Chapter 1
THE MESSAGE
The early-morning sun filters through my studio window, dappling the stained wood surface of my desk. I sigh and blink away the glare on my computer screen, squinting at the newly finished illustration of a fox cub peeking out from behind a tree. Another day, another dollar.
If only. My bank account is running on fumes.
My work mail pings. Lenka. The Big Boss.
I steel myself and open it, bracing for the usual barrage of criticism sure to come.
Lenka: The cub’s eyes are too small and close-set. Makes him look dim-witted and deranged. Fix it. Also, the tree trunk is crooked. I shouldn’t have to point these things out.
Me: Will revise. Thanks for the feedback.
Lenka: Don’t thank. Just do. Six weeks to deadline.
I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, trying to calm my frayed nerves.
Lenka may be a brilliant children’s publishing executive, but she lacks an ounce of tact.
Or patience. Which you’d kind of expect from someone working day in and day out with dragons and fairies and dancing piglets.
And after months of working for her, you’d think I’d be used to her acerbic tone and frustration with my ‘shortcomings’.
But her constant criticism still stings.
Bright side is I’m getting better, toughening up. I don’t need half a bottle of Rescue Remedy before a Zoom anymore, and Ash says I’m grinding my teeth at night a lot less, so I’ll take that as steady progress and excellent professional development, thank you very much.
And Hedgerow Press is the establishment when it comes to children’s literature, so I’m grateful for the chance to work with her at all.
And no matter how hard it feels sometimes, I’m sticking with it to prove myself as a professional illustrator, to break into the business and build a name for myself – and, ideally, secure an in-house position that’ll set me up for life so I can escape this rollercoaster of freelancing with its hit-and-miss success.
Most of my time is spent chasing up leads with speculative work and proposals and then chasing down clients for payment and testimonials. It’s exhausting.
I thought giving up the nine to five at the call centre would free me up to focus on what I’m really passionate about: art – it’s what I’m supposed to be good at – but instead, I work longer, lonelier and with less pay than I knew was legal.
I’ve always been passionate about illustration, about crafting whimsical worlds and lovable characters on the page.
But here’s the Thing. (Why does there always have to be a Thing?) Working this way is not working out.
It’s draining all the joy from my life, leaving me burned out, blocked up and questioning my ability. As in, do I have any ability at all?
And questioning my future. As in, do I have a future at all?
It’s a bitter pill to swallow – especially as I did all this to myself.
All fingers point back to me. Hands up, white flag, full disclosure.
I cocked up. Icarus syndrome. I thought I could do it, aimed for the sky, flew too high, panicked and am now mid-crash and burn. This part here is the pre-splat teaser.
Turns out the creative career I dreamed of is turning into a slow-burning nightmare. Worst part is, I invested everything I had in this career leap and jumped in with two feet, desperate to prove that I could do it – all me, nobody else, so this failure sits squarely with yours truly.
I hatched the idea on my thirtieth birthday, loaded with Milestone Birthday Panic, Seize The Day Spirit and Pornstar Martinis.
The bit I can blame my bestie Kayla for: pushing me to ‘Go For It’, to ‘Dream Big’.
After all, she runs her own hugely successful business and made it look so easy, so doable, so worthwhile.
But it wasn’t all down to Kayla or the Pornstar Martinis; realising that my mother had never seen her thirtieth birthday was a big wake-up call.
I felt a huge whoosh of making the most of time, not taking anything for granted, needing to really make the most of life and every opportunity that came my way.
Anyone who has experienced life-altering changes in an instant knows how close it brings you to understanding that nothing is guaranteed.
Fast-forward two years. If I knew then what I know now, I’d say: Gung-ho?
Gung-NO. I’d have a little word with myself along the lines of: C’mon, Daisy, you know that little safe life you think is so boring, the one you could do with your eyes closed and paid you every month?
Stay there. Hang on to that baby. Because you know what’s really boring?
Poverty, never feeling good enough and pretending to your boyfriend that everything is amazing.
So, the lingering question is when do I draw a line in the scorched earth of my life and admit defeat? Get tucking that tail between my legs and go back to the call centre.
My phone buzzes – a text from my boyfriend Ash. ‘We still on for flat hunting this evening at 6 p.m.? Found a great new listing in our price range.’
‘Amazing!’ I type, letting a row of cork-popping emojis do the heavy lifting.
I hate myself but can’t stop. Ash is allergic to inconvenience, failure and cats.
We have a tacit ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy in our relationship that covers stressy stuff, period cramps and how much time Ash spends in the bathroom.
Speaking of stressy stuff, the next six weeks will be either:
a. More Lenka and employment-related stress.
Or:
b. No Lenka and unemployment-related stress.
‘This could be the one!’ Ash texts.
It could be, but… no point offloading to Ash when I don’t even know what’s going to happen yet with my current job status. I’ll make it work. I’ll figure something out.
‘Send me the location and I’ll see you there x,’ I type.
Ash means so well. All he wants is to get on in life, get his checklist ticked off – decent house, decent relationship, decent job, amazing car – and I so want to match his drive, his go-get-it mindset.
So, when he suggested that we take the next step and rent a little place for us both so we could move in together, I thought it was a fantastic idea.
