…’ Poppy rapped on the door then stuck her head in, skilfully avoiding taking an eye out on the various clothes hangers hooked over the door frame. ‘How much of your own party are you planning on missing?’
Was all of it a wise thing to admit?
She normally loved a party, loved being the centre of attention—she had a lifetime of non-existent parties to make up for—but Congrats, you’re unemployed was not her preferred theme. Even if Poppy had typically gone with the more positive, Congrats, you’re out of the job that was draining your soul. There certainly was something to be said for spin. Izzy pushed back from the ridiculously ornate dresser wedged awkwardly between the wall and the single bed.
Single …
This was what she’d become—a half made-up pauper sleeping on a child’s bed.
The price of freedom.
‘Did I hear Tori’s laugh?’ Izzy quizzed, brightly. And by ‘laugh’ she meant the carillon of flirtatious bells that was their best friend’s weapon of choice. ‘How long has she been here?’
Poppy arched a single, elegant brow. ‘I think the more pertinent question is how long have you been in here? It’s just gone eight.’
‘Oh.’
The boxroom was too crowded for a clock and Izzy never wore a watch. ‘Time to come out, then.’
Why on earth had she thought being unemployed was worth celebrating?
Because that decision had been made two days ago. Today she’d changed her mind. Two days from now she’d probably feel differently again. Par for the course with her wildly swinging thoughts lately.
Wildly swinging, dissatisfied thoughts.
So dissatisfied that she’d even considered ringing her mum to talk things through. Until she remembered that she didn’t do that anymore.
‘Come on, Iz,’ Poppy urged, reading her expression and holding the door wide. ‘You’ll enjoy it once you get out there.’
She certainly wouldn’t without a champers in hand. One look at the thronging mass in their flat reinforced that. All friends, but somehow still overwhelming. Would it be rude to go to a movie instead? To reward the kindness of all their friends who’d rallied for her with her absence?
She paused in the doorway. They wouldn’t be the first kind people she’d abandoned.
But tonight was not the night to be thinking about her parents or her dysfunctional childhood. Tonight was a night for stoic smiles and fellowship.
She followed Poppy into the kitchen, keeping her eyes down until she had the familiar comfort of a glass in her hand. ‘Please tell me there’s Lanson.’
‘Dunno. Brother dearest ordered the booze.’
There was—thank God—and Izzy polished off her first glass while rinsing the used party glasses already accumulating in the kitchen. She took care of a second while chopping up a platter of out-of-season veg.
Their extended circle of friends fell like Brighton seagulls onto her choppings.
‘God, I love this stuff,’ a tall brunette cooed, scooping a big dollop of dip onto some capsicum and then shoving the lot into her mouth and speaking past the crunching mess. ‘Yours?’
‘Speciality of the man of the house,’ Izzy said. And, no, dip wasn’t an odd thing for a military man to be good at. No more odd than Alex’s weirdly nocturnal habits, anyway.
‘Tash, Sally.’ She nodded, extending the platter for their grazing pleasure. ‘Thanks for coming. Hi, Richard.’
‘Love the pauper’s catering, Izzy,’ he gushed, drowning a sprig of broccolini in dip. ‘Very on-theme.’
Huh. If being poor was so entertaining why hadn’t she smiled more as a kid?
She shuffled forwards through the crammed-in guests, keeping herself and the veg creeping steadily towards the far side of the bright, eclectically decorated industrial conversion. Guests greeted and commiserated and dipped the whole way.
‘So what’s next?’ one of her downstairs neighbours shouted over the music and chatter.
‘Not sure,’ Izzy hedged. ‘Consolidation period?’
The pretty face folded. ‘Oh, I assumed you had something already lined up.’
Nope. Not a thing lined up. Though reasonable that her friends would expect that, because that was absolutely what normal Izzy would do. The Izzy they all knew.
Corporate, clever Izzy.
Top of the class and best in her department Izzy.
But new Izzy, it seemed, was channelling her mother, all of a sudden. Choosing principle over plenty. New Izzy was all about the moment and dramatic, flourishing statements. And nothing about reality.
She paused against one of the apartment’s large windows and caught her breath ready for another pass with the half-decimated tray. The sea of people momentarily parted and she caught a glimpse of Tori’s distinctive tri-coloured hair. She was perched happily in a man’s lap, her ‘take me’ heels kicked back, his strong hands the only thing stopping her from toppling backwards onto the floor in front of all their friends. Not her boyfriend’s slim, pale, slightly creepy hands. These were strong, tanned, non-Mark hands.
Uh-oh … trouble in paradise? Already?
The throng closed in once more, ending her worrying Tori sighting, and Izzy pressed on with her vegetables back towards the kitchen. Appeasing the masses.
Ooh … perhaps waitressing could be her new job. Apparently she had a knack for it and maybe the café down on street level would hire her, then she’d have no commute costs. Of course there was the whole issue of zero appreciable waiting skills.
The only after-school job she’d managed never to have in her long, exhausting childhood.
The final stick of courgette disappeared just before Izzy hit the kitchen doors. Of course it did. Because she’d cut just enough for the size of the crowd she’d unconsciously counted, and she’d shuffled forward in subliminal accordance with the diminishing supply.
Quantities. Numbers. They were her thing. Estimates and value assessment and principles of return. Whether it was Broadmore Natále’s investments or a pile of crunchy veg, the theory was much the same. Leverage all available resources and minimise waste.
Yawn.
No wonder she’d left. Her job gave her a fantastic income and that gave her a fantastic, inner-city lifestyle, but there wasn’t much else to recommend it. Not the fiddly commute, not the irritating, God’s gift boss, not the groundhog-day workload.
Job security just wasn’t enough anymore. Who had she been kidding convincing herself that achieving budget was the kind of professional achievement she’d been craving her whole life?
