ”
I shrug. “Nothing.”
Anna’s asking because she wants to tell me what she’s doing, which is precisely what she proceeds to do.
“I’m going to town to meet that guy I interviewed the other day for the big piece about investment banking. He’s taking me to the Oxo Tower for dinner.”
She tosses the line out like it’s no big deal, but I know Anna. She’s always working on an angle. I’m not sure whether this is for the story or survival.
“Oh wow.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Don’t actually fancy him, but I do quite fancy his pay packet, not to mention his bonus scheme.
I’d be set up for life with a nice little townhouse in Farringdon with a husband on that sort of money.
Maybe he’ll have a mate. I could set you up on a double date if this works out. ”
I shift on the sofa and open my laptop again now that she’s not looking over my shoulder, shutting down Google. “I’m not looking for a double date.”
“If you don’t have sex at some point, Ede, you’re going to become one of those born-again virgins.
Anyway, about this work stuff. Look, if the book isn’t working out, maybe you should think about a sideways move?
I saw a really interesting looking marketing job on Indeed…
” She picks up her phone and starts scrolling.
I know she means well, but she has a way of making me feel about five years old. It’s not a great sign when your flatmate and landlord is job-hunting for you.
“Here you are, look. I’ll send you the link.”
My phone vibrates a second later.
“You need to stop holding out for this dream book deal and start being practical. Just sell your soul to the devil and embrace the corporate world. You’ll love it.”
“I’d hate it.” I scroll obediently through the job description. A tiny bit of my soul dies in the process. “You never know, Charlotte might be calling to tell me I’ve been snapped up by one of the big five publishers and they’re going to make my book their lead title for next year.”
Anna snorts.
“I’m just trying to look out for you, babe.” She throws the cotton pad into the bin and stands up, stretching so her top reveals a smooth, tanned strip of perfectly flat stomach. I pull my cardigan over mine, almost without thinking.
It’s ten past when Charlotte calls, yelling over the sound of traffic as she marches down Tottenham Court Road.
She walks everywhere at a hundred miles an hour and makes all her calls as she goes.
The line is always dodgy, and half the time I can’t quite hear her over the sound of buses and people walking past and the general chaos of London at five o’clock.
“Edie, great. I have the most brilliant news.”
This is it. There’s a series of beeps and some yelling and I hear her apologising to someone.
“Still there?”
“Still here.”
“Wonderful. Right. I have a proposition for you. It’s marvellous and it’s all thanks to Annabel, who put in a good word at the right moment. Everything is pretty much ready to go, as long as you give me the nod. We’ll get the paperwork drawn up and get the ball rolling.”
“I—”
“It’s a ghosting job, but this one will be right up your street.
You’ll be in your element – it’s writing a family history based on archives and diaries.
Probably about three months work, they think.
Accommodation and everything is sorted. All you have to do is turn up, settle down in the library and get to work. Doesn’t it sound perfect?”
“I —” I try to formulate a sentence and fail in the face of Charlotte’s barrage of enthusiasm.
“Obviously there are NDAs and all the rest of it to be signed, but I’m getting them sorted out in the office,” she says, breezily. “You can pop in on Monday and sign on the dotted line.”
It doesn’t seem to have occurred to her that a) she’s presenting this to me as a fait accompli or b) that I might have other plans on Monday.
“Did you—I mean, have you heard back from anyone about the manuscript?”
“Oh yes,” Charlotte says, and her tone shifts effortlessly from her brisk sales mode into consoling-disappointed-author mode. “Yes, I had the last two emails back from Dilly at Harper Collins and Jessica at Macmillan. Both loved it, but it’s not quite what they’re looking for right now.”
I glance upward, half-expecting to see the dragons which I’d flatly refused to crowbar into my story circling overhead with I-told-you-so expressions on their scaly faces.
“I know it’s not what you were hoping for, but it’s a really well-paid opportunity,” she adds. “And just think all that fresh Highland air and free time will give you loads of chance to work on those dragons!”
I think I might need to get a T-shirt printed with THIS IS A DRAGON FREE ZONE on the front. Maybe then she’d get the hint. But it’s still writing I guess, and it solves the immediate problem of what I’m going to do about paying the bills. I twiddle with the blind cord, winding it around my finger .
At least three months’ rent free might give me a chance to pay off my overdraft?
“That sounds perfect.” I don’t know what it is about Charlotte that makes me agree to stuff. It’s like my brain to self-esteem connection goes offline.
“Excellent. We can talk details then.”
So, I’m off to ghostwrite someone’s family history in the middle of nowhere. It’s not exactly on my five-year plan, but then it also didn’t include getting dumped by a cat insurance company.
“Well, that gets you off the hook for the marketing job,” says Anna, as if she’s reading my mind. I turn, realising she’s been listening to the whole conversation.
“And the rent.”
“Well, there’s that, too.” She gives a little smirk. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Ede.”