In Another Life

“So what makes you think you’re qualified for this job?”

“I am a hard worker,” I announce immediately and then pause, momentarily distracted by the spinning fan blades above me. And then I shake my head and roll over onto my side, bringing my sheet up to my chin and sighing deeply. “Art is my passion—I love everything about it. Working here would be an incredible honor.”

My eyes land on the neon green numbers of my alarm clock and another sigh wells up in my throat. I’d woken up at nearly six this morning after a nightmare in which I showed up completely naked on campus. Sleep never reclaimed me again, so I spent the last hour revising interview questions and tactics with myself.

Even though that’s all I’ve been doing since Jeanette’s phone call four days ago. Even though I know I’m as prepared as I’m going to be for this meeting.

With herculean effort, I kick the sheet off of my body and slowly haul myself up into a sitting position. It’s a bit strange to be up this early. Normally I’d still be fast asleep, since my first class doesn’t start until half past 11. But I guess nerves have gotten the better of me this morning.

I stand up and stretch, enjoying the way my back pops and I can feel my body finally rousing itself out of the groggy state I’d been in so far. My hands come up and I rub at my tired skin before I shuffle off towards the bathroom.

I’ll just start my day earlier than expected.

The water gurgles hello to me as it surges through the pipes and I run my fingers through the icy stream before I push the lever to the left even further. Eventually steam starts to waft up and I inhale blissfully before I stand up on my tiptoes and twist the knob on the shower head. The pipes choke up before the water start to fall evenly.

I give the water a few more moments to heat up as I head back into my bedroom and turn off my alarm that was set for 8 o’clock. And then I move towards my bureau and pull out a fresh set of underthings before my attention is distracted by the activity—or lack, thereof—outside of my window.

I’ve managed to wake up before the rest of my street. All of the store fronts are still dark and silent and I take a second to appreciate the serenity before a car alarm goes off and the spell is broken. Then I turn on my heel and walk back into my bathroom.

As I strip off my pajamas and step under the blisteringly hot spray, I start my mock-interview questions back up. Practice makes perfect, right? And I mean, no one’s ever been hurt by being too prepared. I think.

“What are your strengths?”

“I am a hard worker,” I tell my shampoo bottle as I start to lather up my hair. “And I’m punctual and dependable. I’m willing to take charge, if the situation arises. I’m a fast learner and I work efficiently.”

“What are some of your weaknesses?”

“I’m a bit of a perfectionist,” I say, leaning back and rinsing out the suds in my hair. “And I’m also a student at uni, so I’d have to be able to work around my class schedule.”

“Where do you see yourself in five years?”

Doling myself out a generous amount of conditioner, I start to work the product through my hair before I answer my own question. “I will have graduated uni with a Bachelor’s degree in art theory. I hope to be working full-time as an art therapist and maybe, I’ll be settling down and starting a family.” And then I turn around and rinse my hair out for the final time.

I spend the next ten minutes lathering up my body and reciting the facts about The National Gallery that I’d looked up last night online. And then as I shave my legs, I rattle off the minor accomplishments that I’d achieved while working at my job and doing volunteer art shows at school.

By the time I pull on my underthings, the clock on my nightstand table reads 7:45. Really, I know I’m being a bit ridiculous. The latest that I can leave my house for the station and still be on time is 9:45. So I have two hours to kill before I can head out.

All around me I can hear everyone else waking up for the day. Next door, someone flushes their toilet and outside, I can hear the garbage truck rumbling through. A quick glance out the window as I wriggle into my skinny jeans yields me the view of Albert, the owner of the Food Centre across the street, sweeping his stoop.

Before I head towards my vanity, I make a mental note to stop and see Albert on my way back from the interview. He’s a sweet elderly man who reminds me of my own grandfather, the one who passed away when I was younger. He always tries to pawn off sweets to me free of charge and though I put up a huge fuss every time, secretly I adore the attention.

I’m just finishing up my makeup when a knock sounds on my front door. Placing the cap back on my eyeliner, I frown as I start to make my way through my bedroom and to my front door. It’s just after 8 in the morning, who is already at my house?

A look through the peephole yields me the view of three familiar shadowy figures so I hurry to undo the locks and open the door. A burst of humid air hits me as I do, but I pay no attention as I look at my three best friends in bewilderment.

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you,” I begin, stepping aside so they can enter. “But what are you guys doing here so early?”

