A Leaving Season: Goodnight, Oliver

Chapter 8: A Freebie

Charlotte stood beside Alan, clutching a cardboard box with her name scrawled on the side. Her eyes stung. She blinked hard.

“Charlotte.” Alan’s voice was low. “Two words. That’s all I’ve got for you.”

Charlotte looked up.

“Hold on.”

Alan’s face was tired but steady. “You’re young. Hold on to your ideals. Hold on to your bottom line. Compromise after thirty. Not before.”

“Thank you, Alan.” Charlotte nodded, her throat tight. “I’ll remember.”

“Go on, then.” Alan’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Long road ahead. Who knows. Our paths might cross again.”

Charlotte’s eyes burned. Alan’s, too.

Other colleagues drifted over. They looked at each other. Forced smiles. Nobody spoke. What was there to say?

She carried the box past them. The office—so loud, so full, just hours ago—was now a wasteland of old newspapers and abandoned business cards. Desks cleared. Chairs pushed in. A ghost town.

Outside, Charlotte felt hollow. The sadness had burned off. What was left was something rawer: the scrappy, humiliated feeling of a survivor.

She got back to the flat, depressed. Amanda—her landlady and flatmate—was showing a young woman around Charlotte’s room.

“This room used to belong to a girl who worked in the City,” Amanda was saying, her voice bright. “Very tasteful. Very put-together. That’s why the room’s so nice. She just got promoted—moved to a studio in Canary Wharf. Two grand a month.”

The girl nodded, impressed.

“It’s bigger than mine, too. Better light. And someone who got promoted lived here. Some of that luck might rub off, right?”

“I’m not trying to rip you off,” Amanda added. “Same split as before. Rent half. Bills half. You’ll love it.”

Charlotte stood in the doorway, box in her arms.

“Amanda.”

Amanda spun around. “Oh—Charlotte. You’re back. This young lady really likes your room.”

“I’m not moving out.” Charlotte’s voice was flat. “Sorry to waste your time.”

The girl looked at Charlotte, then at Amanda. “Wait—is this some kind of trick to push the rent up? Because I know the market. This place is already expensive. I only liked it because it’s clean and has a private bathroom. And you said bills were split. If you’re raising the price, I’m gone.”

Charlotte almost laughed. The girl was sharper than she looked.

“I’m really not renting it out,” Charlotte said. She set the box down on the desk. It landed with a thud.

The girl sighed. “Unbelievable. Fine. I’ll look somewhere else.” She gave the room one last longing look, then left.

Amanda Clarke. Twenty-seven. Londoner. Charlotte’s landlady and flatmate. Admin manager at a local firm.

Amanda seemed easygoing. She wasn’t. She was calculating, sharp, a survivor. But Charlotte had always thought she was good at what she did—running an office, pinching pennies, making things work.

The two-bedroom flat belonged to Amanda. Her parents had helped her buy it. After she started working, she’d done a quick renovation and rented out the spare room. Someone else paid half the bills. She got extra cash. Win-win.

When Charlotte first moved in, she’d admired Amanda. Learned from her. Amanda knew how to survive a workplace. How to talk to people. How to get what she wanted.

Then Charlotte joined Tinsley. And she realized—Amanda’s tricks didn’t work in a real company.

Charlotte had once recommended Amanda for an admin assistant role at Tinsley. Amanda had the experience. She still didn’t pass the interview.

Charlotte told her it was the language requirements—English and French. She didn’t tell her that Alan had called her professionalism “barely existent.” She didn’t want to hurt her.

“With her style,” Alan had said, “she’d charm an extra free hash brown out of the café when she orders the team’s breakfast. But ask her to fight for the company’s interests? She wouldn’t have a clue.”

The words had stung. Charlotte had thought Alan was being cruel. Amanda was her friend. Her landlady. She’d always looked out for her.

But after six months at Tinsley, Charlotte understood. Alan was right. Amanda had that freebie mentality—all small wins, no real fight.

It had given Charlotte a quiet sense of superiority. She was building a career. A real one.

Now? Now she looked at Amanda—with her flat, her roots, her safety net—and felt something else.

Envy.

Amanda had a postcode. A property. A family who’d helped her buy in. If everything fell apart, she’d still have a roof. Charlotte had a cardboard box and a suitcase.

That was the difference.

And it terrified her.