The Swap(16)

12


low


Even though Freya had personally vouched for me, it took almost ten days for Jamie to offer me a job. She was probably too busy—walking through the forest with Freya, going for coffee with Freya, having dinner with their husbands—to think about her business. On the other hand, she may have been waiting for more applicants, but that wasn’t going to happen. A rumor had circulated through my peer group that Jamie would be a tyrant to work for. She’d told a previous applicant that he wouldn’t be allowed a lunch break, would have to clean the toilet twice a day, and she would dock his pay by the minute if he turned up late. I’m not sure who started it. . . .

My first day on the job was a Tuesday. We were into July now, and the tourist season was in full swing, but weekdays were relatively quiet—perfect for training purposes. Not that there was much to learn. It was a gift shop, not an ER. But Jamie took me painstakingly through my duties: dusting merchandise, gift wrapping on request, using the till and the credit card machine. Had Freya not mentioned that I was intellectually superior to most seventeen-year-olds? I could have figured out these mundane tasks on my own.

I would work a couple of days a week and most weekends. Jamie chuckled as she gave me my schedule. “So I can have a bit of a social life.”

With Freya. I tasted the acid of jealousy, but I forced a smile. “Works for me. I don’t have a social life.”

“If you ever have plans with your friends or family, just let me know. We can always work something out.”

“I never have plans.”

“Well, you might one day.”

“I doubt it.”

Jamie gave me a quizzical look before changing the subject. “Let me show you the kitchen. It’s tiny, but it has a kettle and a microwave.” She smiled. “And I always keep cookies in the cupboard, so help yourself.”

The job was meant to be a reconnaissance mission, an opportunity to monitor Jamie and Freya’s friendship, but I kind of enjoyed it, too. The store was a visually pleasing space with whitewashed plank floors, high ceilings, natural wood countertops. Even when it was full of customers, it still felt serene somehow. Jamie had curated a great selection of products, I had to give her that. I spent a lot of time dusting or wiping shelves. It gave me a chance to handle these beautiful objects.

On my third shift, Freya came into the store. “Hey!” she said, her face lighting up to see me there. “How’s it going?”

“It’s good.” I smiled at her. “Thanks for telling Jamie to hire me.”

“I didn’t tell her to hire you. I told her that you’re smart and creative and a hard worker. She made the decision all by herself.”

Jamie emerged from the bathroom then, her purse in hand. Her expression was dour, but she brightened when she saw Freya. “Hi, you.”

“I see your shop assistant is working out well.”

“She’s been great,” Jamie said, and I blushed a little.

“Do you want to grab some lunch?” Freya asked.

“Sure,” I said at the precise moment Jamie said, “Sounds great.”

No one spoke for an awkward moment. And then, Jamie turned to me.

“Do you mind if I go this time? I’ve been eating hummus sandwiches behind the counter since I opened. I’m dying to sit down and eat a proper lunch.”

Bitch. She was possessive of Freya. Already. But I had known Freya longer, I knew her better. I had saved her from loneliness and depression. All the time we spent together in the studio, the night when we drank red wine and smoked a joint together, she hadn’t even mentioned Jamie.

“I fired some of your pieces,” Freya said to me. “Come by the studio later and you can glaze them. I’d love to hear about your first week on the job.”

After they left the store together, I returned to my dusting, picking up one of Freya’s bud vases. It was a simple design but deceivingly hard to produce. It had a narrow base, a tall sleek neck and a delicate opening like the petals of a flower. She’d used two glazes—one sage, one denim—to re-create the color of a stormy sea. It was exquisite. And then, somehow, it was on the floor, smashed into five clean pieces.

Oops.





13


jamie


Freya and I liked the restaurant in the Blue Heron hotel. It offered harbor views and a good-size menu, though the food never quite lived up to the scenery. On weekends, the eatery was packed with tourists, but the midweek-lunch trade was sparse. Only three other tables were occupied; Freya and I easily got our favorite spot by the window.

When we’d ordered salads and iced tea, I said, “I hope Low isn’t angry with me.”

“It’s my fault,” Freya said. “We’ve spent so much time together over the last few months, that she thinks we’re BFFs. I enjoy her, but she’s just a kid.”

“She’s barely said a word since she’s been working for me. I’m not sure how to make her feel more comfortable.”

“She’ll open up.”

Our drinks arrived.

“But you can tell her anything. She’s a great listener.”

Suddenly, there was a crash behind us, a plate and cutlery falling to the floor. I turned in my seat to see a child, about six months old, perched on its mother’s lap. The baby had a fuzzy blond head, a pale green onesie, and a wide toothless smile—evidence of its delight in the noise and mess it had created. The mother, in a loose-fitting dress and Birkenstocks, looked weary as the father, his long brown hair threaded with silver, bent to retrieve the carnage.