“We’ve come to help you get prepared,” Jeanette explains, closing the door behind her. “And we’ve brought a good luck breakfast because we’re just that amazing.” She holds up two brown paper bags before she heads off to the kitchen, Raina in her wake, murmuring about brewing some tea.

Amanda smiles at me gently and sets her bag on the ground. “On a scale of 1 to 10, how nervous are you right now?”

I make a face and shrug before I start to walk into my bedroom. As much as I love my friends, I’m not about to parade about in a bra and jeans. “I’m about a 6 right now, but as soon as I realize that I have to leave, it’ll probably skyrocket up to an 18.”

“Nonsense,” Amanda laughs, sitting down on my unmade bed and watching as I start to brush my hair out. “You’ve been interviewed before, so that shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Are you anxious because it’s, like, a professional job?”

I pause and pull another face as I smooth my hair out. “I don’t know. I think so. I mean, this isn’t even the actual interview. It’s an interview with Professor Harris and the rest of the art department to weed out the candidates that they think are good enough to pass on to the actual gallery for the real meeting.”

“She just barely made the deadline, did she tell you that?” Jeanette announces from my doorway. “So if she gets this internship, I demand half of her compensation.”

Both Amanda and I speak at the same time, though mine are cries of protest, while Amanda has no idea what our friend is even speaking about right now. “How did you manage that?”

“She didn’t sign out of her email account on my computer and when I went to go check my email, I saw what was in her inbox. She was on a train to Essex and the email said she had to schedule an interview time before 3 o’clock, otherwise they’d assume she wasn’t interested,” Jeanette grins at me in the mirror. “I saved the day.”

“She did,” I admit begrudgingly as Amanda rises up from my bed and takes the hair pins out of my grasp.

She gently pulls the top part of my hair back and slides the clips into place. “Your hands are shaking far too much for this to end well. You look perfect, don’t worry.”

“Albeit a bit underdressed,” Jeanette muses thoughtfully, eyeing my bare midriff pointedly as I stand up to pull my shirt on.

I flip her off just as Raina’s voice drifts out of the kitchen. “The tea’s ready! Come on or it’ll get cold.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe we should all just live together?” Jeanette asks as we troop towards the kitchen. “I mean, we’re always at each other’s houses. It’d just make more sense to all split rent and bunk together. Cheaper too, I expect.”

“You’d get on my nerves,” Raina remarks dryly, already nursing her tea greedily. But her eyes are twinkling merrily, so Jeanette takes no offense as she hurls herself into a chair and rips open the to-go breakfast. “Or Amanda would go insane from cleaning up after all of us.”

“I’m not that messy,” Jeanette protests absentmindedly, scrutinizing the wrapped sandwich in her grasp. “This is a bacon and egg,” She announces, sliding it at me and diving back into the bag. “A cinnamon roll,” And that sails over to Raina. “And another bacon and egg,” She places that next to the bag and then pulls out the last container. “And waffle bites for ‘Manda.”

As Raina doles out the tea, I unwrap my breakfast and take a bite, just now realizing exactly how ravenous I’ve been all morning. “Where did you get this?” I ask through a mouthful of food, even though I know it’s rude. But these are my friends. “This is amazing.”

“There is this tiny diner across the street from me,” Amanda answers, drizzling syrup all over her food. “And they serve the most heavenly food ever. They’re open 24-hours, as well. So it’s amazing when you’re up late studying and you get food cravings.”

“I thought I was the only one who did that,” I laugh, wiping my face with a paper napkin. “Exams are the worst.”

Amanda laughs. “Oh god, I know. I gained nearly 10 pounds my first year at uni. I was that stressed out over finals.”

“Well at least it was just food,” Raina points out, standing up and walking towards my pantry. She rummages around on the shelves before she turns around with the sugar in her grasp. “Do you remember Hank from our orientation course?”

“The one who smoked like a chimney?” Jeanette asks as she bites into her sandwich. The egg yolk explodes and I watch in amusement as it splatters all over her greasy wrapper. “Wasn’t he the one who sat near the window during the testing just so he could smell the smokers outside?”

“Yes!” Raina cries out, her eyes wide. “Oh my god, I sat next to him and he just kept fidgeting and fidgeting. He had to beg the proctor to let him go outside to smoke after he turned in his exam.”

This launched a lengthy discussion of our first few years here in London together. We spent the next hour laughing and recalling our memories, both the good and the bad ones. Our breakfast was long ago eaten and Raina had brewed a second pot of tea before we moved into the living room to continue our tryst down memory lane.

