The Spare Bedroom: A totally heartwarming, funny and feel good romantic comedy

by Elizabeth Neep

  ‘Sam mentioned you have two weeks before you start.’ Jamie’s eyes searched my face. It was her turn to look a little awkward. So Sam had managed to fill her in but I was still none the wiser? I wonder what else he had said about me. ‘You don’t think you could just…’ Her sentence trailed off as I filled in the blanks. Jamie was asking for my help.

  But I couldn’t, could I? I had a job at Art Today Australia, apparently. Wouldn’t working at CreateSpace be a little too close to home? I looked into Jamie’s desperate eyes and tasted the irony. This was all a little close to home.

  ‘Never mind.’ Jamie shook her head, thinking she was asking too much which, given that I was currently sleeping in her spare room, seemed a little rich. But what else could I do? I had told them I had a job and it wasn’t like I’d be any help to this Tim guy, either. ‘I’m sure you could do with a bit of space before starting at Art Today.’ She beamed. A little space seemed exactly what we all needed. Not that any of us were going to get that here. I needed to get a job, a proper job, a permanent job, to actually start living my lie.

  ‘Yeah, I’d best get over to the office actually,’ I said, placing my knife and fork together and thanking Jamie for the food. I needed to get out of here. The sooner I could get a job, gather a deposit and be on my way, the better. Sam and Jamie’s break-up was none of my concern, I tried to convince myself again and again.

  ‘But I thought you didn’t start for two weeks?’ Jamie asked.

  Oh shit, that’s right. That’s what I had said, what Sam had said. What she had just said.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, thinking on my feet. ‘I just need to pop down this morning to iron out the details.’

  Details such as the fact that I wouldn’t be working there at all.

  ‘Well, when you’re done you can join Tim and me for coffee.’ Jamie looked hopeful and for a moment I felt even worse; she was trying to be my friend. ‘He just needs a bit of support, you know how hard break-ups can be.’ A sadness caught in Jamie’s smile. ‘Plus, I try to get by with the art chat but he’ll love being around the real deal.’ She smiled again as I gave her my excuses and shame filled my stomach; right now, it felt like there was nothing real about me.

  6 November 2018 – London, England

  Gazing blindly at my photocopies, I tried to ignore the loud heckles echoing from the other side of the office. A gaggle of women had started to gather around my colleague’s monitor, each one pristine in Prada and with more money than sense. I knew better than to go over there. There was only so many times you could be told ‘for editorial eyes only’ without punching someone in their editorial eye.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I heard one of them cackle over her computer.

  Whether it was a press release about a new sale, images of the Tate’s latest curation or a ‘there’s celery and dips in the communal area to celebrate my big five-oh’ email, I knew it wasn’t anything my simple PA brain could handle. This time I had a horrible feeling they were laughing at an email from me. Once again I had passed on some suggestions for strengthening this month’s issue and once again I had been ignored. Seeing them all gathered round and sniggering at the screen made me nostalgic for their silence. Maybe now was the time to stop trying to be heard. I plugged my headphones in to drown out their noise.

  I checked the time – quarter to twelve – before returning the Post-it covering my computer clock. It was meant to make the day go quicker. How was it not lunchtime yet? Screw it. I reached into my bag and grasped the Tupperware, cursing the fact that I was now the kind of girl that owned Tupperware. I unclicked the lid: celery and dips. Well, if you can’t beat them… I crunched down on the tasteless stalk. Kill me now. It was Zoe who suggested I start to eat better. Zoe, who I’d watched eat three Happy Meals back-to-back on more than one occasion. She’d read that a clean diet could improve your mood. And, well, mine had been sporadic at best since the break-up, maybe even since moving to London. I looked across at them, still laughing and joking, covering their sniggering mouths with hands heavy with diamond wedding bands. I looked down at my own bare, celery-clutching hand before I saw an email from Devon Atwood, Lady Devon Atwood, editor-in-chief of Art Today ping into my inbox. I had emailed her my comments on the latest issue too, suggesting an unknown artist for our ‘ones to watch’ slot.

  I clicked open the email.

  Editors. Now.

