by Carrie Elks
Somebody walks out of the office building, brushing past Callum. I watch him pass, relieved when I realise it's nobody I know. In spite of the innocence of our conversation, making small talk with my boss, somehow makes me feel guilty.
Callum swallows, making his Adam's apple bob. His tongue snakes across his dry lips. “I'll be spending the evening fine combing this contract with Daniel Grant and his team, so unless that constitutes a better offer...”
I wrinkle my nose up. “I think I'll stick with dirty nappies and puréed carrots.”
He nods slowly. “A wise choice.”
“Thank you.” I mime a curtsy in a rare bout of playfulness. “I suppose I should go.” I wave my hand in the direction of the bus stop. “Do you need anything else?”
This feels like one of those telephone conversations where neither of you wants to hang up. I linger, not wanting to leave, unable to find an excuse to stay.
Callum takes a step forward and brushes his palm against my arm. Even through two layers of clothing I swear I can feel his fingertips.
“Thank you. I mean it. I know I gave you a hard time when you started, but...” He shrugs. “This was above the call of duty and I appreciate it.”
There isn't the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice; nothing remains of the superiority I heard when we first met. I'm unsure if it's me who has changed or if it's him, but right now all I want to do is step into his arms.
That's why I stagger back, pulling the buggy with me. Because it isn't Callum I don't trust, with his friendly words and kind face, it's me. I've just ended one relationship and it's clear I'm rebounding on to my boss. It would be funny if it wasn't shameful. “It was no problem, honestly. I'll see you on Monday.”
A gust of wind whips around me, brushing my heated cheeks and lifting my hair from my neck. Max's legs move in his sleep; his tiny, sock-covered feet kicking at the blanket. I give Callum a wave and turn the buggy around, walking towards the main road.
By the time I get to the bus stop I'm a big, messy bundle of hormones and desire.
* * *
Max goes to bed nicely, sucking at the tips of his fingers as he bundles up beneath the covers, his breathing rapid and loud. I stand there for a minute and stare, marvelling at the way his tiny eyelids flutter as he dreams. Every now and again he moans softly, wriggling until his covers pool around his ankles, and I lift them up again, draping them across his shoulders, running my fingers across his soft, plump face.
Callum was right; Max is beautiful. His skin is smooth and unmarked, his lips a perfect bow. His eyelashes—dark and thick like Alex's and mine—are so long they almost sweep his rosy cheeks. I hate the thought that one day somebody's going to break his heart. I want to claw their eyes out already.
Closing his door gently, I tiptoe back into the living room, curling up on the sofa and scrolling through my phone. My back twinges and I try to sit up straight, aware that I should have gone to yoga this morning.
I while away the next hour uploading pictures of Max to Instagram and listening to music through one headphone. The other dangles down as I keep an ear free to listen out for his cries.
At nine o’clock Luke adds a photograph to his account. He's standing outside a bar with a goofy grin on his face, his arm around the same girl he swore he wasn't sleeping with. In the background I can see Nick and Sophie, and it makes my chest hurt.
The fact I'm more upset about my friend’s betrayal than that of my ex-boyfriend doesn't escape me. It feels reassuring, somehow. The wound is scabbing over, new skin growing beneath.
Alex and Lara get home a few minutes after midnight. From the noise they make on the stairs and the way Alex's voice echoes through the house, I can tell he's been drinking before they even walk in the door. I bite down a smile; Alex drunk is always a sight to be seen. He's silly, funny and completely larger than life.
The door opens, the handle banging against the plastered wall, and Alex walks in; his face flushed, his words slurred. “Amy! How's my favourite sister? Come here, gimme a kiss.” He throws his arms around me, his bristled cheeks scratching against mine. The sensation makes me giggle.
“Don't let Andie hear you say that.”
Alex steps back, holding me at arm's length. “She's my favourite older sister. You're my favourite baby sister. There's a difference.”
Lara walks in. “Has he got to the 'I love yous'?” she asks.
