Chapter Six Soundtrack: Long Lost by Lord Huron

The weekend was sunny and crisp. It's only Monday, but I'm walking to the office with a new sense of purpose.

I'm proud of myself. It's unfamiliar.

But Sandra thinks I'm making progress, Barry greenlit my diverse writers' programme, I'm seeing Mei this week, and I stopped at the florist en route for flowers.

Nas hates tulips. I buy two bunches, and a pain au raisin too. It leaves a trail of crumbs down my vintage jumpsuit. It doesn't faze me.

Nothing will faze me today.

Not even Nas.

Not even Barry.

Not even my mother.

I drop one bunch of flowers off for Katie at reception, who has just returned from her honeymoon. She's tanned to her hairline and glowing with joy.

'Thank you!' she gushes. 'It'll be your turn next.'

Ah. That fazed me. Never mind. I plaster on a smile and tell her how radiant she looks.

The other bouquet I leave on my desk, positioned to block my view of Nas. He doesn't comment on them, but he rolls his eyes at the pastry crumbs.

I arrange the tulips carefully, a spread of pink and orange and gold, and they droop across the edge of the vase in defiance of my best attempts. Somehow this charms me. Each petal glows in the sunlight. I haven't bought flowers in years: I'd forgotten how much I love them.

In fact, I haven't bought flowers since Ben's funeral. It put me off them. I was sent so many that they rotted on their stems and the whole flat smelled of death. I couldn't leave bed to throw them away.

 Mei pulled me out, eventually. She washed my hair, emptied my bins, and made me lasagne (the only thing she can cook). She reminded me about this job and what it had meant to me, and to Ben, even if he wasn't here to see it. She walked me in on my first day, miles in the rain, and waited at home for my return. She saved my life, as much as she did any of her patients. Her, and this job.

I remember those first few weeks—after Ben died—as a vacuum of sound. I couldn't even feel grief. When I started work it was only because, as Mei reminded me, my rent wouldn't wait for my feelings. But it also gave me the first emotion to break the silence.

Rage.

At Nas, of course.

When I first arrived, weeks later than planned, he was all charm. He bought me lunch, warned me about the handsy Head of Finance, and earnestly complimented the short films I'd produced. I'd liked him. He'd been likeable. I was grateful he didn't pry into my grief. Instead, I told him where I lived, where I'd worked, what I dreamed of creating. He'd called us a team.

Then, a few weeks in, I'd forgotten my glasses on my desk, returned after work, and heard him ask Barry why I was there.

I've been running this for years, and she shows up weeks late, unqualified, unprepared, and keeps zoning out in our meetings. What am I supposed to do with her?

I felt something then. I felt it so strongly that my body trembled with it. I hid in the bathroom, and for the first time, I sobbed.

Then I wiped my face, took myself out for sushi, and swore I would prove him wrong. I would make him tremble, too, tremble with rage and grief and embarrassment, and he wouldn't ever make me weak again.

I like to remind myself of that on Mondays.

He's especially charming on Mondays.

'You're always so much better at this,' Yvonne is telling me. She's leaning over my desk, and probably has been for a few minutes already. I doubt she's noticed my inattention. As she talks, uninterrupted, she pokes the tip of her glasses into the corner of her eye. It's hypnotic, and a little repulsive.

Nas is taking a suspiciously long coffee break, so I know he saw her coming. Yvonne is an avalanche of words. She works in marketing, and her strategy is to overwhelm me with talking so that I agree to anything. This strategy always works.

Today she wants me to write the marketing plan for Pendleton.

'I just need you to write some key catchphrases for the series. Think about the vision and who would love it. You're so good at "creative".'

I am about to agree, but Nas has returned and is perched on his desk. There is no coffee. He's getting sloppy.

'That's not her job,' he interrupts. Clearly he needs that coffee: he usually manages to charm his way through the morning, at least.

'You're not my boss,' I snap back. She glares at him. 'It's not really my remit though,' I say slowly. I shoot eyes at her to imply that I would do it if Nas wasn't such a dick.