  Why she couldn’t just email them directly was beyond me. But that was Devon – once an inspiration but after years in the industry, now just an imitation. I knew better than to think she’d give my suggestion a look-in; the layered abstract brushstrokes were far too original, the artist far too anonymous to warrant occupying the pages of her magazine. I took one last wistful look at the print-out pinned beside my monitor, savouring the artist’s blue – a hue so deep and unique that I’d never seen it before and doubted I’d see again. Certainly not in the pages of Devon’s magazine, anyway. And here I was, thinking Art Today would actually care about art. Striding across the room to gather her editors, I said, ‘Devon needs you in the—’

  ‘Midday meeting. Same as every Tuesday. We know.’ Mary-Anne, features editor and leader of the tribe closed down the window before I could see. Well, if they knew, why did I have to bloody come and get them every time? Reluctant to follow any instructions, never mind mine, the ladies dragged their heels as they followed me across the office.

  ‘Sit,’ Devon demanded. Her editors obeyed as I followed suit, parking myself a little behind, poised to take the minutes. ‘I want to look at the February issue again. Something’s not quite right.’ I didn’t need to write that down; it was the same as always.

  ‘But we’ve already sent the magazine to print,’ Mary-Anne rebutted. More fool her – but she had a point. Devon returned her best Hitler impression. No ’tache though – I should know; I booked her hair removal appointment last week. ‘But we can call them up and halt the print run,’ she recovered. ‘Can you put your finger on what’s troubling you? Which section?’

  The Modigliani feature needed more personal reflection. The main editorial wanted more text-free images. Oh and, the ‘5 minutes with Maria Le Fenora’ was trying too hard to be witty – she just wasn’t funny. I looked at Devon, willing her to recall my email, though I was sure she hadn’t even opened it. Devon watched as one of her minions flicked through the mocked-up pages of the issue, print-outs from our competitors splayed across her desk. There was once a time, years ago, when Devon had had a vision of her own but decades of criticism and comparison had undoubtedly taken their toll. The rest of us watched her expression with bated breath. The spreads pressed on. Good, good, good – Modigliani feature. Right on cue, Devon held out a hand to halt the turning pages. The silence thickened as she moved her face further forward and fingered the print-out, comparing the copy to a similar feature from the art pages of Vogue Australia.

  ‘More images?’ the art director questioned even though the gallery stock photographs dominated the page. Devon didn’t even bother to shake her head.

  ‘The piece could do with more history, explanation of the rich heritage the artist—’

  Devon raised a hand and I shuddered. Personal reflection; the piece needed more personal reflection. We didn’t pay that journalist to regurgitate Wikipedia, for Christ’s sake.

  ‘What does he think?’ Devon asked, eyes darting again to the other examples around her.

  ‘He likes it,’ Mary-Anne said, a hopeful smile pinned to her pretty face. She had more chance of convincing me that celery and dips were a treat.

  ‘Where does he say that? There’s no opinion. No reflection.’ Devon picked up the sheets to thrust them in her face. Hate to say I told you so.

  ‘This is why I have to call these meetings,’ Devon continued, now in full flow. ‘I can’t trust any of you to spot such simple things.’

  I could. I can. Just check your inbox, it’s all there.

  ‘I did.’ The words were out of my mouth before I could stop
them. Instantly, everyone at the table turned around. Steely eyes looked me up and down. For a split second, I missed being invisible.

  ‘Jessica.’ Devon said my name like a threat. ‘Please don’t interrupt.’ She scribbled the notes I had noticed onto the page and sighed. ‘Next.’

  I stared on, silencing my anger, my mind drifting back to Freshers’ Week where we had all arrived, young and ambitious, knowing we were going to do something great, were going to be something great.

  ‘Next.’ Devon waved a hand again. The sheets before us moved on, displaying something new as I desperately longed for something new myself.

  Chapter 7

  2 August 2020 – Sydney, Australia

  I could do this. I could do this. I looked up at the iconic Art Today plaque above the doorbell, the same one that had stared down at me as I cleared all my things from the UK office. I never thought I’d come face to face with it only weeks later, thousands of miles away.

