Page 121 of That Reunited Feeling

“Get up,” she says, once the groaning’s over. “Hannah’s office is on the way to yoga. I’ll drop you off.”

36

HANNAH

“W

hen you’ve finished that, type up these notes and turn them into a slide deck for tomorrow’s meeting.” Axel, my new boss, tosses a pile of torn, stained, and scribble-defaced papers onto the desk next to me. “And make it slap.”

Slap. I’ve had that one before. He means make it look amazing—dress it up with graphics, give it a cool title page, maybe the odd animation or two, and generally make it appear like it means something when in reality all I’m doing is polishing a turd.

He heads back to his office, where he seems to do little more than make loud phone calls while walking back and forth, eat the overpriced delivery lunches he has me order, and tell me to organize materials for meetings he never seems to go to.

And he tells me he’s taking a “ten-one” every time he heads to the restroom. Apparently it’s a movie set term for peeing.

Axel is a film producer. At least, that’s what his job title is. In the ten days since I started, I’ve seen very little evidence anything is being produced. Or, indeed, has ever been produced.

But he is the son of an executive at a big studio who’s friends with Rachel’s husband. Despite being on the payroll of said studio, Axel is based at this office building three miles away. And the more time I spend with him, the more I understand why.

The office is okay, though. It’s in one of those shared spaces full of indie documentary makers and start-ups that come and go. There are co-working spaces, lounge areas with brightly colored furniture, a kitchen with free beer in the fridge, table tennis and pool tables, and giant inspirational quotes on the walls in mixed fonts that say things likeBe A Legend.

A nice woman who’s starting a business making flip-flops from algae told me I’m the fourth assistant Axel’s had since he’s been here. He’s been here six months.

Anyway, it’s a start. And since he doesn’t have an enormous amount of work for me to do but does have all the latest film industry software installed on my top-of-the-line computer, there’s time for me to teach myself how to use it and gain the marketable skills I need to get the hell away from this entitled jerk.

Spending hours each day doing admin in film production offices isn’t my life’s dream, but it’s better than a lot of people can hope for, so I’m not going to be ungrateful. There’s plenty of work in this city and, eventually, I’ll be able to get out of Rachel’s guesthouse, and Dylan and I can have our own place.

And the most important thing is Dylan likes his new school. Which is such a relief. He has a growing group of friends, based on their shared obsession withOverlord Hybrids, and is helping to build the sets for the end-of-year play. So I’m happy he’s doing something creative away from screens. I’d offered to get him a guitar with my first paycheck so he could learn again, but he said it wouldn’t be the same without Tom.

To be fair, nothing is. And it took everything I had not to tell him that.

But Tom’s probably back in London now, and our brief-but-intense reunion is likely nothing more than a faint dot in his rearview mirror.

Dylan and I have been to a couple meetings about the clinical trial, and he’s more at ease with it after meeting the doctors and nurses and some of the other kids involved. The treatments start in the summer, when school’s out, so I’ll have to figure out a way to get time off work to go with him.

But now is clearly not the time to broach that issue.

Axel storms out of his office with a face like a two-year-old who’s dropped their dinner off their highchair and no one’s noticed.

“Holy fuck, Hannah. What’s this?”

He’s waving a poster for the movie review podcast he’s starting called “On The Chopping Block With Axel.”

“Are you too old to understand the difference between CMYK and RGB?”

What’s wrong with it? It doesn’t look wrong to me. And I’m sure I sent the right info to the printer.

Nevertheless, my insides clench in panic and every ounce of my self-confidence rushes down a swirling drain. Christ, maybe I can’t actually do this. If I can’t get even the simplest tasks correct, maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe I’m meant for only cleaning and waitressing and I’m never going to be able to earn enough for us to do better than scrape by.

I open my mouth to say I’ll check the attachment I sent to the printer, but the burning in my throat prevents anything from coming out.

“No, she isn’t, dickwad.”

I snap my head around to find Tom in the doorway, pursued by security.

My heart stops and my brain races to try to catch up with what my eyes are seeing.

Tom?yells a voice inside my head.Here? In LA?Cannot compute. At your office?Cannot compute. Why? What? How?Memory error. Restart.

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