Chapter 2
THE GAME
I hug my portfolio close, my fists turning cold and clammy, as I wait in the lobby of Lenka’s exclusive city-centre office; sun-lit, spacious and unashamedly Instagramable.
My stomach flips with nerves as the time ticks by.
I’ve been sitting here for forty-five minutes now.
It’s pure torture – how long will she keep me waiting like this?
I think I’m actually, officially done now.
I’m ready to give up, to call time on this bonkers venture and go back to the call centre, back to reciting a standard customer-service script within regular hours and with a new appreciation for the mundane.
At least in that predictable, beeping, grey-shaded world everything made sense; I know who I am and where I fit in. And where I don’t.
And I definitely don’t fit in here, in this uber-chic, uber-modern office block.
Or even in the professional world of illustration.
I’m punching above my weight here. I’m not sure if I even qualify for imposter syndrome.
I’ve poured everything into this latest commission, moving from paper to screen, sketching and drawing and painting and then erasing, scrapping and starting all over again.
But it’s a special one.
Forest Fables by Matilda Wilder. The most special one I could ever dream of working on; the highly anticipated release of the year, the updated edition of an already beloved picture-book classic; a wonderful fairy-tale world of furry friends and life lessons back on bookshelves for all to enjoy.
And, truthfully, if it wasn’t so close to my heart, I feel like I’d walk away right now.
Give up freelancing. Give up art and new starts and everything I ever thought I wanted.
But I love Forest Fables. So, I’m here, showing up for God knows what.
I gulp and take in my surroundings, noting the walls of the lobby.
Three framed photographs draw my attention, each adorned with a different memory.
One is of Lenka posing proudly in her formal gown, arms outstretched to receive the medal she was awarded for her contributions to children’s literature from the King.
Another shows her beaming as she accepts a trophy for winning an international book fair prize.
The third is an award for being an inspirational figure in global publishing.
She knows her stuff: so, if I get fired today, at least I’ve been rejected by the very best. A beacon of genius. A world-renowned expert hates my work. Go me.
Lenka’s PA looks up from his desk and smiles reassuringly at me, revealing a mouthful of pearly-white teeth.
I’m pretty sure he hasn’t got a jar of Nutella jammed between his thighs.
I highly doubt he chows down on any monochrome muck that comes from jars or cans or tins; his dewy skin glows with health, his green eyes sparkle.
Whatever designer diet he’s following is evidently working for him.
Vegan? Pescatarian? Flexitarian? Lacto-ovo-vegetarian?
I can only guess what’s in his fridge, but I’m certain that there’ll be no sign of my beloved value-buy hazelnut-cocoa concoction.
‘Daisy, Lenka will be with you shortly.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, forcing a smile while trying to remain calm.
‘I apologise for the wait. I’m not sure what she’s doing in there either. Can I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?’
Wow. I pause, taken aback by the genuine warmth radiating from behind the reception desk.
The last time I was here, a different receptionist looked right through me – frosty and dismissive, their stony expression had made me feel invisible, as though I didn’t exist. But this guy is altogether different.
Maybe I was too hasty in my judgement of Lenka’s staff?
I hereby retract any impure thoughts I had about his fridge.
I decline with a nod, noticing the familiar accent in his voice.
‘You’re from Ireland, right?’ I ask him.
He smiles and nods, his kind eyes twinkling.
‘Yes, I moved over here a million years ago, but you never lose the accent, do you?’
‘No, not at all,’ I agree. ‘My mother was originally from Ireland and her accent never faded even after living in London for years.’
‘Which part of Ireland is she from?’ he asks curiously.
I hesitate. ‘Innisfree. It’s just a small village, from what I understand.’
‘Have you never been there?’ he asks with raised eyebrows.
I shake my head. ‘Not yet, but one day, hopefully. I’ve always dreamed of seeing it for myself. Have you been?’
‘Indeed, I have! Ah, the Wild Atlantic Way – on the western coast. That’s a great little spot! My grandparents used to take me there. Market fair every year. There was music playing on every corner and people dancing in the streets – good times! Is she from the town or from the countryside?’