  Though I guess it wasn’t the most unlikely face-off I’d had over the last twenty-four hours. It hadn’t taken me long after talking with Jamie to decide that I was actually going to head to their offices and ask if there were any jobs going – after all, it wasn’t like I got fired from my last one. I might actually be able to make this lie come true before anyone realised it was a lie in the first place. And for once, I wanted to do what I said I was going to do.

  So what if I didn’t love my job at Art Today? Things could be different here. I needed things to be different here. I reached my hand to the doorbell and buzzed. A muffled voice crackled through the intercom, ‘Yes?’ The clipped and uninterested tone must be mandatory across the globe.

  ‘I’m here for Hannah Sommers,’ I said, before I could fully register the insanity of what I was saying. Hannah Sommers, editor-in-chief of the magazine, was notorious – if Devon hadn’t spent so long obsessing over what she was doing and turned her attention to our own financial situation I might still have my job. There was no way she was going to have time for me, but I had to try. I had told Sam and Jamie I had a job here.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ The voice on the end of the line crackled.

  ‘No, I was… hoping I could have a quick word with her?’ I asked, knowing my hope was as slim as I imagined this receptionist to be.

  ‘You and everyone else, honey,’ the voice quipped before the line went dead. Crap. I turned to walk away from the imposing doors, knowing there was no second chance, knowing that I’d have to spend my afternoon looking for whatever menial labour this city had to offer. I sat on the nearest bench and rested my head in my hands. Maybe it was time to go home? Finally face the onslaught of questions as to why my Sydney dream had stalled? I took out my phone, clutching it in my hands, the messages from Zoe still demanding a reply. Not yet, not until I’ve sorted this mess out. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out my folded CV and studied its scanty lines. There was once a time when everyone’s CV boasted the same – the only difference being what GSCEs or A-levels we had anguished over. I dreaded to think how mine would compare to some of my classmates’ now. As I looked out into the swarms of strangers walking by, their figures blurred into a colourful hue of activity until my eyes locked on a figure more familiar than most. It was Sam’s friend, the one I’d thought was his housemate, the one I’d thought I would drunkenly hit on before I realised his real housemate wasn’t quite my type. I couldn’t help but take one last look at his ripped jeans, oversized T-shirt and the slight dimples etched in his cheeks, before looking away. But before I could, my eyes caught his and I knew it was too late. He was coming over.

  ‘Jess?’ He tilted his head, walking closer still. ‘It’s Jess, isn’t it?’ he asked again. I nodded as he came to sit down on the bench beside me. ‘It’s Joshua.’ He smiled to reveal a set of straight, white teeth. I knew who he was; I just didn’t imagine he’d remember me. I hoped to God I looked different from when he had first seen me at Sam’s – correction, Sam and Jamie’s. I looked down at the papers in my hand and wondered how to stash my CV away before Joshua could see it; too late again.

  ‘Job hunt?’

  Yes, for a job I told your friends I had.

  ‘Just firming up some things with my new boss,’ I said, even though his kind eyes made me want to spill my whole sorry story. Joshua looked down at the papers before locking his gaze back on me, brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of why my employer would want to see my CV after already offering me a job. Now it was his turn to shake his head. I could tell he didn’t believe me but couldn’t help but smile all the same.

  ‘Yeah, Sam mentioned that you were starting in a couple of weeks.’ He grinned, making his dimples even deeper. Who had Sam not told about that? The fact he was telling so many people about me had to mean something. My eyes darted from Joshua’s unwavering smile to his brown collarbone as I wondered what else Sam had shared about me.

  ‘Firming or firmed?’

  ‘Huh?’ I tried to hide my startled expression, tired of being caught in the act.

  ‘As in, are you going or have you been?’ he continued. ‘To see your boss?’ Oh right, yeah.

  ‘Been,’ I assured him, smoothing down my crisp white shirt, all of a sudden overdressed against Joshua’s laid-back Sydney attire. He looked every bit as cool as his photo, that damn misleading photo.

  ‘Sweet.’ Joshua smiled again; it really was a lovely smile. I tucked my CV away, attempting to strike the balance between protecting its edges and my feigned nonchalance.

  ‘Just chilling this afternoon?’ Joshua pressed on, in no rush to get anywhere. I looked out across the magnitude of people, all with somewhere to be, and nodded.

