In Another Life

“Paris,” I draw the word out as I print the five letters neatly in block lettering. “Has an extraordinary eye for color, and character in a piece of clothing, though it does seem to come across as outrageous and overwhelming. She works well with suggestions, and does her best to implement my tips. We discussed finding a properly fitted suit that accentuated her silhouette, and also embracing the ballet flat.” I speak to myself as I write out my notes.

Paris Grant is the latest client who signed up for a personal shopper, and as luck would have it, I landed her first appointment. It went well, I think. Her style borders more on the extreme, and she’d confessed that she had troubles discerning the appropriateness of some of her wardrobe. So we worked on that, and on toning down her pattern obsession. All in all, quite an easy customer and I can only assume that she’ll be a breeze to work with in the future.

I sign off on my personal notes in Paris’ file before I push away from the desk and place the beige folder in the ‘to file’ bin. Holly would be around to collect and then properly file later on in the shift.

The tiny analog clock on the desk tells me that it’s just past one in the afternoon. Mel left nearly 40 minutes ago to pick up lunch, and I hope that she’s back soon. I’m absolutely starving, and my rushed breakfast of granola and tea really did nothing to keep my stomach quiet and satisfied.

Since my next appointment isn’t scheduled for another hour or so, I sit back down at my desk and pull out my mobile. I click through the few SMS messages I’d received, and then proceed to check my email before I decide to do a bit of paperwork until my food arrives.

I shake the mouse to wake up the PC, and after the computer slowly comes back to life, I boot up the store’s network app. After providing my sign-in credentials, I diligently work for all of five minutes before I lose interest and open up an internet browser tab.

My Facebook app hasn’t worked for ages on my mobile (I think because I haven’t updated it in nearly a year, and my version is probably obsolete and is refusing to work on my phone—which is so my luck, I might add), so I type in the website address for the social networking site and then sign in, pausing momentarily at the password slot before I remember the nine characters successfully.

A few moments are spent scrolling through my newsfeed and scanning everyone’s updates. For the most part, I rarely do anything on this website. Instead, I use it to keep up with a few mates from back home and the odd family member. Other then that handful of people, I ignore everything else. I suppose I’m relatively inactive compared to some people, but I find no interest in the games or the features or the constant status updates.

However, I do have a few notifications waiting for my acknowledgement. So I click on the small red balloon in the upper left corner, and read through the five messages that Facebook has sent to me.

Mum tagged me in a photograph she uploaded, Aunt Tara liked the photograph I was tagged in, an old school chum invited me to play some stupid farm game (vehemently declined!), Liv liked my status update from a week ago, and Liv commented on said status from a week ago.

I make a humming noise in the back of my throat as I try to remember just what I’d posted a week prior. Honestly I wouldn’t at all be surprised if Jeanette used my computer for something at home and then wandered onto my account and posted something hilariously rude under my name.

Bryn A. Matthews: lovely night out w/ mates for yummy drinks and good food. finally have a lie in in the morning ! :)
Olivia Watson, Kieran Murphy, and 9 others likes this.
Amanda Connors stop updating ur status, slag!!
Amanda Connors its ur go at darts, come on then .
Bryn A. Matthews no one likes a pushy bitch ‘manda ;)
Amanda Connors but u luv me <3
Olivia Watson And why wasn’t I invited?!

Oh bother. It’s really quite awful of me to admit it, but I’d rather hoped that maybe Liv wouldn’t find out about any of this. It’s not that I don’t adore my cousin, because I do. I love Liv with everything that I am, and she’s one of my best friends, but I cannot bring myself to hang out with her.

The first few weeks I was so wrapped up in Harry, and our new relationship, that I quite simply ignored everyone and everything else. I’ll be the first to admit that I was a rubbish friend in that space of time. But then uni started back up and I started training for the co-op and Harry got busy with his own things and we slipped into a bit of a comfortable routine. I saw Amanda and Raina around school, and Jeanette lives with me, so they were all but impossible to ignore or avoid.

But those first few weeks, I was hesitant to commit to a date with Liv. Not because I didn’t want to hang out with her, but because I’m really, honestly, truthfully, not sure how she’ll react to Harry being my boyfriend. That sounds so incredibly childish, but I’m dreading the moment when I will have to tell her about Harry. There’s no telling just how badly she’ll freak out.

