Chapter Twenty
DAVID
I sit behind my desk and glare at the empty seat where Amber’s arse should be. I’m not surprised she’s not here. I didn’t want to come in today either. I needed to talk to Emma and explain everything properly, or as best as I could. But she wouldn’t take the day off, even though I knew she was dying with a hangover this morning. Her eyes were practically falling out of her head, but she wouldn’t hear of taking a sick day. I don’t think she can bear to be around me.
I’m surprised she didn’t throw up last night with the amount she drank. I carried her upstairs sometime after four in the morning, and she didn’t even stir. I didn’t want to get into bed with her because I wasn’t sure how she’d feel about waking up beside me after everything I’ve done. Instead, I sat on the rug at the end of the bed and watched her. I’m beyond exhausted now, and I have to fight the urge to fold my arms across my desk, put my head down, and sleep.
I’m oddly aware of more whispers than usual carrying around the office today. Intimate groups of people nattering constantly surround the watercooler, and every now and then, the odd brazen co-worker will stare directly at me as if to tell me they know what I’ve done. I suspect I’m being paranoid. I’m stressed out about Emma, and combined with no sleep, I am totally on edge.
I grab my coat off the back of the chair, tell the new guy beside me that I’ll be back in ten minutes, and make my way outside to get some fresh air. I check my phone in the lift and chortle when I find a series of brightly coloured emojis from Emma’s new number. I’m glad she’s using the phone, and I’m fucking delighted she’s even talking to me at all. I type out I love you, but I delete it without sending. At times like this, I wish I still smoked. I could definitely use a cigarette now. But I gave that up fourteen years ago. Emma and I had a deal. She’d get the help she needed for her head if I quit smoking. And it worked. For a long time. But I think I’ve broken us both again.
The blast of cold air smacks me in the face as soon as I step outside. I don’t even think about whether to turn left or right; I just begin walking at a quick pace to keep warm. A blanket of ice covered the ground last night. It’s mostly thawed now, but the shaded part of the footpath where the buildings tower over is quite slippery. I cross the road and walk on the same side as the River Liffy, where the winter sun is attempting to shine. I make my way past the bubble of offices and into the retail area of the city. I pass a florist, and I realise I never got around to buying flowers and jewellery for Emma at the weekend, and I’m devastated that the idea is redundant now. I may be a cheating bastard, but I’ll be dammed if I’ll live up to the stereotype. No amount of flowers can change what I’ve done.
I dart in and out of a tiny corner coffee shop and pick up a takeaway Americano. I feel less shaky after a couple of hot mouthfuls, and I resign myself to heading back to the office. My phone rings, and the only reason I take it out of my inside jacket pocket and answer it is because I’m hopeful it’s Emma. I picked up the cheap heap of shit yesterday, and I haven’t had time to figure out the settings. But it doesn’t take much to understand how to answer a call. I’m deflated when I hear the new guy in the office’s country lilt on the other end.
‘David, you need to come back.’
I squeeze the paper cup in my hand and some milky coffee dribbles over the edge and scalds my fingers. Dammit.
‘What’s wrong,’ I groan, shaking my stinging fingers. ‘Is something wrong with the Boston account?’
I tense, remembering the thirty-day cooling off period hidden in the fine print.
‘Human Resources is on a manhunt for you.’
‘What? Why?’ I snarl.
‘I dunno. No one is saying much, but it looks like it’s serious. One of the head guys down there actually came to our floor looking for you in person. I’d say he even checked if you were hiding in the jacks. And his face. Oh man, he looked pissed.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I pacify. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’
I hang up and notice my fingers are trembling as I slide my phone back into my pocket. I throw my almost full coffee cup into the nearest bin, and the stench of rotting rubbish makes my stomach heave. My first thought is that Amber has resigned, but even if she has, that wouldn’t explain why HR is looking for me. I go back to worrying that the Boston contract has gone tits up, but that’s definitely not an HR issue. My brain hurts. I walk faster. Thoughts of a promotion cross my mind, but I dismiss the notion quickly. That kind of thing is all corresponded via email and confirmed with your manager. Human Resources never has any physical contact.
