by Carrie Elks
Even if it kills me. Or—more likely—even if I end up killing him.
* * *
Balancing a tuna baguette, chocolate milk and the world's biggest cookie on my tray, I set it down on the table, sliding into a chair next to Charlie Simpson. I'm the last one here—my arrival delayed by the scintillating chat I just had with Callum Ferguson—and everybody else has already fallen into an easy conversation. I listen silently as the rest of the interns exchange stories about their mornings, spinning tales of laptop-based disasters and coffee-related mayhem. The girl sitting opposite me, a slim blonde with a tan only money can buy, turns her pale eyes onto me.
“Do you have a sweet tooth?” she asks, glancing at my milk and cookie.
I feel my cheeks warm as the rest of them look at me. I realise I'm the only girl here who isn't eating a salad. Tall, blonde and tanned is sipping from a bottle of Evian, her tray devoid of any nourishment. I'm guessing she lives on air.
“Not particularly.” I tear off a piece of cookie and pop it in my mouth. If I were at home I'd probably do something disgusting like open my mouth and taunt her with the image of chewed-up biscuit. But I'm not at home. Far from it.
“I wish I could eat like that.” There's a sneer to her voice that grates my nerves. “But I'd rather not put on half a stone.”
I don't take a dislike to people very easily. If you asked my family they'd say I'm too laid back and put up with too much shit—particularly from Luke. But I've instantly taken against Caro Hawes with her high-pitched nasal voice and her tan that's come from weeks on her daddy's yacht.
“It's not something I have to worry about.” I reply, taking a long sip of my milk. “But I can see it would be a concern for you.”
Next to me Charlie splutters into his Chai latte. Caro huffs something inaudible and deliberately starts to talk to the redhead beside her. Her long hair falls down the side of her face like a golden curtain, but from the way the other girl keeps looking over, it's obvious that they're discussing me. It comes as a relief when Charlie opens his mouth.
“So what have they got you doing?” He turns and gives me a genuine smile. As much as I already dislike Caro, I sense I have an ally in Charlie. He reminds me of a richer, better-turned-out version of my older brother, Alex. He's cheeky, but friendly enough to carry it off.
“Not much,” I admit. “At the moment they've got me working as a PA in Technology Integration.”
He raises his eyebrows. “A PA?”
“It’s only for a couple of weeks. Then I'll be given a project.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That's good. I can't imagine your university professor being impressed if you spend nine months booking hotels and ordering coffee.”
“Me neither,” I reply glumly. At the end of my internship I have to present the results of my project to the faculty, and it counts for forty per cent of my degree. It's no exaggeration to say that unless I perform amazingly well here, I could end up with a mediocre degree and pretty depressing job prospects.
Charlie bumps me with his elbow. “It will be fine. First day blues, eh?”
Though I flash him a smile, it takes some effort. “Yeah. Things can only get better.”
“Who is that?” Caro's voice cuts across the table. “God, they know how to breed good looking men here.” She stares over my shoulder, a smile playing at her lips, and actually starts to flick her hair as if she's in a shampoo advert. Curiosity gets the better of me and I turn, arching my neck, following her line of sight.
My stomach drops when I realise who she's smiling at. My new boss is standing in the line for coffee, leaning casually against the wall as he chats easily with the man next to him. Like Callum, his friend looks in his early thirties, wearing a suit that's well tailored and sleek, though his hair is black compared to Callum's burnt umber.
The man says something and Callum laughs. It isn't a polite laugh, either. It's a full-blown, head-back, belly laugh that is loud enough to carry across the room, and I swear half the female population is sighing, audibly.
“Hot,” Caro says.
“Delicious,” the girl next to her agrees.
I hate to admit it, but they're right. There's something so earthy and masculine about his low, throaty chuckle.
Then Callum looks over at me. He's still laughing, but his chest calms, his lips uncurling at the same time his eyes narrow. I feel a response that's starting to become familiar; a shiver that snakes its way down my back. Tentatively I offer him a smile, lifting my hand and curling my fingers in a feeble attempt at a wave.
