She squints up at me. Her fingers are shaking. “Are you using your teacher voice on me?”
“If that’s what it takes, then yes. This isn’t healthy. Come on.”
She looks down at the pages strewn around her and covers her face. “God,” she mutters. “I’m an absolute mess, aren’t I?”
Without even thinking, I drop to my knees and reach for her, pulling her into my arms. She’s stiff for a moment, tense and quivering in my grip. Then she tips closer to me, burying her face in my chest. I rub my hand over her back, trying to make soothing sounds as she shudders against me.
I wish she’d just cry, for God’s sake. This is almost worse. She’s just… tense and shaking in my arms.
“This isn’t just about clothes for you, is it?” I say quietly. “You’re trying to prove something.”
“No one ever thought I’d be good at anything,” she says into my shoulder. “But I am. I don’t need help.”
“We all need help.” She takes a little gasping breath, and I cup her cheeks. “C’mon, sweetheart. Breathe. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It is.” I look around at the papers scattered across the floor. They look like receipts. “Are you having money issues? We can help you.”
She cringes so hard I’m vaguely worried she’ll sprain something. “I don’t want your money,” she spits. “I… it’s not a financial issue.”
“Then what is it?”
She opens her mouth, trying for a few seconds to find the words, then runs a hand through her hair, frustrated. “I’m just so flippin’ stupid,” she spits out. “I’m stupid. I just need to be better at all of this. All of it. And it’s too much, and I can’t do it all—”
“Hey,” I say sharply. “You’re not stupid. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
She rolls her eyes, wiping her face, and I grab her wrist, pulling her hand down to make her look me in the eye. “I’m not joking, Layla. If I hear you saying this stuff about yourself again, all of this,” I wave between us, “this stuff with the podcast, it’s done.”
She looks up at me, breathing hard. “I just…” She looks down. “I don’t know what to do. I have so much that I need to get done, but I can’t do any of it.”
“You’re not in the right frame of mind to work. The more you try, the more you’ll struggle. And the more you struggle, the more you’ll panic. It’s a vicious cycle.” A few strands of hair are sticking to her cheek, and I stroke them away without thinking. “Do you want to tell me what’s upsetting you?”
She rubs her face. “I had a shipment of lace that was supposed to come in earlier this week,” she mumbles. “The company is saying I never ordered it. But I’m sure I did. And if I can just find the receipt, their customer service reps would have to take care of it, but I can’t, which means the entire release is going to have to be pushed back. And I’ve already booked promos, so I can’t do that.” She swallows hard and shakes her head. “And on top of that, there’s apparently something wrong with my email, but I don’t know what a DNS record is and I looked it up and nothing is making sense, so I don’t know what to do. And one of my favourite designers asked me to apply for a scholarship with her, but how the Hell am I going to win it when I can’t even answer a goddamn email?” Her mouth turns down. “I just want to get things right. And I keep screwing up, over and over and over.”
“You’re just overwhelmed.” I wave around the messy room. “I’ve coached thousands of students through their A-levels. Trust me. I’ve seen this more times than I could count.” I look down at the papers on the floor, reading through the dates. “What invoice were you looking for?”
“You won’t find it,” she mutters. “I’ve been looking for ages.”
“Humour me.”
She rubs her eyes. “S’from Pink Pearl Silks.”
I immediately spot the company name on a sheet half-hidden under her bed.
“The high-gloss lucent insertion lace?” I read aloud. “In shade 8793, thundercloud grey?”
She frowns, looking up at me. “Yeah? How did you…?”
I reach forward, carefully extricating the sheet and passing it to her. “Here.”
“It was right in front of me,” she says flatly, taking it. “It was right there. And I didn’t see it.”
“Well. It was under the bed,” I say charitably.
She shakes her head, dropping the invoice and tugging at her hair. “Jesus Christ. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I can’t think, or see, or breathe—”
“You’re tired. You’re overwhelmed. You’re human.” I reach up and untangle her fingers from her hair, twisting them with mine before she hurts herself. “But we can fix it. We have a tech assistant who helps with our website and email campaigns. We’ll have her look over your technical issues.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re refusing to accept payment for being on our show,” I say drily. “There aren’t really enough favours we can do for you. Until recently, I was pushing the others to pay you, but…”
She finishes the thought for me. “Now I’ve slept with Josh and Zack, it would be weird.”
A pang runs through me. “Right.” I drop my gaze and accidentally get an eyeful of white, soft-looking cleavage. Layla’s pyjamas are fairly skimpy. I quickly look away.
We’re both quiet for a bit. I keep rubbing circles on her back as her breathing slowly evens out, her body relaxing. Eventually, she leans against me and closes her eyes. “Thank you,” she says. “Sorry you had to come here. You can go, now. I’m fine.”
I frown. I don’t like the thought of leaving her alone like this. She looks so tired. It’s so different from her usual brash, bolshy personality that I’d stick a pin in my eye if I thought it’d make her feel better right now.
There’s only one way I can think to do that. I sigh. “Look. Do you want to go out?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Do you want to get a drink, or something? I know you’re meant to be having a date with Josh and Zack tonight, but I think you need some time off. There’s a pub in Battersea I’ve been meaning to try out, if you like.”
“I can’t,” she says glumly. “I have so much to do.”
I switch tacks. “The most productive thing you can do right now is take some time off. You’re too stressed to work anymore, and if you don’t give yourself a break, you’ll be in just as bad a state tomorrow.”
She hesitates. “I guess.”
“Great,” I say briskly, standing. “Take a scan of your invoice, send it to your supplier, then go get ready. I’ll straighten up your flat a bit, and when you’re ready, we’ll go out.”
She pulls a face. “I can’t let you do that.”
“Why not? You’d do it for us, if our situations were switched.”
“Well, yeah, but—” she trails off, her cheeks pinkening.
“But what?”
“If you see how gross my flat is, you’ll never look at me the same again.”
“You’re embarrassed because you’ve been working too hard to clean?” I say incredulously. “Christ, Layla. You’re my friend. I don’t care about the mess, I care about you.”
That startles her into silence for a few seconds. Her green eyes are wide as she stares up at me.
“Okay,” she says eventually, uncrossing her arms. “Thank you.”