Physical contact. Physical contact. Physical contact. The words claw at my mind like a jagged rock. Oh, my God. Emma! Has she hurt herself? Oh, sweet Jesus, that’s it. Why didn’t I cop on sooner? HR must need to break the news in person.
I lunge forward, and I just about make it around a quiet street corner before coffee sprays out my nose and mouth as I projectile vomit. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and spit a couple of times, trying to expel the taste of acidy puke. I try calling Emma, but she doesn’t pick up, and it’s only as I race back to the office with my phone against my ear that I realise I’ve been dialling her old number the whole time.
I plunge through the main office doors, frustrated with the time it takes to swipe my security pass. I avoid the lift; it’s on the top floor and waiting for it to come down will take too long. I take the stairs two steps at a time. I’m back at my desk, on the fourth floor, in minutes. A layer of perspiration sticks my shirt against my back, and I dare not take my jacket off and reveal the dark patch I’m certain hangs under my arms. The new guy is on the phone. His chair is twisted around to face the window, and his back is to me. I tap him on the shoulder, but he doesn’t spin around. I glance around the office quickly, and no heads turn to look at me. I was expecting a lot of staring and whispers. Our office is predominantly female. For every one man who works here, there are at least three women. Gossip and rumours are as everyday as spreadsheets and conferences. HR can’t have made that big a scene, or all eyes would be on me now, hungry for their next juicy story. Maybe the new guy talked the drama up.
I exhale somewhat too sharply for my tired lungs, and I feel lightheaded. I sit down, mortified. I place my phone on my desk next to my PC and scroll through my messages as I simultaneously cast an eye on my computer screen. I’ve no urgent emails and nothing at all from HR. I also notice Emma’s last text message came in less than thirty minutes ago. My hands fall off my desk and drop by my sides. She’s okay, I console myself. My shoulders drop, and I slouch as I realise that’s all I care about. My wife hasn’t tried to kill herself because I’m a cheating bastard. Compared to the panic I felt moments ago, no matter what HR wants to talk to me about, I’ll be okay. I close my eyes and allow my head to flop forward until my chin touches my chest.
I must have briefly fallen asleep because my eyes flare open and I jolt upright when I feel a hand squeeze my shoulder.
‘David,’ Giselle says.
‘Um. Em-hm,’ I reply, groggily.
I force my lips to remain closed while I yawn. It hurts, and I must look like I’m having a stroke or something because she pulls a face and takes a step back.
‘What is it, Giselle,’ I say, fully awake and irritated.
She tosses an eyebrow then narrows her glare. ‘I’m surprised you showed your face here today.’
‘What?’
‘There’s no need to look at me like that. I know everything,’ Giselle snipes.
‘Really?’ I growl. ‘And what is everything?’
‘You and Amber. I know what you did.’
‘You’ve spoken to Amber?’
‘Of course.’ Giselle eyes me with utter disgust.
‘And what did she say?’
‘Not much because she’s so upset, understandably. But I could read between the lines.’
Temper boils in the depths of my stomach, and if Giselle were a guy, I’d probabl
y throw a punch.
‘Maybe you should spend a little less time with your nose in other people’s business, Giselle.’
‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
I smirk. ‘Yes. Actually, I would.’
‘You’re disgusting. Do you know that? You’re married, for fuck’s sake. Amber is in a state. How could you take advantage of her like that?’
I stroke the bridge of my nose and struggle to stay calm. ‘I took advantage of her?’
‘Yes. And you know it.’
‘And how do you come up with that little theory? Is it simply because I’m the one with the penis? Maybe she took advantage of me, Giselle. Maybe I have everything to lose, and maybe I’m upset. Maybe, you know, just maybe.’