“Not yet. But it’s inevitable.” I grin back at her.
Alex stumbles and I steady him. “I'd say it's bedtime.”
Alex pouts. “But I want to talk to you. Are you okay? Has that guy bothered you again?”
“What guy?”
“The one... the one outside your house. Digger.”
“Alex.” Lara's voice is low. “It's time for bed.”
“I'm just talking to my sister.” He looks at me with concern. “You okay, sweetheart?”
I hug him tight. “I'm fine, which is more than you'll be when you wake up in the morning. Now go to bed.”
“Et tu, Brutus?”
I bite down a laugh. “It's Brute. You've been watching too much Popeye.” Alex always did spend too much time in front of the T.V. “I love you big brother.”
He pulls me in tightly, burying his face in my hair. “Goodnight.”
He stumbles down the hallway to their bedroom, leaving Lara and me alone in the living room. She takes off her shoes and wriggles her toes, then walks to the kitchen and flips on the kettle. “Have you got time for a cuppa, or do you want me to call a cab?”
“Tea sounds good.” I smile. “I'm not in a rush.”
Lara potters in the kitchen, pulling out mugs and tea bags, spoons and milk. When she looks up she catches my eye and grins. “Thank you for looking after Max,” she says. “I still hate leaving him.”
“He was a good boy. We had to go to Canary Wharf to give something to my boss and he was perfectly behaved.”
“You had to work? What a slave driver, I hope you got paid overtime.” She hands me a mug and I cup my fingers around the china.
Lara has this aura about her that makes people want to open up and spill their secrets. When I first met her I thought it was just me she had this effect on. But as time has passed and I've watched her interact with others—with family, with friends—I've come to realise she brings the best out in everybody. It's why she's so perfectly suited to her job as a counsellor. She listens without judging, which few people are able to do.
“I wanted to help him,” I confess. “He's a nice guy.”
Lara says nothing. Just looks at me with melted chocolate eyes as she takes a sip of warm tea.
“What?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
“You think I like him?”
“Do you?”
I put my tea down and run my hands through my hair. “Yes.” Only three letters, yet I feel every one of them as the admission escapes me. They say the truth hurts, and they're right, because admitting I like my boss is like having my teeth pulled out.
“Yes I like him, but I shouldn't. For one thing he's my boss, and for another I think he might be married.” I drop my head, my brow meeting my palms. “God, I'm such a loser,”
“You're not a loser,” Lara counters. “Office romances happen all the time. It's not unusual.”
“It is when you can lose your job for having a work relationship.”
Lara looks at me. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.” She raises her eyebrows. “I suppose it's an American company. They get funny about things like that.”
“Yes they do.” I sigh. “So it's just a stupid crush that I'm going to have to ignore.” The words make it sound easy, but the little fire he ignited on Friday is threatening to burn out of control. I've spent most of the night thinking about him, wondering what he's doing, whether his dinner with Daniel Grant is going well. If truth be told I didn't mind going out to meet him this afternoon; quite the opposite
.
“You're not planning on getting back with Luke, then?” she asks, sitting down on the sofa. “It's definitely over?”
I pull out my phone and show Lara the Instagram photo of Luke and the girl. Like before, I'm more struck by Sophie's betrayal than Luke's new love—the fact she’s made a miraculous recovery since last night hasn't escaped me, either.
“We've been over for a long time,” I admit. “I know you kept telling me he was wrong for me, but it took me a while to realise.” I look down, picking a piece of lint off my jeans. “I wouldn't go back even if he came crawling to beg.” I tell her about the night at Sophie's and the cruel things he said in the car. She reaches out, squeezing my hand, sympathy shaping her features.
“It sounds trite, but these things happen for a reason. I know the two of you share a lot of history, but he treated you like shit. The number of times I've had to pull Alex away to stop him hitting Luke...” Lara trails off, glancing over at the bedroom door.
I swallow, thinking of the ways I let Luke walk all over me. After all this time together, maybe I should be sad it's over. But the truth is I'm more consumed with relief than anything else.