  ‘Just chilling.’ I smiled, wondering how far I’d have to commute for a barista job that was nowhere near anyone I needed to remember to lie to.

  ‘So, you can come to lunch?’ Joshua said, rising to his feet. It wasn’t like I could say I had plans after just telling him I didn’t.

  ‘With you?’ I gazed up at him, dumbfounded. Why would he want to go to lunch with me?

  ‘No, with Barack Obama.’ Joshua laughed. So Australians could do sarcasm, too. ‘Yes, with me.’ He smiled again. ‘Unless you’d still rather I was Jamie?’ He laughed at the memory, at the crazy English girl mistaking him for a cold hard stunner. Yes, I wished he was Jamie. Things would be so much simpler if he was Jamie. And Sam was just Sam.

  ‘And Sam,’ Joshua added, as if he had just read my mind. I looked into his piercing blue eyes again, scared by how much they seemed to see. ‘I’m heading over to meet him in Woolloomooloo now,’ he continued. Sam never used to get lunch, he never used to have the time. But then again, he never used to work in a surgery. He never used to live in Sydney. Jamie was right; things did change, some things at least.

  ‘Woolloo-what?’ I spluttered before I could stop myself. Joshua laughed loudly, placing a sun-kissed hand to his forehead in feigned despair.

  ‘It’s across town.’ Joshua smiled again, his eyes brighter in the midday light; the rest of Sydney remained grey.

  ‘Won’t he be a bit surprised I’m there?’ I asked. How the hell was I going to get a job by sitting around eating pancakes and going out for lunch all the time?

  ‘Not as surprised as yesterday.’ Joshua said, eyebrows raised. ‘In a good way, obviously,’ he added.

  Joshua beckoned to me to follow, back towards Sam. Maybe it was more obvious than I dared let myself think.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Jess.’ Sam’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘What the—’ he began, looking from Joshua to me with something like suspicion as we approached the tiny café they had chosen for lunch. The light grey awning highlighted the casual suit Sam had chosen to wear for work. He wore his shirt collar open and looked better here, more chilled, at ease.

  ‘Look who I found loitering around Art—’ Joshua seemed to stop himself upon seeing my stare, desperate for him not to paint me on the wrong side of their offices. I held his gaze, not sure how he cou
ld possibly know the truth about me, but sure he could see it, somehow.

  ‘And I thought Jess could join us for lunch, give you guys some time to catch up.’ Joshua explained as I looked across at Sam’s baffled expression, trying to work out what he was thinking. We already had time to catch up. Ample. I was staying at his. Unless he meant without Jamie? There had been so much he wanted to tell me. I looked from Sam to Joshua, unsure as to whether Sam was going to tell me here.

  ‘Perfect,’ Sam said, forcing a smile. Clearly, now wasn’t the time. He began to lead the way to our table, pulling out a chair for me as I tried not to look confused by his chivalry. He was either overcompensating for the situation or trying to impress me all over again. Joshua sat beside me. I looked around the intimate space, the bright flowers blooming against its exposed brick backdrop, a beauty in the brokenness I couldn’t even hope to achieve.

  ‘How’s your morning been, mate?’ Joshua beamed at Sam. I looked between them, Sam in his suit, Joshua in his worn T-shirt. It was as if the two sides of Sam had finally stopped wrestling, taking up residence in two separate bodies.

  ‘Yeah, good.’ Sam pretty much dismissed the comment, turning his attention to me.

  ‘How’s your morning been? Jamie said you’d headed over to the magazine?’

  They couldn’t stomach sleeping in the same room but maintained a constant stream of messages? I cast aside the thought. Sam would tell me everything, I was sure of it – just as soon as he had the chance.

  ‘Yeah, good.’ I matched Sam’s short replies, neither one of us wanting to give much away. ‘I’d say Joshua’s had the best morning of all.’ I looked down at his casual attire with a playful smile. Clearly, he wasn’t stuck in a surgery or an office. ‘What is it you do again?’

  ‘I’m a youth worker,’ he replied, his giddy smile clearly indicating that he thought it was the best job in the world. Before he could tell me more, the waiter interrupted. ‘Flat white and a club sandwich for me, please,’ Joshua said, as I picked up the menu I hadn’t managed to look at yet.