Canada Square (Love in London #3)

by Carrie Elks

  “So do hearts,” he says pointedly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time.” His eyes shine even though the tears have stemmed.

  “I don’t think mine will.” I let out a sob, covering my mouth with my hand. “I’m never going to be happy again.”

  I miss him, Christ how I miss him. His smile, his touch, the knowledge he feels the same way I do. It’s hard to believe it’s only been three days since I last saw him; three days since his lips last pressed against mine. A day without Callum seems dark as night.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Digger covers the short distance between the chair and my bed in less than two seconds. Maybe I shouldn’t let him scoop me into his arms and drop my head onto his shoulder as I cry hard, letting his t-shirt soak up the tears. But I do it anyway, and it actually makes me feel better, if only for a moment.

  “I love him,” I wail, holding onto him.

  “I know.”

  “And he doesn’t want me.”

  He strokes my hair softly. “Who wouldn’t want you? You’re beautiful, you’re funny and you’re clever as anything. I’m so proud to see how you’ve turned out.”

  His words begin to warm my ice-cold heart. “It’s not enough,” I say.

  Digger wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs, their roughness a contrast to the smooth skin of my face. “You are enough,” he tells me. “You’re more than enough, and nothing else matters. You might not realise it now, and it’s going to take a while for you to get over this, but one day you’ll look back and realise just how strong you are. And how proud you make me.”

  I look up, catching his gaze through slick eyelashes. “Thank you,” I say. I mean it, too. It’s not as though I’m throwing myself into his embrace like a long-lost daughter and begging him to become part of our Brady Bunch, but the fact he’s put aside his discomfort—not to mention risked provoking Alex’s ire—to come up and talk to me is enough right now. I might not want to call him ‘Dad’, and I certainly don’t want to see him kissing my mum again, but part of me wants to give him another chance.

  After everything that’s happened, this might be the only positive chance I get.

  * * *

  “How are you?” Charlie slides onto the swivel chair next to mine, his legs splayed so his feet can pivot on the floor. “Feeling any better?”

  I look up from my laptop. It’s my first day back in the office and it’s taking longer to boot up than usual. As if it’s fed up with me for ignoring it for five days.

  “I’m okay,” I say, rubbing my eyes. They’re tight and itchy from too many tears and not enough sleep, but a good covering of concealer has hidden most of the damage.

  Charlie pushes himself along on the chair until he’s close to me. The arm of his chair hits mine.

  “Hey, we’re not on the dodgems,” I tell him.

  He raises an eyebrow. “The whole point of dodgems, Amy, is to dodge ‘em. You’re thinking of bumper cars.”

  I glance at him warily. “I can guarantee that’s not what I’m thinking.” What I’m actually thinking—in the small amount of consciousness that’s not aching for my laptop to load so that I can see if Callum is logged on—is that I want to be left alone. Preferably for the next two months.

  Right up to graduation.

  Charlie gets the message and backs away. “I bought you a Mars bar,” he says, laying the black-wrapped chocolate bar on the desk in front of me. “I thought you might need the sugar rush.”

  I run my finger along the bar. “Thank you, I’ll save it for later.”

  “You really aren’t alright.”

  Doing my best to attempt a smile, I look over at him. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not. If you were fine you’d have shoved the whole of that bar into your greedy gob by now. If you were fine you’d be begging me to make you a cup of tea to go with it, or suggesting we head over to Starbucks for an early coffee.”

  The mention of coffee makes my chest hurt.

  “Okay, so I will be fine. In time.” It doesn’t even convince me. As for Charlie, he wrinkles his nose and goes to grab the Mars bar. I snatch it back from him, pulling out my desk drawer and depositing it inside. I may not want it now, but it’s chocolate after all.

  “Oh, by the way, I gave Caro a talking to,” Charlie says, standing up and pushing his chair back to where he found it. “Left her in no doubt what a bitch I think she is. I wanted to slap her, really, but I was too scared I’d get done for assault.”

  The corner of my lip twitches. “That’s a shame.”

  “It is,” he agrees, cheerily. “But there’s nothing to stop you.”

  “Apart from my need to keep this job. And the small matter of my degree.” My voice is dry. “But thanks for the suggestion.”

  “Any time.” With that he leaves, and although the invisible band around my chest hasn’t loosened much, it seems more bearable than it did before.

