She didn’t need Aisha to list the reasons why now was the right time: she was single, renting, not tied down and she was desperate to do something different and leave London behind even if it was only temporary.
‘You’ve always wanted to run a bookshop; this is absolutely perfect.’
‘I have authors who rely on me – I can’t just give that up.’
‘Talk to Esther; there might be a way you can take a break, get your authors looked after by one of the other editors for a little while. It’s worth the ask; after all, the worst she can say is no.’
‘I guess you’re right. Anyway, what are the chances that I’d actually get it? Hundreds of people... thousands will apply, I’m sure.’
‘Well then, don’t worry about the logistics. If you get it, then it’s meant to be and I’m sure you’ll work something out.’
Freya swiped her phone so the tropical island image reappeared. She stared at it, wondering about the what-ifs and the life-changing opportunity it could hold. The butterflies in her stomach was a feeling she hadn’t experienced for a long time. ‘I might just go for it.’
‘Attagirl. I’ll miss you.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Freya laughed. ‘I said I’d apply. No guarantees, remember. It’s a long shot.’
‘I think they’d be foolish not to snap you up.’
‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty of people who will fit the description of what they’re looking for.’
‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we.’
~
Freya knew what had been stopping her from making a change in her life for so long – the fear of the unknown, of starting over somewhere new, even if deep down that was what she craved. Plus, she loved her work, both her colleagues and her author clients. In many ways that one constant in her life had been what had kept her going over a difficult couple of years. Part of her thought she was foolish to want to give that up to risk everything to start up on her own, whether in publishing or running a bookshop.
Just after six, she said goodbye to Aisha, Esther and a couple of other colleagues still in the office. She took the stairs two at a time to the ground floor. Even with the promise of spring, it was still beginning to get dark before she left work. It was cold too, but at least it wasn’t raining.
Freya set off at a brisk pace, leaving behind the narrow road clustered with buildings for the open space of Vauxhall Gardens. The trees were beginning to bud, but in the dusky light there was little colour besides the glowing lights from the coffee shop on the corner. She was tempted to stop and get some dinner, but it was about to close, so she marched on beneath the avenue of trees to Vauxhall Underground Station.
The Tube was rammed with commuters. She stood close to the doors, gripping a pole as more people squeezed on. It was the same routine five days a week. The people who were sitting were either staring at their phone or had their nose in a paper or a book. Hers was tucked into her bag, a novel she was reading purely for pleasure rather than for work. It was a different mindset reading for enjoyment rather than with her editor hat on. The woman sitting further down wearing a smart dove-grey coat, tights and heeled boots was reading the latest psychological thriller by Bloom & Cole’s star client Mia Jacobsen. Freya smiled to herself; she always liked to see one of the books she was so familiar with out in the wild.
The commute gave her time to think, but also the time to realise how much she disliked it. The Tube rattled along, her shoulder continuously knocking into the man next to her. The heating warmed up the carriage but also the smell of stale sweat. Freya wrinkled her nose. The lack of fresh air amplified everything. Her mind wandered to the picture of the white sand beach backed by a forest of trees. She imagined the warmth of the sun on her shoulders and the sound of the ocean. The train clattered on and the image faded as she stared along the carriage at the sea of people instead.
Once she got off the Tube, it was only a ten-minute walk back home, the easiest part of her journey. The sky was cloudy and threatened rain, the air damp and chilly, although her route home was well lit and the rush hour traffic still lined the streets.
The flat she shared with her friend Jazz was on the top floor of a Victorian terrace. It was a nice enough place with a kitchen, bathroom and living room, and their own compact double bedroom each. Hers looked out over the garden that belonged to the ground floor flat. Jazz also worked in publishing and they’d worked together when Freya had got her first job in London. She liked that they’d managed to remain friends even after they’d stopped working together. Jazz wasn’t home yet, which Freya wasn’t surprised about. It had been a few days since she’d last seen her properly, apart from a quick hello over a cup of tea and a slice of toast in the morning.
Freya switched on BBC Radio 6 Music, opened the kitchen cupboard and stared at the contents. If only she’d stopped somewhere and got a ready meal. She grabbed a bag of fusilli, filled the kettle and switched it on. She went into the bathroom and found a hairband, pulled her long wavy caramel-coloured hair back and twisted it into a messy bun. She leant on the sink. Her skin was pale – or