He doesn't even respond. The line in front of him moves forward, and he pushes himself off the wall, leaning across to give the barista his order. Picking up my carton, I take a final sip, feeling the tell-tale rush of air through the straw when the last of the milk has gone. While Caro and her sidekick continue to ooh and ahh over my boss and his friend, I look down at the half of cookie that remains on the plate, wondering exactly what I've done wrong.
If things don't improve it's going to be a miserable nine months.
* * *
Callum is in client meetings all afternoon, and I spend the hours working my way through a huge pile of receipts that he shoved at me before he left. He clearly hasn't done his expenses for months, and I try not to fume at the fact that he expects me to sort them out. If I'm being honest it's nice to have something to do rather than plodding my way through more online training courses, but I'm not going to let him know.
It's amazing what you can discover from a few printed pieces of paper. Callum stays at expensive hotels, but he rarely spends more than £20 on dinner. He prefers sushi to steak, and like me he has a sweet tooth, indulging in midnight snacks of cookies and cakes.
He has an old car—an MGB according to the expenses system—that guzzles gas, and he prefers driving to taking the train when he goes on UK trips. He seems to spend a lot of time in Scotland, and from a few more receipts I deduce it's mostly in Edinburgh. But he must have a house or a friend he stays with there, because none of his hotel receipts are for Edinburgh, only dinner and sundries.
By four, I've managed to reconcile his expenses and black Amex card, and send his receipts to accounts for processing. For the final hour and a half I turn my attention to the company intranet, looking at organisation charts and photographs, trying to work out who's who. I recognise Callum's friend from lunch straight away as Jonathan Cooper, Senior Partner in Financial Consulting.
I close my computer down at 5:29 p.m. Callum still hasn't come back, and I hesitate, unsure of the etiquette for leaving the office without asking the boss first. After our dodgy start, I don't want to make things any worse than they already are, but I have a yoga class in an hour’s time, and I really don’t want to miss it. I can already feel my back aching from sitting down all day. Unless I stretch it out, I know from experience I'll pay for it tomorrow.
Eventually I stop prevaricating and scribble a note for Callum, leaving it on his desk. It's 5:45 p.m. by the time I leave the building, and there's a huge crowd at the entrance to Canary Wharf underground station where everyone’s trying to clamber on to the escalators. I join the throng, letting it swallow me whole as the tide of people surges forward.
Half an hour later I run into the sports hall and head for the changing rooms at the back of the building. I quickly shed my office clothes and tug on my yoga pants and a crop top, feeling my back twinge again as I pull it over my head.
When I was fourteen I was diagnosed with scoliosis. My spine had a curve in it that made me lopsided and a little off-balance. Though it isn't always obvious when I'm dressed, if you look carefully you can see that one of my hips is curvier than the other, and my left shoulder droops down. I've come to terms with it now, but back when I was a teenager I was devastated, especially when I had to wear a plastic back brace for eighteen months. Looking back, I think I lost all my confidence then. Maybe that's part of the reason I’ve let Luke treat me like a doormat for so long.
�
��You made it!” My best friend, Ellie, grins up at me from her yoga mat. “I wasn't sure you would. How was your first day?”
I unroll my mat and place it beside hers. We've been coming to this class for the past six years. My specialist suggested yoga as a way to keep my back limber and fluid, and I've been doing it ever since.
“It was...” I screw up my face, trying to hit on the right adjective. “Interesting.”
“Uh oh. Interesting good, or interesting bad?”
I get down on my mat and start stretching. My muscles are tense and resistant. “Well, on the plus side my boss is hot as hell.”
Ellie turns onto her side, balancing on her forearm. “Ooh. Best not tell Luke.”
“I wasn't intending to. Anyway, he might be good looking but he's also a miserable arsehole. And I might have shouted at him in the lift.” My cheeks pink up at the memory.
Ellie tries to stifle a laugh. She fails miserably. “You did what?”