A no-brainer! Of course I want to wake up beside my gorgeous boyfriend every day.
Of course I want to get even closer, to share more, to spend more time together; a place just for us, a chance at being a proper couple rather than living separately, across town and with clashing schedules…
but this flat hunt has taken over our lives.
Every spare moment, every conversation. Yawn and yikes.
He can’t understand why I’m trying to be cautious.
Probably because I haven’t really told him how much everything feels up in the air at the moment.
I just don’t know if I have the bandwidth for another upheaval – especially as all the big changes I’ve made workwise haven’t exactly lived up to expectations.
How can I explain that to the man who wants everything, and wants it bigger, faster and better than anyone else?
Especially his brother. As an only child, I had no idea how fierce sibling rivalry could be.
Downright Darwinian. And it’s made Ash unstoppable – he’s never failed at anything he’s set his mind to.
Whatever his brother Dan does, Ash takes it to the next level – such big dreams, unshakeable confidence, always striving for new heights and thinking one step ahead.
And I admire that; of course I do.
But right now, I’m completely overwhelmed.
And completely underwhelmed.
I just can’t seem to strike the right amount of ‘whelm’.
I need things to settle. Just a little bit, for a little while. How I daydream of peace and harmony, an empty inbox and a full fridge.
Flat hunting, more debt, unqualified risk, bagging and dragging up my whole life again and carting it across London to a new cramped corner of the city – not so much.
With a heavy sigh, I zoom in on the fox cub’s eyes and enlarge them, brightening the amber hue to make them more endearing and expressive.
Can’t lie, he’s still super cute – but now looks less deranged, more dreamy.
I then adjust the contours of the tree, but has she ever actually seen a tree?
Real-life trunks tend to be crooked? But, hey – I smooth out the trunk and add more foliage up top to balance the composition.
Sorry, tree, no more dancing in the wind for you.
Satisfied I’ve addressed Lenka’s ‘concerns’, I send the revisions and steel myself for the next round of corrections.
Almost immediately, she’s back to me. I can picture her literally staring at the screen, waiting to pounce as she taps out ‘constructive feedback’ while cursing my existence under her breath.
Lenka: Time for face-to-face chat. My office 4.30 p.m.
Oh noooooooooo.
I swallow hard, a knot forming in my stomach. A spontaneous, in-person, one-to-one meeting to discuss an undisclosed subject can only mean one thing.
I’m being let go.
Oh dear. Not the TGIF feeling I was hoping for.
My mouth goes dry as I reread her short message again and again.
Lenka: Time for face-to-face chat. My office 4.30 p.m.
I try different voices, play with possibilities of it sounding cheery and upbeat.
But there’s no smiley emoji or exclamation mark or row of kisses.
‘Chat’ isn’t a good sign. Means it’ll be a quick and easy termination because she doesn’t care – never has, never will.
Who are you already? Close the door on your way out. Thank you. Next.
I can feel it. The beginning of the end.
Lenka is hellish to work for, but losing this job will plunge me into a financial black hole.
The cost of becoming a freelance illustrator has already been dizzyingly high: tuition fees, specialised courses, expensive design software.
Not to mention the hours, the sweat, the own-brand biscuit-based diet I’ve adopted just to keep the wheels turning.
This is not the ‘be your own boss’ life I’d manifested.
I let out a frustrated sigh.
I scammed myself completely, letting myself believe I could make this work.
Got completely suckered into the idea that I could do this.
The constant stream of ‘Live Your Dream’ propaganda – thanks, evil internet algorithm overlords – you made me do this.
All those inspirational quotes, real-life speakers with great hair and glowing skin making ‘Anyone Can Do It!’ pitches for freedom and fulfilment, escape, autonomy and joy!
The hourly posts of light and airy home offices, all pastel colours and snuggly pets and pretty vision boards got me good.
Jump and the net will appear!
Update: I jumped. As yet, no net.
She said she could, so she did!
Update: Hmm. Just because she could doesn’t mean she should.
What if I fall? But what if you fly?
Update: Only fifty per cent success probability – not great odds in hindsight.
I thought I’d be like a boss babe, all systems seamlessly in place, hottest illustrator in the biz, relaxed lunch meetings in wine bars, I’d set my own hours between yoga, smelling the roses and wandering galleries for inspiration.
And I thought that, as a result, I would just automatically spin gold!
Everyone would love everything I did. I’d be happy, secure and respected, and my life would be complete.
Happy input, happy output.
Cue Lenka and her honking big dose of realism.
I rub my hands down my cheeks and cringe at myself, opening the jar of Nutella nestled between my knees and scooping with a teaspoon.
Full disclosure: I only opened this family-size jar yesterday yet there’s only a quarter left and this little spoon is the only piece of silver to my name.
This is where my notions of grandeur have got me – fakin’ it till I can’t take it.
Real talk: It’s Friday, 8 a.m. Breakfast is served.
Hair is greasy. Flat is small. Lenka is mad.
Dream is dissolving. I already need a nap and then a shovel to start digging myself out of this hole I’ve painstakingly dug for myself.
But for now, at least it’s my hole. And it’s the only hole I’ve got.
It’d really help if I could schedule my panic attack before I leave home.