  * * *

  The next hour is spent reading my emails. I start to whip out replies, my fingers flying across the keyboard, before realising I’m late for a project meeting. I arrive ten minutes after it’s started, all too aware of my dishevelled appearance, and find myself grilled on project costs and overruns.

  When I get back to my desk, I click on instant messenger and type Callum’s name into the box. The system finds him immediately, and the little green icon tells me everything I need to know.

  He’s online right now.

  I reach out for my coffee mug, hoping the bitter liquid will give me the courage I’m sorely lacking. I want to message him—of course I do—but after days of being ignored, my ability to take rejection has hit an all-time low. Unanswered emails have filled up my ‘sent’ folder, and I don’t know how much more I can subject myself to.

  I type and delete over and over. ‘Hi’ seems too vacuous, ‘Why won’t you talk to me’ too demanding. I try—and fail—to hit the right note, to sound breezy without being careless, and in the end I settle for an old favourite.

  Cartwright, A: How are you?

  I hit return and stare at the screen until the little tick appears, confirming it’s been received.

  The wait for a reply is excruciating. The program tells me that Ferguson, C is typing, and knowing he’s going to communicate sends my heart into a tailspin.

  I only realise I’m holding my breath when my chest starts to protest, a burning sensation causing me to blow the air out. I sit, stare, and wait for my laptop to ping, knowing that any minute he’s going to respond.

  But he doesn’t. Instead the ‘typing’ icon disappears, followed quickly by the green icon next to his name. Within a minute he’s offline, and it doesn’t take a genius to realise he’s deliberately turned off messenger.

  The bastard’s ignoring me again.

  I pick up my coffee cup, wanting to throw it in anger, but then I think better of it. As much as I’d love to see the mug fly across the room and make a satisfying dent in the wall, the last thing I need is another chat with Diana Joseph. Instead I let out a furious shout, my yell cutting through the background noise, causing everybody to turn and stare at me.

  My cheeks flush, and I gesture at my laptop, as if to tell them I’m having an IT problem. Curiosity sated, they turn back to their work, leaving me staring at the blank computer screen.

  I’m completely and utterly enraged. If Callum was here now I’d happily smash my fist into his gorgeous face. How dare he just walk away and ignore me as if everything that happened meant nothing to him? My hands flex with the need to hit something, but there’s nothing here to punch.

  I do the next best thing—I write him an email. My fingers hit the keyboard with angry jabs, each word an attempt to hurt him as he’s hurt me. I want him to know exactly how I feel and precisely what I think of him. I want him to understand the pain I’m going through.

  From: Amy.Cartwright@richardsandmorgan.com

  To: Callum.Ferguson@richardsandmorgan.com

  Subject: Arsehole
<
br />   You’re a coward, do you know that? I’ve been calling you for five days, sending you messages and emails and still you haven’t got the guts to answer. I don’t care if you think ‘it’s better this way’ or that you told Jonathan you’re doing this for my own good, because if you’d bothered to ask me what I wanted, you’d know that I didn’t want this.

  Do you remember saying you loved me and you’d never let me go? Yet at the first sign of trouble you’ve run away to Scotland and left me facing everything on my own.

  You can’t go around playing with people's emotions like this. You can’t simply decide what’s best for me without consulting me first. You can’t send me a message through your friend like a fourteen-year-old schoolboy and expect me to do what you say.

  I LOVE YOU, you arsehole. I love you and I care for you and I want to be with you. I want to be with you more than I want this job. More than I want my degree. As far as I’m concerned, the whole of Richards and Morgan can go and take a running jump.

  You told me that I made you breathe again. Well, I’m the one who’s suffocating now. I’m scared and I’m alone and I can’t believe you’ve left me without a word. What kind of man does that to the woman he’s supposed to love? What sort of person ignores her when she calls him in tears?

  The type of man I’ve fallen in love with, I suppose.

  Before you say it, I know sending this through the IT network could put my job in danger, and maybe I’m hoping that it will. Because if I can’t have you, I don’t want this job either, so I hope IT read it and report me to every single director. Right now, I couldn’t care less.

  I know you’re not going to reply, and I can promise that I’m not going to email you again. Somewhere deep inside me, I still have a shred of dignity left.

  Did I tell you you’re an arsehole?

