Page 7 of The Reno
“That would have been better than using them on a call with a load of strait-laced white blokes, Kat, yes.”
I winced. “I’m sorry.”
Willa sighed. “I know.”
Willa deserved better than this. Before Dad died, I hadn’t been a perfect employee, but I’d been focused enough. And then Dad died. I thought it was the grief that made me numb and disinterested in everything, and it would pass. But in the eight months since his funeral, nothing had changed. Autumn, one of my favourite seasons, came and went. As did the bright lights of Christmas and New Year. And now, we were in February, and it was the same. I was going through the motions each day, and every night, I lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
Willa should have someone focused on client work, someone present, someone who coaxed clients back, not gave themthe ick. After all, Willa had her own problems. Last week, I’d heard her softly crying in the bathroom stalls after meeting with her accountant, Philip. Willa started Horizon Creative with the help of her dad and built it into a small ten-person team—a “boutique” agency. It had been a success until recently when some high-paying accounts left for Dunamis, the bigger agency upstairs. Dunamis did everything—marketing, SEO, graphic design and web building. Clients liked the convenience of having everything in-house, but I hated sharing a building with their stupid staff. They all had big square glasses and walked around with their iPads like they were important.
With clients fleeing, Willa was becoming more and more desperate by the day. She even asked me to write client pitches, which wasnotmy forte. My spelling was atrocious.
Willa ran a hand down her face, paused and then turned to Kieran. “Kier. You’re on the QRS account.”
Kieran flinched but nodded—the ever-loyal robot lapdog.
Willa turned back to me, folding her toned arms across her chest. “Show me your laptop screen.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks and my stomach plummeted to the marketing offices on the floor below. I gripped on harder to my half-closed screen.
“Kat,” Willa warned.
She leaned over and opened my laptop. The house listing was the only tab, for once. Usually, I had fifty million programs and tabs open, my laptop gasping for air. But this had been the only link to grace my screens since the phone call with the probate lawyer three weeks ago.
The house that I’d inherited.
The house I’d visited once seventeen years ago.
When Dad and I visited the little house, it felt much bigger. But then, I was only ten years old. The owner, Rose, smelt like lavender. On the drive, Dad explained it used to be his house until Rose bought it from my grandparents. When we arrived, Rose smiled, crouched down and hugged me into her slim body. In the living room, I spun in one spot as Dad talked to Rose about her sons. Polite questions and polite answers.
Rose had let me explore the sprawling garden. Stone birdfeeders and ladybugs. I walked on wet grass under my light-up trainers. The birds sang loudly and soared into the sky together.
On the long drive back to Reading, Dad promised to buy it from Rose one day. I nodded, agreeing it was a good idea. We’d make it our home again. We’d convince Mummy to move back to Everly Heath—the words of a naive ten-year-old.
Now, my dad was gone, and the house was two hundred miles from London. So why was I so possessed by the impulse to renovate the place? It reeked of ADHD, and I resented being a neurospicy stereotype.
Mask it up, push it down.
I tried to, but it was no use. I couldn’t get the house out of my bloody head. On the Tube, during client meetings, at the pub with my shitty Hinge date with broccoli in his teeth. All I could think about was how I’d change the layout, rip out the seventies carpets and replace the rotting bathroom.
My dad wasn’t haunting me. His bloody house was.
I looked up at Willa, who was perched on the edge of my desk. Shehad been so patient. She had given me a load of time off, no questions asked. She had steered through my missed deadlines. She kept checking in, making sure I was okay.
“I’ll stop, I swear,” I promised, more guilt trickling in. I wanted to help turn things around for her. I would help turn things around.
Willa angled her blonde head towards her office. “Come on, let’s talk.”
We walked past Clara and Kieran, looking down at their laptops like nothing had happened.
Freaks.
I followed Willa to her office; my eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to her round bum. I was no better than a man.
“Your arse looks insane in that dress, Wills.” This was not appropriate for work, but given we were old uni friends, I figured we were well past the usual employee-employer relationship.
“No sweet talking, bitch,” Willa added over her shoulder, “but thank you.”
Willa was in her “slay your enemies” look today, which had been getting more action than usual recently. I wondered if it had something to do with Aidan, the sales director of Dunamis. Willa insisted there was nothing but hatred between her and Aidan, the son of her dad’s best friend, but I wasn’t convinced. There was always a weird energy about them. Sometimes, I spotted them marching out of the lifts, bickering, only to part in a huff to their separate offices.
