Her phone vibrates. “Be safe, my dear,” she says before taking the call upstairs with the bedroom door closed.
I look up at the stairs, then turn away, closing the front door behind me.
* * *
I’ve been added to the house group chat, where Jo told me she left my key under the mat. I’m here alone until my interview at OTP this afternoon, but I have two messages waiting for me as soon as I’m connected to the Wi-Fi.
Jo
We want to go out for dinner tonight to celebrate you moving in! xxx
Cam
So don’t cook anything
Maddie
Sounds good!
Before unpacking, I venture around the flat. The utensil drawer gets stuck if pulled out too far. There are blank spaces in the food cupboards and an empty shelf in the fridge. I put the leftovers Mum packed into containers for me in there and the bright orange and red stands out among the yellow cheese, white bread, and pale pink wine.
I sit in the living room and look around, but nothing has changed since my first visit. I unlock the back door and step out into the garden. The gate opens up to the other side of the residential square. The garden furniture extends to a picnic table, three mismatched chairs and a mini barbecue in the corner. There’s a small tree beside it and weeds stick out from cracks in the ground. Our neighbors on the left have a garden obscured by a wall of leaves, but if I stand on my tiptoes, I can just glimpse the garden on our right—it looks like a plant haven, bird feeder included.
I go back inside and upstairs to pee; the toilet lid doesn’t sit exactly on the base, so I have to be careful. When I reach for toilet tissue, I notice a basket filled with spare rolls. We’ll split this cost, I assume. I won’t have to stand in the supermarket’s queue every week wondering if we have enough left.
Jo’s left her bedroom door wide open, and I poke my head around the corner. Her room is marginally bigger than mine; it faces the garden and comes with two different desks and a lava lamp I’m tempted to switch on, but don’t （what if it won’t turn off again?!）。 A tower of books sits on the floor beside her bed and in the corner is a clothing rack of colorful dresses.
I think of my own meager wardrobe. What if we go out and Jo comes out of her room in one of these dresses and I leave mine in jeans and a faded black jumper?
I online-shop for the rest of the morning, picking things I’d never wear and spending money I usually wouldn’t because I can reinvent myself here. Jo and Cam don’t know me and I can be whoever I want to be.
So … who do I want to be?
Someone cooler, more confident. Sophisticated, even? Effortless and kind of like, I don’t go to things, they come to me, you know?
I land on a page of pantsuits; surely nothing screams confidence more than a woman in a sunshine-yellow suit. But where would I wear a bright suit to?
Don’t overthink it, Maddie—manifest it.
If you have the suit in your wardrobe, an opportunity to wear it will present itself. I’m certain that’s how manifestation works.
Google: Where do you wear a yellow suit to?
To work
On a date
To a wedding
The theater
Around the house, like the bad, boss bitch that you are
Right. Add to basket then.
Okay, dresses. I already own a few, all loose and below the knee, but I remember what Shu once said when I arrived to her birthday party in a polo neck and jeans: “Can you whore it up a bit, Mads?” I think back to what Shu and her girlfriends were wearing that night and add some tight dresses and short skirts to my basket. It’s like they say, one man’s whore is another woman’s inspiration. Before I check out, I balk at the three-figure total but key in my card details anyway.
I turn away from the wicker desk. If I wanted, I could put a wall of fairy lights behind my bed, get plants for the window ledge, a large bookshelf, which I’ll assemble myself （once I’ve bought a screwdriver and one of those spirit-level things）， in the corner, and maybe even a beanbag chair—bright pink. I’ve never had so much space to fill. Looking into the mirror, I see that I’m smiling. I pull out my phone and in Notes type:
The New Maddie
Drinks alcohol when offered
Always says yes to social events
Wears new clothes
Cooks new food
Has different experiences （Travel? Brunch?）
Tries weed or cigarettes at least once （but don’t get addicted!）
Wears makeup
Goes on dates
Is not a virgin
I don’t know what will happen when Mum returns to Ghana, but I have a year at least, a year to find out what all the fuss is about.
I look at the last two items on my list.
Ben and I are still texting what I imagine are normal getting-to-know-you texts. He works in investment banking, and it’s a family affair with his dad on the executive board （I told him I work as an editorial assistant, which isn’t a lie, it’s manifesting）。 He lives in South London, his job is exhausting, and his passion is food.
We “talk” almost every day so is it weird he hasn’t asked me out on a date yet?
Google: How long do guys wait before asking a girl out on a date?
I don’t really have a time frame I abide by, but I like to befriend a girl before I ask her out. Sometimes finding out if you have a connection with someone takes a while, but it’s worth waiting to find out, I think. So about two or three weeks?
I spent four months getting to know my now-girlfriend before I asked her out on a date.
One hour.
* * *
The Orange Tree Publishing interview is in their Farringdon offices. There are books everywhere and the nonfiction department’s layout is open-plan, spacious but small enough so you can stand, call out a name, and have that person hear you loud and clear. Again, not a pair of jeans in sight, but I spot stripy tops and casual trousers.
I’m the only Black person in the room when I walk in but I don’t know for sure that there are no other Black staff members. Someone could be off sick or on annual leave. Should I ask?
No, of course you can’t ask. How would that sound? Do you have any questions for me, Maddie? Yes, would I be the only Black person you’ve hired? And if so, why is that?
No, I need this job and, to be honest, it looks likely I’ll get it. They need me. They need me here to appear at least semi-decent to the outside world. It’s easier to talk to others about how important diversity and inclusion is if you can wave a hand vaguely around the office and have me sat in the middle of it.
No, don’t think like that—you’ll get the job because you’re qualified.
* * *
Penny Reaser is in her midforties, tanned, with brown eyes enhanced by blue eye shadow. Her blond hair is cropped short and appears to be in no particular style. She offers me a seat, and I think of Katherine’s office at CGT, its clutter-free space and neat stacks of paper. Penny’s bookcases are heaving and each smooth surface is covered in colorful books. Her desk is piled high with book catalogs, stationery bits, and loose sheets of paper despite there being a tall filing cabinet in the corner. I think the cabinet is probably full. Katherine had a shredder under her desk. I might suggest Penny get a shredder.
We talk about OTP’s list （a variety of nonfiction, but my main focus will be on food and drink） and my experience, before going on to my role here.