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“So, what did you do?”

Becka went quiet.

“Becka?”

“In my defence,” she started, reaching for the cup of tea and taking a slurp. “I warned them. I told them I couldn’t keep up. I was very clear. I said they needed to hire more people to cover the workload. They said they’d look into it, but then a week later they told me they didn’t have the budget.”

“Okay?”

“But then I saw the budget to market an artist’s campaign. Babes, it was obscene. They were throwing all this money away just to be able to say they worked on their new album.”

I reared back. Since when did the studio need to advertise like that? But then Becka answered my unspoken question.

“Ever since the Trevor Kyle court case came out, Pisces has been under-booked. Like, seriously.” She sighed, eyes pinching.

“So their solution was to throw money at advertising, instead of hiring people?” My lip curled. “What did you do?”

Becka laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. It held a tinge of hysteria.

“Well, see, that’s the thing…”

My eyes narrowed, not missing the way her voice trembled, or the wild look in hers. “The ‘thing’?”

Becka’s hands started shaking, and she put her cup down.

“I told them to shove it up their ass,” she whispered.

“You did what?” I breathed.

Becka cleared her throat. “I told them to shove their job up their ass, and I… and I left.” A giggle escaped before she clamped her lips shut.

I tried to stay silent, I really did. But my lips started trembling.

“Don’t,” she warned. “It’s not funny.”

I pinched my lips shut.

“Don’t do it, because if you start then–”

Laughter forced its way out of my mouth with the force of someone punching me in the guts – just one long stream of laughter that trailed off when I was left gasping for air but somehow still laughing. Tears ran down my face and I slid off the sofa, weak, and boneless.

“Stop,” I wheezed, “stop, I can’t! You told them – you said –” I whimpered, dissolving into hysterical giggles.

Becka was kicking me, but with no real force to it. I looked up at her through a film of tears. She was red-cheeked and sprawled out on the sofa, holding her stomach as she laughed. The sight set me off again, and soon we were both howling, clinging to each other.

I didn’t know how long it took us to calm down. My cheeks ached and my eyes were sore, but we were wrapped around each other when our laughter tapered off.

“What are you gonna do?” I asked eventually, because how could I not?

I felt her shrug against my cheek.

“You could always start your own PR company,” I commented lightly.

Becka sighed. “It doesn’t work like that, Ky.”

“Freelance, then,” I insisted.

“In what,” she scoffed. “Social media? Client relations?”