Liv, to be quite blunt, married up in the eyes of society. I mean, our family’s were both fairly well known back in Colchester, but we were nothing special when we both came to London. And then Liv falls head over heels in love with Phil who comes from “old money”, and has this wildly successful business, and is a genius playboy with ridiculous connections. And poor Liv was just thrust into all of that with no real warning. So the entirety of her marriage has been spent playing catch up, of sorts. She’s always trying to fit in, and to get people to like her.

There’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t think that what she’s doing is wrong at all. In fact, I’d be the same way and I know just how much she hates it when someone doesn’t like her. So I can’t even imagine how she’ll react when I tell her about Harry. What if she tries to use him to her advantage, or something? I won’t do that to Harry, and I wouldn’t let Liv embarrass herself like that.

But the longer I put off seeing Liv, the harder it all got. She became more and more defensive with each excuse that I gave her (and rightfully so). The last time we hung out was the weekend we went back to Essex for Mum’s baby shower. I went down early to help set up for the party, and then I was so busy playing the role of co-hostess that Liv and I didn’t spend any time together. I slept the entire train ride back to London, and in a sleepy haze agreed that we would have to have an evening together in the near future.

Perhaps I’m overreacting with all of this, and maybe I’m really overestimating Liv’s reaction. What’s to say that she really will freak out over my relationship with Harry? What if she is completely unfazed by it? As soon as this thought crosses my mind, I dismiss it. I know my cousin well enough to know that as soon as Harry’s name crosses my lips, she will begin planning a wedding.

I should just tell her the truth; nothing good can come from lying and dodging the reality of the situation. And maybe I might be able to get through the evening without spilling my secret to her, but I really wouldn’t want to wager anything on it. Liv has this uncanny sense when it comes to boys, and she’s able to ferret out information so easily that it’s a bit unnerving. I’ve never been able to keep any boy a secret from her for long.

“Earth to Bryn!”

I jump in my seat, slamming my knee on the underside of the desk and nearly shoving the computer mouse off of the desk in fright. “Holy shit.”

Mel starts laughing, nearly dropping the cardboard carrier in her hands. “Oh my god, I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you, but I’ve been calling your name for the past minute and you were just completely spaced out. It must have been a hell of a daydream,” She observes, handing me a large paper bag with a fish drawn crudely on the side.

“Yeah,” I smile to myself and then rub at my kneecap ruefully. “I was just thinking about the last couple of weeks. You needn’t have yelled.”

“I didn’t want your sushi to go dodgy,” Mel replies as she sets the drinks down on the desk and then begins to drag the ottoman over. “The streets are a bloody mess. I swear tourists get stupider each year or something.”

“I’ll agree with that,” I laugh and pull out my container of food before I dig out my boss’ plastic takeaway dish. “Though, to be fair, I’m sure I’d be just as awful if I were in a strange city. I probably was the first few months I lived here.”

“You seemed pretty savvy to me,” Mel plops herself down and sets out to unwrap her chopsticks. “You strolled in here looking all London-chic and I knew I had to hire you on the spot.”

“Bollocks,” I snort attractively, turning so I can see her properly. “You lost my application twice before I badgered you to interview me!”

“I did not,” Mel insists, trying to hide her smile. “I believe it was Holly who lost your resume both times, and I was behind the counter the third time you came in, and I hired you immediately, did I not?”

I pause, reflecting on my hiring three years ago. It’s all a chaotic blur honestly. “Actually that does sound about right now that I think of it.”

“See?” Mel gloats. “And I made up my mind to hire you as soon as you told me your name. You were dressed quite smartly, if I remember correctly. I recall thinking you’d fit in well with the other staff here.”

“Well,” I begin as I unwrap my own set of chopsticks. “I am pretty awesome,” I say absentmindedly as I run my fingertips along the edges of the cutlery. One of the first rules that Amanda imbedded into my brain when she introduced me to sushi was to check for the roughness of the chopstick. Satisfied with the provided materials, I turn my attention back to my boss. “So how’s the promo running?”

I’m referring, of course, to Mel’s efforts to win back some clientele that we lost to Harrods and Barney’s. Following the opening of their personal shopper department, our small store took quite a hit. Had we been a bigger store we might have been fine, but for a store that was built from the ground up by a single woman (with the help of her family, and husband occasionally), the effects had been devastating.

