Stand-In Saturday (Love For Days #2) - Kirsty Moseley Page 0,9
choosing one away from other people. Don’t get me wrong; I love people, and normally, I use the journey to chat with random strangers, but today, I’m too damn tired. I have just under an hour on the train; I could either sleep or use the time constructively to put some finishing touches to my illustrations before my meeting. I decide that, as appealing as the first option sounds, I need to get more work done.
Settling back in my seat, I sip my coffee and stifle a huge yawn as I watch the scenery whizz past the window. My lack of sleep is my own damn fault. As usual, I’m behind with my deadline. Every fortnight, I vow not to let this happen again, and every weekend before my meeting, I’m left doing a whole week’s worth of work in two days. I suck. It’s my own fault though—always is.
Instead of working last week, I binge-watched a Netflix true-crime drama about innocents on death row. It wasn’t even particularly good. I just got invested, and I’ll admit, I’m also a lazy sod at times. Working from home is hard. Staying self-motivated when you’re squirrelly is harder. I’ve often thought about hiring an office space with strict work hours, even considered getting some form of a boss and taking a proper job rather than freelancing (my publisher is always trying to put me on the in-house staff list), but it’s all too … grown-up for me. Working from my bed is a perk of the job and one of the reasons why I decided all those years ago to become a book illustrator instead of going down the more generic and dependable income route of some sort of design field.
I sigh and run a hand through my hair as I pull my sketchbook from my briefcase and open both packets of biscuits, starting to draw.
I’m lost in my work, so I don’t hear Amy until she stops at my side and reaches out, stealing my last biscuit. “Sharesies,” she states, biting it in half, dropping crumbs down her train uniform.
“Rude,” I mumble, looking up at her as I pull my pre-purchased ticket from my pocket.
She points an accusing finger at me. “You almost didn’t make it again.”
“I had two minutes. Don’t be dramatic.”
She rolls her eyes and takes my ticket, punching it.
“How was your hen party? Did you wear a veil covered in condoms and have to do shots from some oiled-up stripper’s belly button?”
She taps the side of her nose and narrows her eyes. “The first rule of hen night is—”
“We don’t talk about hen night!” we both say at the same time, laughing.
Hopefully, she had a stripper, so at least one of us got to see a professional strut their stuff in a G-string because Jared had strictly forbidden strippers from his stag night. Party pooper.
“How’s Jared?” I ask.
She chuckles. “Still hungover. He barely got off the sofa all day yesterday.”
“Excellent.” I grin proudly.
He was absolutely wasted Saturday night; hell, we all were. I performed my best-man duties perfectly and made sure he didn’t call it a night until he was singing karaoke and dropping pieces of his kebab down himself on the way home.
“I’d better get on; we’ll be arriving soon.” She glances over at my sketchbook and smiles. “Those are amazing, Theo.” She affectionately pats my shoulder and moves on to the next passenger.
Ten minutes later, we pull into the station, and I pack all my belongings, heading out. It’s mid-August, the height of summer, and today is a beautiful, sunny day. It’s much hotter here in London than back home in Cambridge, almost stifling with the lack of breeze. I take a slow, leisurely walk to my publisher’s office.
The receptionist beams up at me as I step in. “Theo! I was just thinking about you.”
I grin. “All good things, I hope?”
“Of course.” She chuckles and slides me a visitor’s badge across the counter.
I clip it on my breast pocket. “How’s your daughter? Did she get her A-level results back yet?”
I always chat with Donna, the receptionist, on my visits. She’s a lovely lady, a mother of five girls … yes, five. Her eldest sat her exams a couple of months ago, and Donna couldn’t be prouder of her and loves to boast and brag about her achievements.
“Not yet. She picks them up this Thursday.” She chews on her lip, her shoulders tightening.