We spend the rest of the session analysing my day as we move from pose to pose. By the time we get to the cool down, the conversation is exhausted, and Ellie decides to change the subject.
“So what's going on with you and Luke?” she asks. “Sophie said something about a picture.” Sophie is our other best friend. The three of us met on our first day at senior school. She's also engaged to Luke's best friend, which makes everything so much more awkward.
“It's over.” The instructor dims the lights as we go into Savasana, lying on our backs with our arms and legs stretched out. The ache in my back has disappeared, and I let my eyes close as the instructor tells us to slowly inhale.
“What do you mean it's over?” Ellie whispers. “It can't be over. Not you and Luke. You’re meant for each other.”
That's the problem with childhood sweethearts. You grow up together and create a network of shared friends. When things go wrong it breaks everybody’s hearts.
“I've had enough.”
The woman next to me tuts and I shut up quickly. But Ellie won't let it go.
“But you'll work it out. You two always do. It's not as if you haven't split up before.”
I breathe in deeply, feeling the air pull through my nostrils and down my throat. My chest inflates, but the sense of calm I'm seeking doesn't materialise. Instead I start to feel awkward and panicky.
“Not this time,” I say. Inside I'm wondering if my words are true. If I'm strong enough to stand up for myself. It's not just Luke I'm rejecting but a whole way of life. Things will never be the same again.
That's what I want, isn't it? To get a degree, get a good job and get the hell out of here? I repeat my plan in my head like a reassuring mantra. It isn't working. Ellie is right, we've been here before. I've ended things only to take Luke back, over and over again. No wonder she can't believe it's finished. No wonder Luke won't believe me when I tell him we're through. History has taught us all that when it comes to Luke Sayer I'm a complete and total pushover.
My thoughts flicker to Callum Ferguson, and the way I stood up to him when he goaded me this morning. Despite his foreboding demeanour, and the fact he’s my boss, somehow Callum made me feel brave enough to stand up for myself. It was a good feeling, not taking any shit from him. Empowering. Maybe if I can be that girl when I'm in the office, it might spill out into my relationships, too.
By the time we roll up our mats and guzzle our water, my equanimity is restored. This time when Ellie asks me if there's any chance for me and Luke, my voice is as firm as my resolve.
“There's not a cat's chance in hell I'll ever take him back.”
4
By the time I make it home the sun is setting, casting the usually grey streets with a peach and orange glow. I'm listening to music through my ear buds, my bag slung loosely over my shoulder, and my mind a thousand miles away. Maybe that's why I don't notice the man at first. We’re almost face to face by the time I realise he's by my front door, and I stop suddenly in front of him as his eyes look into mine.
I watch as his mouth takes on the shape of his words.
“I'm sorry, I can’t hear you.” I pull the headphones from my ears. The lead dangles down from my hoodie.
He says nothing, but carries on looking at me. The vividness of his eyes unnerves me. He looks old, maybe in his early fifties with dark skin pocked with acne scars. His nose twists to the left as if it's been broken and set badly. There's a white line that leads from his ear to his jaw, that looks suspiciously like a healed knife wound.
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise up.
“I'm looking for Tina Cartwright.”
That gets my attention. This isn't any old weird guy hanging around outside our house. This is a weirdo with an agenda, and it has my mum's name written all over it.
“Are you?” I counter question for question, trying to think the situation through. “Why?”
I'd like to say this is the first time a strange guy’s been looking for my mum, but that would be a bald-faced lie. One of my earliest memories is hiding behind the sofa with my mum while a bailiff was banging at the door, calling out her name. She had a bag of toffees in her hand and fed me them to me slowly in an attempt to keep my mouth shut.
My mum's never been good with money. Her credit score is shot to hell, too, which means that any loans she manages to get are dodgy to say the least. And Plaistow is full of loan sharks.
