If she was being honest—and when wasn’t she?—Elena allowed these talks because there were no witnesses. Because it was novel having someone not dislocate their spine in a craven need for her professional approval. It was rare being occasionally teased. It was especially different being talked to like a real person by someone who seemed to have no agenda beyond boredom.
If Madeleine was doing this in some misguided attempt to keep her job, she had to know by now that all Elena cared about was hard work and clear-cut results, not cooking and chit-chat. In fact, she was fairly sure Madeleine was not only well aware of that, but she didn’t particularly care for her job in any event.
She also tolerated Madeleine’s friendly overtures because the woman was honest about herself. It was irresistible, like a breath of fresh air after decades of enduring every acquaintance she’d ever had lying to suit their agendas. What agenda did this curious Australian have? Or was she, as her blog often suggested, merely lonely and lost? Did Madeleine actually even know why she did half of what she did?
“Why do you waste your time trying to know me? I won’t be here in two weeks,” Elena asked. “Shouldn’t you be looking for a new roommate or some such thing?” She’d heard the entire Simon-returning-to-Sydney story by now.
“Sofía’s heard all my stories. And she’s stopped laughing at my jokes.”
“So I’m…fresh meat?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
“Oh, how would you put it?”
“Like…you’re here and I’m here, and it’s nice to have company sometimes. Don’t you think?”
“I see.”
Elena should really stop encouraging Madeleine by engaging with her. It wasn’t fair. This rapport thing they shared was transient. She had to keep reminding herself it would be over soon. They’d each move on, and that would be that. No point forming attachments that would make the process messier.
Madeleine crossed the news room and offered her tray of treats to the fifty-something cleaner bustling past with a trolley full of dusters, cloths, and buckets. Even from her desk on the opposite side of floor, Elena could see how much the woman’s face lit up. She gave Madeleine an engulfing, happy hug, exclaiming with delight.
Elena certainly understood the woman’s reaction. Madeleine created food that could make the gods go weak at the knees. She sighed and slid her gaze back to her folders. Distractions were something she did not need this close to deadline on two critical deals.
* * *
Two nights later, a chai latte appeared, steaming, on Elena’s desk. She didn’t even bother to lift her head. “I am fairly sure I recall you telling me you weren’t my PA.”
“I’m not.” Madeleine dropped into the visitor’s chair opposite.
Elena frowned faintly at the presumption, which only made the other woman laugh.
“If I just do it randomly, not an order or obligation, wouldn’t that make it taste better?” Madeleine asked. “Well, it’s a working theory.”
Elena reached for the cup and sipped. It tasted the same. “I’d keep working on that theory, Madeleine. Now if you don’t mind…” She gestured at her work.
“Hey, call me Maddie. I won’t tell. I mean, while I like that French way you say Madeleine, it’s not really a name I answer to.” She grinned.
What is she grinning about now? She did that a lot, now that Elena thought about it. Was Elena’s company truly so amusing? Unlikely.
The woman remained in the seat, which was not the one at her desk, where she should be working. Elena contemplated ordering her back there. Instead she cleared her throat and dropped her pen. “Tell me, why are you even here?”
The reporter frowned a little and folded her arms. “How do you mean? I work the late shift. Or do you mean the paper? It was the first reporter job I could find here.”
“I meant New York. You told me the day we met that you were ‘making the most of things’ here. It was a somewhat underwhelming endorsement of your life, if I recall.”
“I…guess it was.” Madeleine twiddled her fingers against her knee. “I really miss home. The beach, all my friends, the endless summer, double-chocolate Tim Tams, backyard cricket. It’s opposite world here, lifestyle wise. But the truth is, I can’t leave.” She looked up and gave a tiny scowl.
“Why?”
“I feel too guilty not to be here.”
A cautiousness entered her features, which Elena had not seen in a month. She found she missed the open face of the woman she usually conversed with. “Guilty?”
“Yes. I was originally studying to be a catering manager. I almost finished the course, before I admitted to myself I hated everything about it.”
“Then why were you doing it?”
“My parents have their own catering business in South Penrith, Party to Go. I was supposed to take it over one day. And I tried. But I just… It was pointless. I can cook, sure, but I can’t manage. I hate managing. Writing’s my passion. My parents were devastated when I dropped out and switched to a journalism degree instead.”
“So, how did you get from there to New York?” Elena asked.
“A year into my journalism studies, my uni friends were having a party, and we all got the genius idea while half sloshed to apply online for a green card in the lottery. The odds are so low that I went along with it.” She gave a shrug. “I’d forgotten all about it until almost two years later. My mates were at my place and moaning about the fact they’d just found out that they missed out. I admitted I hadn’t even looked on the visa site where they post the names. They demanded I check right then and there, so…” She shook her head. “I mean it was crazy. Only fifty-thousand people are chosen from all over the world and yet… I logged in and there it was. My name. Marked as eligible.”
“Oh dear,” Elena drawled.
“Yeah.” Maddie gave her a wry look. “My friends were screaming with excitement. Even my girlfriend at the time was so jealous, despite the fact she hates to travel. And my parents were all, ‘Well, I suppose if you’re going to turn your back on the family business, we understand at least if you go to New York. That’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity’. So I felt…” She bit her lip.
“Obligated?” Elena asked. Her brain circled back to girlfriend. Did she mean…? Yes, she was fairly sure she did mean it that way. That might also explain those Latvian lesbian music nymphs. Or not.
“Yes.” Madeleine slid deeper into her chair. “How could I tell them I didn’t want that dream? Who comes to New York and isn’t thrilled? Every day I felt like a fraud.”
“Do you still?” Elena asked, already aware of the answer.
A cloud crossed Madeleine’s face. She didn’t answer; merely shrugged. The helpless look said it all.
“I see,” Elena said. “You’re doing a job in a city the whole world wishes to live in, and you’re miserable?”