Get a degree, get a job and get the hell out of here, I remind myself. That's my goal, and I can't afford to let anybody get in the way. Not Luke and his wandering eye, not Sophie and her fake illness, and certainly not Callum Ferguson with his strong, hard chest and gorgeous smile.
If only my heart believed that.
11
When I get into the office on Monday morning Callum's nowhere to be seen. I slide into my chair to check my emails, and the first one I see is from the HR department. An emergency meeting has been called for all the new interns, and attendance is mandatory.
Something has riled Diana Joseph, and I'm pretty sure it's our drunken Friday night. Groaning, I put my computer to sleep and head down to the conference room, stopping on the way to grab myself a coffee from the canteen.
Charlie Simpson is already in the conference room when I arrive, his pale blonde hair hanging over his eyes, his skin tinged with grey. I slide into the seat next to him, offering one of the biscuits I grabbed from the tin, and he smiles wanly, taking the proffered cookie.
“You look as excited as I feel,” I comment. “You okay?”
He shakes his head. “I've never had a forty-eight hour hangover before and I never want one again. I can't even remember what happened on Friday night.” He turns and grabs my hand suddenly. “Did I do anything stupid?”
I frown when I remember the twerking, not to mention the round of body shots he insisted on taking off Ellie's bare abdomen. When I talked to her last night she was equally as sheepish, but I think she might have a little crush on him.
“Um,” I roll my lips together, waggling my eyebrows. “Define stupid.”
He drops his head into his hands, muttering incoherently. I reach out and rub his shoulder in an attempt to be consoling, but he shrugs me off.
“You shouldn't sit next to me, you'll be guilty by association.”
“You didn't do anything wrong. Okay, so you dirty danced and told every woman in the room you loved them, but you did it with style.”
He shakes his head. “Not helping.”
The room fills up as the rest of the interns arrive, coffees in hand. Caro Hawes sweeps in holding a cup from Cafe Nero, then wrinkles her nose when she sees Charlie and me.
I wrinkle right back.
“Charlie Simpson? Miranda Vesey?” One of the HR administration assistants pops her head around the door. “Can you come with me, please?” The tone of her voice makes it clear it isn't a question. Charlie stands up reluctantly, grabs his half-empty coffee cup and walks over to the door.
“Wish me luck,” he says, under his breath.
“Good luck.”
He walks out, closely followed by Miranda, who looks as if she's going to faint. I can't say I blame her; she spent most of Friday night pebble dashing the bar floor with vomit, and half the partners saw her doing it.
After they've left, the room is silent for a moment, as we all stare at the door wondering what is happening. I feel sick myself when I think they might be asking Charlie to leave; I'm not sure I can face working in this place without him.
“You should be there, too, you know.” Caro sits down next to me. She looks angry. “You drank as much champagne as they did.”
I don't bother telling her I can obviously hold it better than they can, because I feel guilty as hell. The three of us egged each other on, matched each other drink for drink. It's only my metabolism—and the fact I started drinking at the tender age of fifteen—that's prevented me from being taken out with Charlie and Miranda.
“I didn't do anything.” So fuck off. The final words remain unspoken, but I'm pretty sure Caro gets the message. She flicks her hair over her shoulder and glares at me anyway.
“You won't get away with it. I know your type. If Miranda is sacked I'll make sure you pay for it. I should never have trusted you to look after her.”
My voice is thick. “She's old enough to look after herself.”
“She's younger than you.” She sounds accusatory. “And don't think I didn't see you, draped all over your boss. You're not exactly smelling of bloody roses.”
I blush enough to make her smirk. She's got me and she knows it. I can swear to the bible that Callum is only a boss, but my physiology's betraying me. “Nothing happened. You're being a bitch.”
She leans close, enough for me to feel her hot breath. “You've no fucking idea what a bitch I can be. I don't like you, Amy Cartwright, and I'd be happy to see your arse walking out the door.” Her expression is anything but pleasant. “So watch yourself, because I'll make sure I am.”