The man doesn't reply to my question. Instead he keeps his lips tightly closed, the effort bleaching them white. He tips his head to the side, still staring. I notice that one of his eyelids droops, as if the muscles there have given up. His scrutiny makes me uncomfortable, and I'm all too aware of the way my yoga pants cling to my hips, and that a sliver of skin is showing between the waistband and my crop top.
Then he says something that makes me freeze.
“Amethyst?”
Nobody calls me that. Even mum gave up trying after I begged her to stop. The shock of this man knowing my name—my real name—is enough to make me reach out to steady myself on the brick built wall that lines our boundary. I open my mouth to ask him how he knows who I am but I'm too damn scared.
What if he wants to hurt me just to get his money back?
“That's... that's not my name,” I finally manage to say. The effect of not eating anything for hours takes its toll as my head starts to swim.
“Are you okay?” The man's expression softens, and he tries to steady me. I shrink away.
“I'm fine... I just need to, to—”
This time he catches my elbow, just before I collapse on the floor. A sudden nausea tugs at me. He looks at me, concerned.
It's not the type of expression I expect to see on a loan shark. The ones I've seen—and over the years there’s been a lot—tend to have two looks at most. Pissed off and extremely pissed off. He lifts me back to my feet, then steps back, and runs a hand through his scant, black hair.
“Tell your mum I came to see her, okay?”
“Who are you?” I'm aware this is the second time I've asked him. I'm not sure if I want to hear the answer, or if I need to. He's just one in a long line of men who've taken advantage of my mum's need for money, for pretty clothes, for things that she can't afford on a cashier's salary alone.
By the time he answers my question, he's already at the gate, pushing it, making the hinges creak. “Just tell her Digger says hi.”
* * *
The first thing I do when I walk into the house is open the fridge door and pull out some orange juice. Twisting the lid off, I bring the spout up to my lips and swallow citrusy mouthfuls. My hand shakes as I hold the carton, in fact my whole body spasms, though I'm not sure if it's from low sugar, fear, or both. There's a shock of cold as the juice hits, then a few moments until I start to feel the shivers subside.
I can't get his face out of my mind. The way he stared at me with interest. It's hard to put my finger on the reason why he intimidated me so much, because there was no lust or sexual interest there. It was m
ore that he looked at me as if I was a specimen, a creature he couldn't quite understand.
My shower takes longer than usual. I feel the need to scrub every inch of my skin, and let the hot spray work the kinks out of my muscles. Though the dull throb in the base of my spine has gone, I know from experience that it will be back in the morning. Grabbing a towel from the heater beside the shower door, I wrap it around my damp body, using another to make a turban around my dark hair. Then I go back to my room to slip on some pyjamas.
It's only then that I check my messages. Two missed calls and a text from Luke.
Call me.
Seeing his name makes me shiver all over again, and I slip under the duvet just to find a little warmth. The final message is from my brother, asking me about my first day. Though I suspect my sister-in-law goaded him into sending it, I'm still touched that he's even remembered.
I think about texting Alex back, but after the confrontation earlier I'm still feeling jittery, and the thought of hearing his friendly voice is too much of a temptation. I quickly dial his number and lean back on my pink velvet headboard, closing my eyes as the familiar ringtone echoes into my ear.
It only buzzes twice before Alex answers. “Hey, beautiful. What's up?”
I smile as soon as I hear his voice. My brother is six years older than me, and along with our elder sister, Andie, has always been overprotective. Although I bristled against it in my teens, now I find it sweet and comforting, like unwrapping a much needed bar of chocolate.
“Not much. Just got back from Yoga. How's things with you?”
“Splendid.” He puts on a stupidly posh accent. “Max is teething, Lara's had a shit day at work and I've somehow managed to piss them both off.”
“Just another day chez Cartwright,” I tease. It's so lovely to talk to him. Only a few weeks ago he was living here with Mum and me, trying to work through some problems with his marriage. As much as I loved having him home with us, I'm thrilled he and Lara managed to patch up their differences. Lara is one of the nicest people I've ever met. She always has time for me and doesn't treat me like a little kid, which Alex and Andie always do.