Amanda starts suddenly and turns to me. “You need to go! It’s nearly 10 and you still have to get to the station.”

Immediately my heart leaps up into my throat as I sprint into action. Hurriedly, I pull my boots on and grab at my purse, doing a quick double-check to make sure that I had both money and my resume for the interview. And then I glance into the mirror as Amanda practically shoves me out of my own front door.

“You are going to do fabulous! They will love you,” She insists as I stumble down the small steps and rather ungracefully regain my composure. “Don’t be nervous.”

“Good luck!” Raina shouts, her face popping up over Amanda’s shoulder. “Remember to keep steady eye contact.”

“And don’t fidget too much, you’ll look like you’re jonesing for a fix!” Jeanette hollers, cupping her hand around her mouth so that her words travel after me in the street.

I duck my head and ignore the curious looks I was surely garnering before I hurry around the corner, rushing towards the tube as quickly as I can in my heels. The entire time I scurry down the street, I curse myself.

How could I have been so stupid? I knew I had to leave 10 minutes ago and now I’m going to have to race through the tube and it’s always crowded and awful during lunch hours. I could hail a taxi, but that would be an astronomical waste of money and I have no idea how bad traffic is this morning.

By the time I reach the Camden Town Station, my stomach is in knots. I’m convinced that I’m going to be late for this interview and I’ll singlehandedly ruin any small chance I’ve got at getting this internship. The entire time I rush through the turnstiles and clamber onto the closest carriage, I can’t help but imagine the look of disappointment on Professor Harris’ face once he realizes I’m late. Or the look on my friends’ faces when I tell them I couldn’t even make my appointment on time.

The digital clock on my mobile reads 10:17 and my heart sinks. I have four stops until I get to school and on a good day the ride takes me nearly 40 minutes. There’s no way I’ll be able to ride all the way to Goodge Street and still make it across campus to the offices where I need to be at 11 o’clock.

Finally, after the most painfully long pause, the doors shut and we rattle away from the dock, on our way to the next stop. I can’t stop my feet from tapping anxiously and I can’t refrain from checking and rechecking my mobile’s clock every minute or so.

Eventually, the tinny voice on the intercom announces the Goodge Street station and I nearly cry in relief. My clock reads 10:51, which means that I have nine minutes to get off the train, make it onto campus and arrive at Professor Harris’ office.

Hours later, I’d look back at the next ten minutes of my life and wonder how I made it through in one piece. I don’t remember taking the steps two-at-a-time out of the station and I don’t remember rushing down the street as quickly as I could in heels. I won’t be able to recall dashing across campus and foregoing the elevator in favor of the stairs.

But I will remember, in painstakingly vivid detail, nearly bursting through the door to my professor’s office and realizing that I’m five minutes late for my interview.

Thankfully, I’m alone in the room and I take my last few seconds of freedom to use the camera on my phone to check both my hair and my makeup. Just as I turn my phone off, the door opens and Professor White, another art theory teacher, emerges.

“Bryn Matthews?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at me. I nod, since words seem to have failed me, before he beckons me forward. “Very well then. Let’s get started.”



The clock in the belfry down the road chimes 15 past the hour just as I round the corner and my apartment comes into view. On a normal day, I’d pause and listen to the deep, soothing chimes, but today, the friendly old time-keeper does nothing to soothe my stormy nerves.

My entire body aches and I can’t help but want to collapse into bed as soon as I get home and have myself a good gut-wrenching sob. And then I’ll order a pizza and pick up a pint of ice cream across the street and I’ll watch Titanic and have myself a miserable wallowing evening of self pity.

Because I deserve it. Especially after the day I’ve managed to have so far.

I unlock my front door and step into the cool foyer, thankful for the privacy of my own home. My purse gets dropped to the floor and I toss my keys on top before I unzip my boots and kick them off. That’s when my nose starts to sting and my eyes begin to well up with tears.

“Bryn?”

I take an unconscious step backward as I look up to see Amanda’s concerned face peering at me from over the back of the sofa. “What are you still doing here?” I ask in a wobbly voice, taking a few steps forward.

She pauses the television and sits up on her heels. “We all stayed to hear how the interview went. Are you okay?”

I shake my head, the tears overflowing finally. “No.”