At our last store meeting, Mel had announced that if business didn’t pick up soon, she’d be forced to let some workers go. She had cried as she told us the awful news, and I knew that her grief was genuine and deep. Mel handpicked every single employee, and she prides herself on knowing both her staff and her customers like the back of her hand.

And so everyone in the store had a massive brainstorming session, and we all threw out ideas to increase business in an attempt to save our store. One of the ideas had been to send out an email advert for a free personal shopper appointment with the stylist of their choice, provided that the customers refer a friend. That had gone into affect just last week, and nearly every personal shopper in the store was feeling the pressure of new clients.

“Tonya is completely booked,” Mel announces with a hint of a smile. “Not that that is surprising, of course.”

Here I do have to laugh. Tonya dressed a popular American socialite for the premier of an American film here in London, and ever since her phone has been ringing off the hook. Tonya had even joked that she could probably go into business as a personal stylist, much to Mel’s horror. But Tonya was working to feed her baby, and she was as much a fixture as this store as Mel, so she’d more than likely never leave.

“Interestingly enough, you have been the second most requested stylist,” Mel continues around a bite of her avocado roll. “I mean, not that what you do isn’t good—”

“But I have shit hours, and so it’s hard for people to schedule with me.” I finish up for her. “That’s odd. Are you sure?”

She nods, going to reach for her bag. “Oh, I must have left the paperwork in my office. But you’re clearly in the second spot behind Tonya. You two have left Lonnie far behind what with your sudden popularity boost.”

As if the earth had decided to pointedly underline the last three words of Mel’s sentence, the computer starts to chirp cheerfully from behind me. I turn in the swivel chair back to my Facebook page to see that I had two new friend requests waiting for me to acknowledge.

“Jarred Fairthe?” I wrinkle up my nose as I mutter the name again under my breath. It doesn’t sound familiar to me, and apparently Facebook has deigned it important to let me know that we have no mutual friends in common. “Do you know him?” I ask Mel without turning around.

It isn’t unusual for customers to search for and add any of us on the social networking site. That being said, I very, very rarely accept any of the friend requests. Not because I don’t like the people, but because it isn’t quite the most professional relationship, is it? Plus I don’t want complete strangers knowing intimate details about my life.

Mel shrugs, popping another bite into her mouth. “Doesn’t sound familiar to me, but he might be a new client or something. I don’t know.”

I hover over the accept button briefly before I click on the decline button and move on to the next friend request. Really, this whole thing is quite absurd. I cannot even recall the last time I had a friend invite on this bloody website—that’s how infrequently I use it.

The next person, a Lacey de Proem (who apparently hails from Los Angeles, California, and doesn’t know the meaning of subtle eye makeup) gets declined, as well. She and I had no mutual friends in common, and I’m not even sure that this girl is of legal age. She can’t possibly be more than 13, and I doubt her parents would approve of her push-up bra and the (fake?) chest tattoos.

“Look at you all popular and in demand,” Mel teases, nudging me with her toes. “Who’ve you been rubbing elbows with to merit all these new friends?” Her tone is joking, and I know that there is no possible way that she could know of my newfound circle of acquaintances, but my heart still skitters in my chest.

I take a bite of my futomaki and smile sweetly. “Oh you know me, I only hang out with the poshest of the posh.”

“So Victoria Beckham then?” Mel inquires politely, before she rolls her eyes. “They’re probably just those fake people profiles who add randomly. I wouldn’t worry about it. I get it all the time. I think they’re called ghost accounts,” She adds on more to herself than to me.

“Don’t rain on my parade,” I joke. “I was really feeling genuinely popular and wanted! Just because you’re old and married and boring—”

“Hey,” She kicks at my foot lightly. “Just because I’m married doesn’t mean I’ve lost all of my fun-ness.”

“But you have apparently lost your grammatical skills,” I observe dryly, and dodge her second kick. “I was kidding!”

“I’ll dock your pay,” She mutters as she drops her trash into the empty takeaway bag. “Back to work with you, Your Royal Highness.” Mel executes a rather clumsy curtsy before her name is called and she hurries from the room.

She can’t know of Harry and I. But all the same, her words frighten me and I suddenly feel uneasy in the empty room. With a glance back at my open Internet page, I sign off and then stare thoughtfully at the desktop.

I need to talk to Harry.