No matter how long I stared at the words, they wouldn't change.

Describe, in 500 words or fewer, why you would be the ideal candidate for this position.

The screen had been static for at least ten minutes, but still no brainwave had hit. If this were a staring contest, I'd be losing badly.

Waiting idly for inspiration was useless. For every question I tried, but it hadn't struck once. The usual process involved me eventually getting bored, and resorting to typing a bunch of half-coherent drivel with a few big words thrown in. Something about how group projects had given me valuable teamwork skills (though they'd made me want to die at the time). Something about my self-motivation and inherent desire to succeed (or the fear of an ass-whooping from my mother if I flunked). Just something, because something was better than nothing – and nothing wouldn't get me a job.

"Wait, come back here!"

I looked up from the laptop screen. The noise was distant, somewhere downstairs, but it'd been loud and urgent enough to travel all the way to my room.

Mum's voice. And of the three other people living here, I'd have bet my life savings that it was directed at my one-year-old half-sister.

"Daisy! Leave the dog alone!"

Then came movement, which surely meant she'd gone after her. Dragging my attention (slightly unwillingly) back to the laptop screen, I read the question for what had to be the fiftieth time.

... why you would be the ideal candidate for this position.

Because I'm poor, I've got a finance degree, and you're hiring, I wanted to type. Why couldn't I tell the truth? It was, after all, the reason ninety-nine percent of graduates were out looking for a job. But in a world dominated by bullshit and firm handshakes, that just wouldn't fly.

So what did I have to offer, in these vague business terms? I was qualified, but then so were the other hundred graduates applying for the same job. I needed something different. Three years of university careers advice had told me more than enough times about standing out from the crowd – it just so happened their advice hadn't stretched so far as telling me how.

"Daisy!"

Another shout from downstairs, which sounded a little more panicked. I paused, waiting for something more, but only silence followed. Was that a good sign, or did it mean she'd gone and strangled the dog?

Deciding I should probably investigate the potential crime scene, I pushed my chair back from the desk. The answer box onscreen sat mockingly empty, but at least downstairs I wouldn't have to look at it.

A few more frantic shouts emerged from the kitchen as I padded down the stairs. They didn't sound too upset – nothing on the scale of a murdered dog, at least – so that had to be a good sign. But when I pushed open the door, that didn't stop me being greeted by a somewhat chaotic sight.

Simply put, the kitchen was a mess. Washing up was stacked in the sink, and a set of muddy paw prints trailed from the back door across the room. Mum's laptop was set up on the kitchen table, abandoned among a sea of papers and bridal magazines. A chair in front of it looked very much intended to be sat in, but in fact it was empty – because the woman in question was instead darting across the room, in pursuit of a rapidly crawling one-year-old, whose outstretched arms were very close to our cowering Spaniel, Max.

"Uh..." Words failed me at first; so many questions immediately crossed my mind that I didn't know where to start. So I chose what seemed like the overarching concern. "Everything okay in here?"

Mum didn't answer at first. Finally closing on Daisy, she scooped her into her arms, sighing with relief when Max seized the opportunity to escape and legged it outside. Blowing hair out of her eyes, she turned to me. "Oh, just dandy," she said. "Can't you tell?"

I moved to take Daisy myself, whose legs were still flailing after finding the floor gone from beneath them. "Where's Howard?"

"Gone sailing," she said, moving back to the kitchen table and her abandoned laptop. "It wasn't planned, but then the weather picked up and a couple of his mates rang – I couldn't play the evil fiancée and force him to stay in with this devil child."

She said it affectionately, but I jigged Daisy on my hip anyway. "Aww, don't say that. How can you resist this cute little face?"

She was cute. I'd never been big on babies – up until a year ago, the sight of a misbehaving child in public served as a sudden and severe reminder to take my birth control that evening. When Mum told me she was pregnant, I'd been so relieved to be away at university – and have the excuse to hold my baby sibling at the arm's length of a Skype call. But when she was born, my mind changed faster than expected. That first visit to the hospital, when I'd got a glimpse of those ever-so-soft tufts of blonde hair and Mum and Howard's glowing faces, something shifted.

Over one year later, and I still wasn't vying for a baby of my own – but I did admit I had a soft spot for Daisy.

"Not so cute when she's terrorising Max," Mum said, her lip curling into the smallest of smiles as she shook her head. "I really thought we were doing okay on that front. Not a lot of interest in him for a whole year. And now suddenly all she can see when she looks at him is a tail she wants to yank."

"Poor Max," I said to her, pulling a funny pouty face. "I thought you were friends.

For a moment she just stared at me, completely wide-eyed, before breaking into a loud set of giggles.

"And she thinks she's hilarious," Mum said. "Definitely not lacking in confidence, this one, I swear."

I stuck my tongue out, which only caused Daisy to laugh harder. "She takes after me."

