Page 13 of The Retreat
Talia’s skin prickled. She tried to swallow, but her throat had dried up.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Right.’
‘You know, some of them still talk about Henry’s wife at the retreat ten years ago. She charmed everyone over breakfast waffles, and Henry got fast-tracked. I can see that happening for you two.’
Talia swallowed. ‘Oh?’
‘I mean, what matters is yourwork,’ Celeste added quickly. ‘The retreat will only be the cherry on your cake.’
Talia smiled. ‘Of course,’ she said, not believing that remotely.
***
Talia left Celeste’s office in a daze.
She’d tried to end the lie. Tried to close the door. But it just wouldn’t quite come out of her mouth. Especially after Celeste as good as said, ‘Your girlfriend will get you this promotion.’
As she waited for the lift, she started to think something very, very silly.
The silly thought followed her into the lift, down a few floors, and back to her office. And then it sat with her through the rest of the morning, through lunch, and through theafternoon. Then it followed her out to her car and home for the day. It was still there when she went to bed that night.
A silly, silly idea indeed.
Eight
Imogen had applied for everything. Cafes. Retail stores. Even the vape kiosk at the shopping centre. Every application was met with ‘overqualified’ or ‘underqualified.’ Sometimes, no words at all—just silence.
She was starting to take it personally. Starting to wonder if there was something about her that people could sense the moment they looked at her CV. Something invisible and off-putting, somethingwrong.
Rent day was a few weeks off. And it was hanging over her like a shadow. The thousand pounds Talia had transferred had stretched as far as it could go, but that was gone now. Yet another rent day was on its way.
Imogen lay on her bed in the middle of the afternoon, staring blankly at the ceiling. The hum of traffic from the street below barely registered. She could feel the panic beginning to rise.
Her eyes roamed across the small room, the mismatched furniture, the half-finished laundry piled in the corner. There was nothing left. Nothing more she could sell. No one she could call. She had nowhere else to go.
Her parents, living in their retirement community, had no space to offer. Even if they did, they wouldn’t. They were nice enough, but there was a limit to their generosity.
They’d always said she needed to get a real job, that art curation was a dream she needed to wake up from. She hadn’t listened. They would be thrilled to find out they’d been right, but not enough to extend a helping hand. All she ever got from them was lectures that utilised the phrase, ‘Pull yourself up by your bootstraps,’ repeatedly.
So who else? There were her friends. Her good friends, the ones who still checked in, who sent texts now and then. But they had families now, homes full of spouses, kids, pets, commitments. They were settled. They wouldn’t want Imogen’s failure on their couches.
She’d never been here before. Not this close to the edge. It was, well, there was only one word for it. Terrifying.
And then came the knock.
She froze. For a moment, she didn’t breathe. Could it be her landlord? Rent day was not here, but maybe he’d had enough of her general fecklessness and was booting her out.
Another knock. This time, firmer.
Imogen dragged herself off the bed and padded to the front door. She felt like she was walking to her doom. Even if it wasn’t the landlord, it would be some other bad news.
When she pulled it open, it was bad beyond all imagining.
Talia. At her door.
‘Wait, what?’ Imogen said, more to herself than Talia.
Talia’s hands were stuffed into the pockets of her black trench coat. ‘Hi,’ she said quietly.