I hesitate again. This is always tricky; I don’t have many details. I never got to find out much about her before she passed away, so I’m in the dark on her exact origin or whereabouts. ‘I’m not sure,’ I reply.
He smiles and extends his hand. ‘Name’s Rory. Nice to meet you, Daisy. Sure you wouldn’t like a cold drink? You look like you could use one.’
I nod in response and start fanning myself with both hands, feeling a wave of heat rise within me.
My suit seems to be growing smaller by the moment, my body feels too large, my windpipe too narrow, the air too thick to breathe.
I’m suffocating. The Panic begins to set in like an uninvited, unwelcome guest. My mind races with thoughts of my impending doom – this doomed meeting with Lenka, the inevitability of losing this job, then possibly Ash and our plans of moving in and our future together…
why would he stay with me if I have nothing?
And what else can I do? And what if things get even worse?
The horrifying possibility of losing absolutely everything flashes through my mind, like the instant I lost my mother, then all the other monumental losses that followed, the start of it all.
I know too well how easy it is to set the dominoes of destruction in motion – one little nudge and it all comes crashing down.
No matter what I do or say now, there’s no way out.
I’m trapped, out of options, cornered. There’s no way around it – I can’t save this situation.
Rory gives me a glass of cold water, and I quickly swallow it down.
He squeezes my hand and whispers soft reassurances.
I keep my eyes shut, counting backwards from 300 as I try to slow my breathing.
I remind myself that I’m not really dying, just freaking out.
That freaking out is natural. I accept and love myself even though I’m freaking out…
In the depths of my chest, I can feel a ripple of calm spread throughout my body – a reminder that it’s going to be okay.
Rory looks at me with kind eyes and says in his gentle voice, ‘It’s all right, Daisy – just take a deep breath and relax. Everything is okay.’
I take his words and let them sink into my mind like a soothing balm.
Everything is okay. I accept and love myself even though I’m freaking out – it’s part of being human.
We all have things we need to face, no matter how intimidating they seem in the moment.
I focus on the coolness of the glass in my hand and thank Rory for helping me find some peace of mind before my meeting with Lenka.
But I think it’s now time to get real. I may as well come clean. I clearly don’t have the strength for another tongue-lashing. Why even bother going in?
‘Truth is, Rory, I’m scared stiff. I think it’s best I just forget all this.
Press pause here. I mean what’s the point?
It’s already a foregone conclusion that she hates everything I do – I can’t even understand why I thought coming here would make a difference.
I guess I went into fight-or-flight mode, but now I’ve taken a breath, I see there’s no hope. She’s made up her mind. Done deal.’
I stand up to leave. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have come in.
I should’ve never taken this project in the first place; I apologise for wasting everyone’s time.
Just tell Lenka that I’ve fallen into a coma, joined a cult, that I’m donating all my organs…
so no need to follow up, delete me from the database – whatever you think will work best. Thank you again for your help. It was nice to meet you, Rory.’
‘Whoa, whoa… hey, hold up a sec!’ He stands up and reaches out. ‘You have come so far already, Daisy! There’s lots going on behind the scenes – it’s not as clear-cut as it seems. I promise you can do this! I’ve seen your work; your drawings are beautiful.’
I glance up at him sceptically. ‘Not according to Lenka,’
‘Lenka doesn’t have the only opinion that counts, no matter how much she’d like you to think so. And plenty of people really respect your work. I’m telling ya, I know these things – I overhear conversations all over the place! I’m bcc’d into everything.’ He taps on his computer for emphasis.
He waves me towards him and quickly looks around to make sure the door is closed and we’re alone.
‘Right, time to spill the tea – Lenka and Matilda Wilder had a blazing row yesterday – it was amazing, and horrendous obviously, but it was a huge fight and now they’re not on speaking terms. The battle lines have been drawn.
Matilda Wilder is Lenka’s number-one nemesis now. ’
‘Really? But why?’