Miles from Home - Max and Harvey Mills FanFiction

Miles from Home - CH 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

I scoot my swiveling leather chair back as I glance at the red LED clock mounted to the white wall of my small office space—2:51 p.m. and nine minutes to go before I'm off for the day. In a way, the white wall in front of me is the only real wall, since the rest of the three walls surrounding me are of clear glass from floor to ceiling—even my door behind me is made of glass. Outside my office, through all of the the panes of glass, the muffled sounds of phones ringing and indistinct chatter typify my day as Jen's newly-minted Production Coordinator.

I shimmy my chair forward, returning myself up to my desk with its clear glass table top. Beneath the triple monitors of my work computer and amongst my keyboard and mouse, piles of manila folders lie in several different stacks across my desk. I sigh as I slam my forehead onto my table with a resounding thud upon the thickness of the glass. I still find myself so distracted at work and I don't quite know why—although now, I think it's only getting worse, considering what Mother had to say yesterday. Instead of getting easier, it's been as if it's getting harder to keep up with coordinating between the head office, the eleven different P.A.'s that I supervise, and all of the different production schedules and related tasks for each of their assigned clients. My door behind me clicks and swings open.

"That'll leave a bump," Jen's voice rings out as I sit up and turn around. "You seem a bit distracted today. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah," I lie.

"Did you get the confirmation for studio time for tomorrow morning's big interview?"

"Uh, the one in Brighton?"

"No, not that one. That big one for Dalton—"

"Right, sorry. The one in Manchester—I'll get on that right now."

"Thanks," Jen says just before she leaves.

On my way out of the office, I've taken to a new habit of using an alternate route to exit the building. As I get down the hallway, near Mr. Ashford's office, I stop and linger at the empty conference room wall with its array of the dozens and dozens of autographed pictures—although, truth be told, there's only one that I stare at in particular. Max and Harvey smiling in front of a black background, their signatures signed within the white border in black pen underneath each of their respective likenesses—it's one of the photos we had taken on our very first official assignment at that photography studio outside of London. That emptiness hits my chest as I consider Max's smile—it's hard to believe that I was only a few feet away from him when this photo was taken, but I might as well have never have been there at all.

"You're welcome to take that one home with you if you'd like," Mr. Ashford's voice says from behind me, startling me into quite a conspicuous jump. "So long as you promise not to say a word to Mrs. Blakefield—doubt I'd hear the end of it."

"Mr. Ashford, I didn't realize you were still here," I say, turning around. He raises his thick cigar to the level of his eyes.

"Forgot my cigar." He squints, regarding the cigar quite intently. "I used to have such a terrible habit of practically living here. I suppose that's why my late wife passed away so young—couldn't bear the loneliness."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I—I never had the chance to tell her just how much I truly loved her—she passed so suddenly." He points the back-end of his cigar at the photo of Max and Harvey. "You go on—take that home with you."