“Oh sweetheart,” She croons, scrambling up and hugging me tightly. “What happened? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I was late and the questions were so hard and I kept stuttering and I couldn’t calm myself down. They thought I was so stupid,” I sob, holding on to my best friend tightly. “They hated me.”

There’s a soft touch on my arm and then I hear Raina’s voice. “Did they actually say they hated you?”

“Well no,” I admit in a small voice, still nestled in the crook of Amanda’s neck. “But they were all probably thinking it. I couldn’t answer any of their questions properly and I’d practiced so hard. I really thought I had a chance at this.”

“You still do, darling,” Amanda replies kindly. “You have no idea what they were thinking about you. You said so yourself, you were so flustered. They could probably see that and your resume speaks for itself.” She pats my back reassuringly and then pulls my head away from her body. “Will it make you feel better if I get you some ice cream?”

I nod and allow her to steer me to the sofa. After collapsing unceremoniously into the familiar soft cushions, I inhale sharply and then shudder as I struggle to stop myself from crying. I really am being a huge baby over all of this. I should just gather my wits about me and go out for another internship.

Or, you know, nurse my wounds in private and never try out for another internship again in my life.

Jeanette comes out of the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea, which she hands to me with a sympathetic smile and then sits down next to me. “The National Gallery is for losers anyway.”

Despite my angst-filled mood, I laugh and the tension in the room slowly begins to slip away. “Thanks.”

“This is what friends are for,” She shrugs while Amanda slips out of the apartment with her purse. “You’d do the same for me. Now, shall we watch an episode of Sex & The City?”

When I nod, she and Raina begin to bustle around the living room, setting up the recording and bringing out a few snacks from the kitchen. I enter my bedroom and change out of my interview outfit (which I feel sure that I won’t wear again for a long time without flushing in embarrassment), taking my time.

“Bry,” Raina’s voice drifts into my room. “Your mobile’s ringing. Shall I answer it?”

“Please,” I call back, unpinning my hair and combing my fingers through the locks hurriedly. I pick up an elastic and then twist my hair up into a knot at the top of my head just as Raina appears in my bathroom doorway.

“It’s for you,” She holds out my phone. “They didn’t want to leave a message.”

Frowning, I take the mobile from her and bring it up to my ear. “Hello?”

“Miss Matthews.”

An explosion of butterflies swarm up in my stomach as I recognize the caller on the other end of the line. “Professor Harris, how-how are you?” Raina’s eyes go wide and she flaps her hands excitedly, squealing for Jeanette to come and listen.

“I’m well, Miss Matthews. I was just calling because,” I hear a rustling of papers on his end and then the soft click of a door closing. “Well, it’s a little early to be making this phone call, but you’re in. Your resume is outstanding and I am more than confidant that you’ll flourish at The National Gallery. We are definitely forwarding your information to Mrs. Parks, the coordinator at the gallery who will conduct the interviews.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, disbelief seeping throughout my body. “I-I can’t—I appreciate your phone call. Thank you for this opportunity.”

“You’re welcome,” Professor Harris clears his throat. “Well done today, Bryn. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint.”

I disconnect the call in a daze and turn to my friends, still completely shocked and overwhelmed. “I got it.”

Raina shrieks and then flings her arms around me in a bone crushing hug. “You’re not serious!?”

“No, I-I am,” I stammer, slowly drawing my own arms around her. “That was Professor Harris and he said I was outstanding, that they’re definitely forwarding my information to the coordinator at the gallery to schedule the real interview.”

“Oh my god!” Jeanette screams and grabs me up in another hug. “You did it, Bryn. I knew you would! Oh my god, wait until Amanda hears about this!”

And then the sound of the front door closing brings us all out of our celebratory hug. It has to be Amanda coming back from Alfred’s store with the snacks. And she has no idea that we’re celebrating now instead of lamenting.

Raina grabs my wrist and pulls me forward into the living room where Amanda is taking off her shoes. “Amanda!”

“Hey Bryn,” Amanda turns and holds out a stack of mail. “I got your mail; I hope you don’t mind. The post master was just putting it in your box, so I took it from him. Why are you getting a letter from the Ham Polo club? Isn’t that, like, a professional polo club or something?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, taking the slender envelope from her and glancing over the return address idly. “But that’s not… important,” I trail off as it all clicks together in my mind.

My heart begins to beat rapidly in my chest and I look up at my best friends, my mouth hanging open a bit in shock. It’s almost like I’m moving in slow motion as I start to tear open the paper and then I speak.

“Harry.”