'Fine,' she snaps and walks off.

I have a momentary pang of guilt because, technically, he's right. Then I remind myself that he lacks all of the vital brain chemicals required to feel empathy and I get over it. He probably just didn't want to be cc'd.

'What's happening with Joanna's contract?' he asks, without taking his eyes off his screen.

'Legal says her agent is taking forever. We'll probably need to sit down with them.'

'I'm not doing it for you.'

I am about to snap that I would never want him to, but I actually do want him to. He's much better at being bad cop.

'I'll guess I'll wine and dine them,' I say instead. 'Sweeten them up a little. Show them how nice I can be.'

What am I even saying? My voice is strange and sticky and I slowly turn my ring, round and round. Nas's eyes are locked onto his computer but below his desk, his leg is furiously tapping. I don't know what this feeling is, but the tapping is new. Interesting.

An email pops up. It's blank. The subject line is: I didn't know you had a sweet tooth.

I reply, There's so much you don't know about me.

His leg is perfectly still now.

I have read this budget line four times but all I can think about is his motionless leg. I am not entirely certain that I am breathing. The oxygen deprivation goes to my head because I have a thought I have never had before: Thank God Barry's here.

Our boss bounds towards our desks. He ignores my ragged breaths.

'Kiddos!' Never mind. I hate him. 'Meet Emmanuel, wunderkind producer and my new friend. Better keep an eye on him or he'll have your jobs soon!'

Poor Emmanuel. He has no idea what he's walked into.

Beside Barry is, presumably, Emmanuel: tall, slouchy, with an immaculate beard and slow eyes that track across the room. He's thirty, or maybe fifty, in that media way that seems to defy time or gravity. I suspect he will not approve of pain au raisin crumbs, but then again, he hasn't wasted enough time on me to notice.

'Hey,' Emmanuel drawls. He's glanced cursorily at me, but his eyes lock on Nas. 'Nasir Naji? What an honour, man. Awesome work on Pendleton. Normally I hate that girly shit but the ratings don't lie, right?'

He extends a hand to Nas, who ignores it. Instead, he flicks an imaginary speck off his shirt. Without looking up, he drawls, 'Eleanor produced Pendleton.'

'Don't be so modest,' Emmanuel laughs. 'I know the AD and he won't shut up about you. Says you're a TV genius.'

I don't bother hiding my cough. Nas glares, but it's... good-natured? Amused? It's nice to hate someone together, for once.

'I have this gala this weekend,' Emmanuel continues. 'Swanky. Exclusive. You should come, man. So many cool people I could intro you to.'

'Sure,' Nas replies. I'm surprised. He normally hates this networking shit. 'Eleanor will come too.'

My head snaps up. I will? Nas's lips twitch.

'Great. Barry has the details.' Emmanuel leaves with a handshake for Nas and a nod to me. Nas is looking at me again. He's always looking at me. His brow creases: he's probably spotted that my lipstick is smudged. I wonder how many flaws he's tallied over the years. At least it stops him from talking.

'Eleanor,' he says. 'Come here.'

What am I, a dog? I ignore this.

'Eleanor.' His voice is softer this time. Something foreign and trembly in my legs pushes me up from my chair and propels me towards him.

He stands to meet me. I am tall, and broad, and my thighs rub together. My waist rolls beneath my bras. I will never be tiny and I'm okay with that—my mother wishes I was skinnier, but it's never mattered to me. But now, standing beside him, I suddenly feel small. His presence seems to take up all the space. I have to tilt my head back to look at him, and wish I hadn't. His eyes are glittering behind his glasses.

'You have a raisin,' he says, flicking it off my jumpsuit. His laughter follows me out of the office.

*

how do you think the gala will go? will ellie manage to find inner peace and self-worth before she has to dress to impress? (no) will nas get over himself and express his feelings like a grown-up? (no) but will there be a slow dance? (...maybe)

drop some scenes you'd love to see and i will see what i can do xx