Mum peered at me over her screen, studying my face with a kind of amused look. "Hmm. Maybe you're right about that one."

Readjusting the toddler on my hip, I moved closer to where she was sitting, plonking myself into the chair beside her. There was an Excel spreadsheet up on screen, rows and columns of numbers and pound signs all blending into one another. "Whoa, uni coursework flashbacks," I said, peering at the screen. "What are you working on?"

"Wedding finances." She pulled a face. "The least fun part."

"The most necessary part," I corrected her.

"Necessary, yes. Bloody terrifying? Even more so."

"Oh, come on. It can't be so bad," I said, leaning in for a closer look. "You've been planning this out forever. Surely you can't have run into any major disasters. Only manageable ones."

"To be honest, I'm not so sure." Her face crumpled into a frown, and she clicked to scroll through the page of numbers. The further she went, more red characters seemed to appear on screen, and I could feel the sense of positivity slipping. "I really thought I was sticking to budget. But then I keep remembering all these extra things that we need. Flowers for table decorations, not just for me. Bridesmaid shoes, which are turning out to be as expensive as the dresses. And – not to mention – do you have any idea how expensive bridal lingerie is?"

I pulled a face. "Ew, Mum. I don't need to hear about that one."

"Well, it is," she said. "And that got me thinking. If I'm going to be wearing these tiny strips of fabric, I could do with losing a few pounds. But once you add the cost of a gym membership... oh, God. I can just see it. This wedding's going to bankrupt us."

"Mum, chill. I'm sure it's not that bad. You were sensible with your budget."

"And I was definitely not sensible by going over it so much," she said, shaking her head. "What was I thinking? I just got carried away with the excitement of it all, thinking you only get married once – even if I am an older bride than most. But if I don't figure out ways to cut down, we're screwed."

"Cutting down is easy," I told her, trying to inject optimism into my tone. "Here, do you want me to have a look at your spreadsheet? I'll see what I can do."

For a moment, she just stared longingly at the screen, clearly considering. Then she pushed the laptop in my direction. "Oh, go on, then. It's worth a try. Put that finance degree to good use, eh?"

"Exactly," I said. "Consider me your in-house accountant. Switch you a toddler for it?"

She reached over to take Daisy back, who was starting to look put-out about being transferred from person to person without being trusted on the floor. Still, for an easier life, we did what we had to do – and Max was likely eternally grateful.

"Okay, let's have a look..."

I clicked through the spreadsheet, my eyes flickering over the fields and associated numbers. Wedding dress... non-negotiable. Same for the venue, since that was already booked and paid for. But all these other things? There had to be room for movement...

"Hold on. Why have you budgeted two hundred quid for shoes?"

"I don't know," she said. "I haven't bought them yet, and I didn't really know what the going rate was. I thought it was safer to go higher."

"We're going down to seventy-five," I told her, editing the number on the spreadsheet. "And that's optimistic. In fact, you know what we could do? That big charity shop on the other side of town? I had a friend from school who used to find the most amazing vintage shoes in there, and she'd pay practically nothing for them. I can put in a call and see if they've got anything worth looking at."

"Okay," Mum said, though I could tell she was wary now I had full control of her spreadsheet. "That could work."

I scrolled further. "And jewellery? You know I've got the world's biggest collection upstairs. I'll bet you your budget I've got something up there you'll like."

"Okay," she said, a little more confidently. "Get rid."

The number was deleted from the spreadsheet, and I watched as some of the red disappear. Progress. Now, what else?

"You've put down a grand for transport," I said. "Is that booked?"

She shook her head as she continued to bounce Daisy on her hip. "Not yet. I don't really have an idea of what I want. Nothing too over-the-top, but nothing too... budget either, if you know what I mean."

"Right," I said, pausing for thought. "Do you know anyone with an unusual car? One of Howard's friends, maybe? Surely someone's got something quirky."

"Uh... I'm not sure. I don't think so."

"No one at all?"

"I can check with him," she said, "but I don't think so. It's never been mentioned before. His lot tend to be more into boats than cars – which is the case with a lot of people around here, actually."

"There's got to be something we can do." By this point, the numbers had wormed their way in, and I was determined to find a fix. "There's no way I'm letting you pay a grand to sit in a fancy car for ten minutes."

"Sydney," she said warily, "I know you've got the best intentions, but there's no way I'm getting the 104 bus to the church."

The mere thought brought a smile to my face: my mother, kitted out in her white dress and sky-high heels, squashed beside her dad at the front of a double-decker. If nothing else, she'd turn a few heads. "Okay," I told her through the grin. "Nothing too budget. But there must be some alternative."

"Like what, though?"

"Hmm." I lapsed into silence as I disappeared into my own train of thought. There was something: the faintest hint of an idea I knew I had within me, if only I looked hard enough. And then, after a few seconds, it hit me. "Wait, you know who has got a vintage car?"

