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Chapter 1: Introductions

But, you know, one must actually finish a novel before they can call themselves a novelist.

I have no hope of seeing my name on the spine of a book if I don't actually pen an ending to a story.

Instead of finishing the stories I start, I work between 30 and 60 hours a week, depending on how good or bad of a mood my boss is in, arranging and rearranging the personal life of a self-absorbed, overgrown teenager who more than keeps me on my toes.

Sarah McNay, PR consultant to the rich, successful and famous in the bustling city of Saint John, has been my best friend since we were at secondary school together, and I've been her personal assistant for as long as I can remember. Even in the days before I was her actual PA, I was organising her life for her, making sure that she didn't double book herself for dates, disposing of men she no longer had need or want for, and making sure that her hair appointment closely followed her nail appointment so that she would look utterly fabulous for whatever drink-fuelled event she had that night.

And she always does look utterly fabulous, too. Hair carefully coiffed into position, lashes longer than the line of besotted men she's always had eagerly vying for her attention, and teeth whiter and straighter than any I've seen before. In some ways, I envy Sarah, always looking the part, [almost] always acting the part, and somehow coming across devastatingly beautiful no matter the time of day. In others, though, I wonder how she manages to keep up with such an exhausting regime, and how she's done it for so long. I found it exhausting trying to keep all of her appointments in check in a diary, so I could only imagine how tiring it must be for her to have to flit from one salon to another, and then from one client to another, and then one bar or club or pub or restaurant to another, constantly feeling the pressure to look like something from a magazine cover.

Sarah is a high-maintenance character, that's for sure, and she takes up a lot (read: all) of my time, but I owe her everything. She has picked me up off of the floor after every truly heart-crushing breakup, offering me a bed to sleep in when I found myself packing my things and moving out of yet another lover's home, and even co-signing paperwork to make sure that I had a roof over my head when I was ready to rejoin the world and move out of the safety and comfort of her spare room. And then there's the whole guaranteed-job thing. A lot of people have a lot of negative things to say about Sarah, especially competitors in the business, but to me, she was loyal and always more than generous. In her words, I was the sister she never had.

It's actually all down to Sarah that I have this tale to tell.

"You should come out with me and the Escada Hotel girls tonight," she said, holding up two dresses in front of her: one bright pink, one navy blue, both very short and covered in sequins.

It had been her idea to open up a bottle of wine as we arranged her diary, and just like it always did when Sarah decided to pop open a bottle, it soon turned into one of those nights that would carry on until the early hours of the morning. If I went out with her, I'd end up rolling home at around the same time I should've been hopping in the shower to get ready for work, and then I'd be useless to everyone when I did eventually drag my fragile ass into the office. Sarah never suffered from hangovers, but she made sure that I more than made up for that. She also made sure that I suffered as much as possible, often being 100% more demanding than usual, for however long I felt like I was going to die for.

"I like the blue dress better. I'm not really up for it tonight, thanks though. I hope you have a great night. Just let me know if you need me to switch any of your morning appointments. Remember you have that 10:30 with that greasy club guy." I said as I held up a pair of the infamous Carrie Bradshaw Manolo Blahniks for her approval.