By the time Miranda and Charlie walk back in, their eyes downcast, I'm feeling awkward and worried. Then the HR manager sweeps in, her face stormy, her voice harsh, and she reminds us all why we should re-read the code of conduct, with the black veil of dismissal hanging over us all.
* * *
“Hey.” Callum looks up when I walk back into the office. His expression is light and open. There's a part of me that feels pulled to it, that aches to be as at ease as him. He looks amazing as usual. Comfortable in his skin and in his expertly tailored suit, his hair hanging over his brow, his eyes bright.
I feel like a blurred photograph hanging next to a Warhol.
“Hi.” My voice is as flat as I feel. I walked back to the office with Charlie, who revealed he's had a final warning about his conduct. One more wrong step and he's out. The thought frightens me. He's the only person I look forward to talking with when I walk in the building—well him and Callum—but he's the only one I should be talking to.
“You okay?” Callum asks.
“We just got a telling off from HR. Apparently we aren't allowed to have fun.”
He tries not to smile and I hate the way he looks appealing and sexy. Frustrating bastard.
“What happened?”
I sigh loudly and sink into my chair. Callum stands up and walks around his desk, out of his office and into my space. His proximity warms me, in spite of myself. I hate and love the way he makes me feel.
“According to them we embarrassed the whole company on Friday. We’ve been reminded that we shouldn't be drinking alcohol, enjoying ourselves or even speaking. We should be seen but not heard.” I may be exaggerating but the sting of their reprimand still lingers. Callum stares at me, perplexed.
“What?”
“We're all banned from China's.” It's true. I don't think I've been banned from anywhere before. It's humiliating. “Until further notice.”
Callum's stuck somewhere between amusement and annoyance. I watch as the two emotions battle for supremacy, his expression morphing until he finally settles on bemusement. “Seriously?”
“Yes. They seem to think we're all toddlers. I can't believe they've banned us.” My cheeks flame as brightly as a tomato.
Callum sits on the corne
r of my desk, picking up a sheaf of papers and idly leafing through them. “Ignore it, they'll forget about it before you do. I remember when I was at Oxford...”
I snap. “You tore up somebody's teddy bear?”
He tips his head to the side. “You really think I'm an elitist arsehole, don't you?”
I nervously rake my hands through my hair. “No. Well, maybe… no.” I prevaricate long enough to make us both confused. “I'm sorry, it's just that you wouldn't understand.”
“Try me.” His voice is a whisper.
The frustration crescendos inside me. “You’ve had it easy all of your life, I had to fight my way here, and the fact it could be stolen from me...” I squeeze my eyes shut. “It frightens me.”
“You think I've had it easy?” he questions, his tone strained. “What makes you think you know anything about me?”
My eyes snap open. I stare at him, taking in the way he exudes wealth. “What? Did the silver spoon bend a little in your mouth? Did you get a paper cut on the wad of money your parents gave you?” I sound bitter because I am. I've grown up knowing there are people who are much better off than me, but to have him talking it down in front of me is wrong.
His Scottish burr becomes prominent when he's angry. “You know nothing. You think you're the only one that's suffered? You think money prevents people from feeling pain? Maybe you should walk a few miles in my shoes.”
“What?” I scoff. “Did your nanny spit in your porridge? Did the boys at boarding school shove your head down the toilet?”
He backs away as if I'm full of venom. “Don't say anything else.”
But I'm on a roll. An anti-elitist, no-bullshit roll. “When you've had the bailiffs knocking at your door because you can't pay their exorbitant fucking interest, maybe you can lecture me,” I storm. “When you're afraid to go home because some bloody weirdo might be waiting for you, then you can tell me I'm wrong.”
He frowns. “What weirdo?”
I shake my head, but he steps forward, his face marred with concern. “What fucking weirdo? Tell me.”
When I speak, my voice feels raw, as if I've been flayed. “It's just a guy.”