‘Well, I’ve reported the sexual harassment to HR anyway, so …’ Giselle shrugs as if she isn’t a vindictive bitch.
‘Fuck you.’ I stand up and toss some paperwork off my desk into Giselle’s direction.
‘Oh, you’d like that, I bet,’ she moans, stepping back and staring at the pile of paper that fell at her feet. ‘You bloody pervert.’
I hate her. I actually despise the overweight, over-made-up bitch standing inches in front of me. I remember my first week in the office. Giselle was over at my desk every lunch break, offering to introduce me to the other girls and suggesting I give her a shout if I needed an induction. She put herself out there as my go-to girl, and she was royally pissed off to discover I was married, or so I heard. We haven’t really spoken much since. Until now.
‘Actually, I’d rip my knob off and stick it in a jar of vinegar before I’d give you so much as a slap with it.’ I berate, my temper lost.
‘Oh, piss off, David,’ she spits.
‘Good idea.’
I pick my phone up off my desk and stuff it into its usual spot in my inside jacket pocket. I tilt my head to one side, raise my right arm, and toss my middle finger towards Giselle. Slowly, I walk away.
‘Oh, and, tell your psycho wife to leave Amber alone. We all know those messages are coming from Emma,’ Giselle shouts when I’m halfway across the office.
I turn around, venomous. I’m back in front of my obnoxious co-worker in seconds.
‘What the fuck did you just say?’
Giselle, completely unintimidated, stretches to her full height. And in her stupid, unprofessional heels, she has an inch on me. ‘You heard me, David.’
‘My wife doesn’t work here. You don’t know her, and she has nothing to do with you,’ I foam.
‘She had nothing to do with me. But when she starts harassing my best friend online, that’s a problem.’
‘Your. Best. Friend?’
‘Amber.’ Giselle pouts. ‘Yes, David. We’re very close, actually.’
Amber doesn’t have friends, just people she can tolerate, and Giselle isn’t one. I’ve only worked here a matter of months, and I’ve observed that.
‘And what the fuck does Emma have to do with Amber?’ I quiz.
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret the question. If Giselle states the obvious, I know I’m not going to be able to keep my temper under control. I’m struggling as it is.
‘Oh, c’mon. You must have seen the Facebook status. They’re not even subtle. Oh, and not to mention Emma stupidly used one of her old photos as this Sun Lee dude’s profile picture. Hastag. Epic. Hilarious. Fail.’
‘Giselle, what the actual hell are you on about?’ My back teeth grind.
Giselle wrinkles her top lip, and her teeth, with something brown caught between the top front two, twinkle at me. My stomach churns.
‘Do you genuinely not know?’ Giselle sniffs. ‘Okay, then I really am sorry to tell you …’
I’d possibly believe her sincerity if she could manage to keep a straight face. But she’s so ecstatic that her eyes are practically dancing in their sockets.
‘Your desperate wife is trolling Amber on Facebook. And Emma sucks at it. I totally knew who she was straightaway. Not cool. I mean I get that she’s upset because of everything. Anyone would be. But this is not how you deal with this kind of stuff. It’s stinks of desperate teenager fighting over a boy.’
‘Only Emma’s not a teenager, Giselle. And I’m not a boy. There’s no fighting. Emma and I are husband and wife. Emma has nothing to fight for. I belong to her. One hundred percent.’
I hate the tired oxymoron that just dribbles past my lips. But Giselle looks positively fucking delighted with herself, and it takes me a few seconds to realise I’ve accidentally confirmed that Emma has sent Amber messages.
‘Giselle. Look,’ I spit, furious. ‘Emma isn’t trolling Amber.’
‘Really?’ Giselle snorts. ‘Well, this says she is.’
Giselle shoves her phone screen in my face. I snatch the phone and read the latest post to Amber’s profile.
You can’t have him.
Touch him again and I’ll kill you.
‘Oh, come on,’ I growl. ‘This isn’t Emma.’