"Who?"

"Owen's dad."

For a moment, she peered at me curiously. "Owen as in...?"

"As in my ex, yes," I said, brushing off what she was thinking. "I just remembered. That classic thing he always kept in the garage? He spent pretty much every weekend out there, tinkering with it. Don't you think that could work?"

"Sydney." She frowned. "That's all very well, but we can't go assuming he's willing to help out."

"But it's an option," I pointed out. "It has to be worth asking, right? Of course you'll pay him, but I'm willing to bet he'd settle for a lot less than a grand."

"I hardly know him well enough to go knocking on his door asking for a favour."

"You don't need to," I said. "I can just mention it to Owen."

The look of confusion crossed Mum's face instantly. "Hold on. You're still in contact with Owen? I thought you hadn't spoken to the kid since you left for university."

"We stayed in contact." I shrugged. She didn't, after all, have to know exactly how much contact. "Not to mention it's a little easier now he's working at the arcade."

"He is?" Mum frowned. "Wait, why didn't you mention this before?"

"I didn't think it was important," I dismissed. A little white lie, since the main reason I hadn't told Mum was because I hadn't felt up for facing the inevitable questioning. There didn't need to be anything dramatic about Owen's few shifts, and I hadn't been about to let Mum create it. "It's only as and when Greg needs an extra pair of hands. But, still. I could always mention it to him – see what kind of reaction it gets."

"And you don't think it'd be cheeky to ask?"

"Of course not," I said. "Look, I'll be completely subtle about the whole thing. If it's not an option, we'll go down the original budget route."

I could tell she wasn't one hundred percent convinced, but she was willing to let me try. If we could get it sorted, it'd be a big help with the budget. "Okay."

"And if we adjust this number here..." I clicked through the spreadsheet, making a couple of alterations, before pressing enter. The change was instantaneous, and suddenly the figure at the bottom of the page looked a lot easier to work with. I turned the laptop back to face Mum. "How about this?"

Her jaw looked about ready to drop. "Wait, how did you do that? Does that add up?"

"Of course it does," I said. "Now, I'm not saying this is the final figure, but it's a start, right?"

"It's a lot better than my bottom line, that's for sure." She looked like she was struggling to believe her eyes; in the disbelief, she'd stopped jigging Daisy up and down, and the small toddler now looked entirely disappointed. "You're a miracle worker, Sydney. The twenty-seven grand for your degree was completely worth it."

My own face mirrored her newly-formed smile. "Hold the applause," I said, getting up from my seat. "I know I'm incredible."

"Really, though." I heard the click-click-click of the laptop behind me as I moved toward the kettle, flicking the switch ready for a mug of coffee. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"Please."

I took two mugs from the cupboard, setting them down on the counter. A teaspoon of coffee was heaped into one, a single teabag in the other, and I leaned back against the worktop as I waited for the kettle to boil.

Mum looked up at me. "Have you got much planned for the afternoon?"

"Not really," I said. "Just filling out a couple of job applications."

"For anything interesting?"

"A couple of placements in London," I told her. "Still, I'm not holding out a lot of hope. There are a lot of applicants."

"Still worth trying."

"Yeah, I guess." I smiled weakly. "So, all in all, a really wild day planned."

No sooner had the words left my mouth, like some weird sense of irony, a sound echoed through the house: the doorbell. Both Mum and I looked up, exchanging questioning glances.

"Are you expecting someone?" I asked.

"Nope. Are you?"

I shook my head. "I'll go see."

At the end of the hallway, I could see a figure behind the frosted glass, their silhouette too broken to really make out an identity. I could tell it was someone tall, but in the absence of any other clues, that didn't really narrow things down.

When I opened the door, I recognised the face, but that didn't make things any clearer.

"Owen?"

Of course it was him: one of the few people that towered over me so much, today's choice of polo a mint green, which really didn't match his blue flip-flops. A colourful beach towel was rolled up under his arm, sunglasses perched on his head despite the regular glasses on his nose, and only once my gaze had flickered over all these things did it meet his own.

"Hey," he said casually, like this encounter was totally planned. "The weather's great today, and I wanted to see what you had planned. Fancy the beach, for old times' sake?"

"Uh..." In all honesty, I was lost for words, and ended up having to snatch the first options that came to mind. "Sure."

"Cool," he said. "So how about now?"

------------------

Hi, everyone! Really sorry about the lack of upload last week. I'm still getting into the swing of this full-time job thing, and when so many hours of my day are taken up with work-related writing, usually the last thing I want to do when I get home is write my own book. It's going to take some getting used to, so bear with me! I think I'm going to like the job, but I still feel like I'm in the adjustment period right now.

Oh, and if any other full-time workers have any genius tips about how you fit in writing around everything else, please feel free to share in the comments :-)

- Leigh