‘Well, yeah, I mean she’s hardly going to say freaky stuff like that to Amber as herself. This is a fake account. It’s obvious. Look at the profile photo. I flicked through Emma’s old profile photos, and she used this exact one herself six months ago.’
‘Giselle. It’s not Emma. I’m telling you.’
‘And I’m telling you it is.’
Emma was so drunk last night she barely knew her own name. She certainly wasn’t posting obnoxious shit on the internet.
‘Well, if you could take the time to snoop through Emma’s previous profile pictures, then anyone could,’ I growl. ‘Anyone could set up this fake account using this picture. I won’t tell you again. This. Is. Not. My. Wife!’
Giselle’s face falls, and I hope what I’ve just said gets through to her tiny gossip-fuelled brain. ‘These rumours are slanderous and dangerous. Don’t you get that?’ I spit. ‘Actually, if anyone needs to speak to HR about harassment, it’s me. You need to stop accusing my wife of trolling.’
‘And you need to calm down,’ she mutters; her cocky arrogance is fast being replaced with worried jitters.
‘Oh, I am calm,’ I lie convincingly.
Giselle takes another step back. Unflattering red bubbles are appearing under her chin and climb up onto her jaw. It looks raw, and I’m guessing it’s a stress rash or something. I bet she regrets shooting her mouth off now.
‘Sexual harassment is serious, Giselle. It’s not office entertainment. I have no worries about setting HR straight that this is all bullshit.’
‘Are you saying you didn’t take advantage of Amber when she was drunk?’
‘I’m saying you should mind your own fucking business.’
‘You can’t intimidate me, David.’ Giselle quivers, her body language making a mockery of her argument. ‘I’m not worried.’
‘I’m not trying to. But I would be worried if I were you because when HR does speak with me, I’ll be certain to let them know exactly who started the slanderous rumours. I’ll even let them know you tried to drag my wife into it. So this is the last time I’ll ask you. Back the fuck off.’
Giselle throws her hands dramatically in the air above her head like she’s seen one too many reality cop shows and this is the only way she knows how to surrender.
‘I’m out of here.’ I turn and walk quickly away.
Chapter Twenty-One
DAVID
The train is quiet at this time of day. It’s after lunch, but the manic rush of commuters making their way home is more than an hour away, so many of the seats are unoccupied. Most of those which are in use are taken by young kids in school uniforms sitting next to their au pair or a parent, and they’re on and off after a stop or two. Emma gets the train home after work most days at this time, but I know she won’t be here today. I watched with trepidation as she sped out of our driveway this morning. I don’t even know why I find myself on the train now. It’s weird, but it makes me feel close to her. I sit with regret that I never took the time
to do it before. Maybe I could have gotten to know Danny too. Emma loved him so much. He was such a huge part of her world, and it pains me now that I missed that.
By the time we’re four stops outside the city, I have the carriage all to myself. The rattle of the train as it trundles down the line plays like an even drumbeat, as if attempting to offer some rhythm or order to my racing thoughts. I’m still seething about Giselle’s dumb and dangerous comments earlier. I didn’t want to have any contact with Amber if I could possibly avoid it—even just saying a passing hello in the office would feel like a further betrayal of Emma—but I can’t ignore all this sexual harassment nonsense. Amber has no right to drag my name through the mud. I need to speak with her and find out what the hell she’s been telling people.
Amber’s phone rings out three times, and that boils my temper. I know she’s ignoring me. I can see she’s live on Facebook messenger at this very second. I bet she’s sitting on her couch with her phone in her hand laughing as my name appears on her screen. I call again. I’ll keep calling all day if I have to. She can’t ignore me forever.
‘Hello,’ Amber groans, on the first ring of my fourth attempt.
‘Hi,’ I bark.
‘David?’ she mutters as if hearing my voice shocks her.
See Me Not: A gripping psychological thriller with a heartbreaking twist. Page 13