  Amy.

  I hit send before I can persuade myself out of it, then lean heavily back in my chair, weariness overtaking my body. My anger slowly dissipates until I feel nothing but numb, not even regretful at the tone of my message.

  Later that afternoon, when I come back from a meeting, I get a reply. It’s short, sour and it’s everything I need to know. It breaks my heart with seven letters.

  Goodbye.

  30

  “Your lipstick’s smudged.” Ellie reaches out with a tissue, wiping red from the corner of my mouth. Chucking the balled-up paper into the bin, she reaches out to hug me, her yoga-toned arms wrapping around mine.

  “What’s that for?” I ask.

  “Because you only went and bloody did it. You’re about to graduate with a first class degree and I’m scared stupid that you’re not going to want to be my best friend any more.”

  “Don’t be silly.” I squeeze her tight. “You’ll always be my best friend. I won’t forget everything you’ve done for me.”

  Her eyes glisten when she steps back. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

  “It’s only for six months,” I tell her. “Anyway, you’re going to come and see me, right? Even if I have to buy your air ticket.”

  “An all-expenses paid trip to New York? Let me think about it…” Ellie scratches her chin with her forefinger. “Um, okay, if I have to.”

  The smile I give her is genuine, and warmth floods my chest when I look at her. If it wasn’t for her support over these past two months I don’t know if I’d have survived. “Your sacrifice won’t go unnoticed,” I tell her.

  She’s about to say something when a voice comes over the tannoy, announcing the start of the ceremony.

  I shout a hasty goodbye and run back to my chair in the auditorium, my navy-blue graduation gown billowing behind me. As I sit down I tuck my hair into the matching mortarboard that we’ve hired for the day.

  A good thing about having a surname near the beginning of the alphabet is that I’m one of the first to be called. Of course, everything is relative, and there are still hundreds of ‘As’ and ‘Bs’ before me, but in a fairly short time I find myself crossing the stage to be handed my degree.

  I’m no longer a student, but a graduate. I have a degree that nobody can take away. And this qualification has led to an offer of six months in New York, working for Daniel Grant.

  When I climb down the steps on the other side of the stage, I scan the audience for my family. Mum, Alex, Andie and Lara are clapping madly, and when my brother catches my eye, he waves, pride written all over his face.

  I don’t know how he managed to get a ticket, when the allocation was strictly two per graduate. A couple of weeks ago he called to tell me he had managed to secure another two, and that he and Lara would be accompanying Mum and Andie. I hate to think what he did to get them—knowing Alex it was probably highly immoral or costly—but I’m so glad he’s here.

  After all, it was their love and support that got me here.

  With my rolled-up certificate firmly in my hand, I make my way back to my seat. In spite of the warm day outside, there’s a chill breeze in the auditorium, and I can feel goose bumps break out across my skin. My mind wanders as I sit and shiver, barely noticing as names are called out, and friends and strangers alike walk across the stage.

  Instead I wonder why I’m not feeling more victorious, and why this achievement doesn’t taste as sweet as it should. After all, I’ve crossed off two steps in my plan; I’ve got my degree and I’ve secured a placement in New York, enough to get me the hell out of Plaistow.

  It doesn’t take long for my thoughts to turn to him. Like a compass, the needle always points north. To Edinburgh.

  In the months since I last saw Callum, I’ve had no contact. Nothing at all. Every now and then, when I was feeling particularly masochistic, I looked his name up on the messaging system at Richards and Morgan. Seeing the online icon lit up next to his name always made my heart speed, the same way it did when he used to smile at me.

  I don’t know how I got through that first month. Each day was a struggle. Getting out of bed felt like wading through tar. The pain was physical as well as emotional. My chest ached, my stomach turned, and my muscles felt as though I’d been through ten rounds in the boxing ring. Sleep led me an elusive dance—always beyond my reach.

  In the final few weeks of my placement, things were no better at Richards and Morgan. Half of the interns ostracized me—on Caro Hawes’ instructions, I assumed—and the others just looked at me with pity. Gossip followed me around the office like vultures around a carcass, but whether their suppositions came close to the truth I never found out.

  I simply didn’t care.

  The nights were the worst. In the daytime, even when I was at my lowest, I could be distracted by work, conversation and the lure of bitter coffee. But when I went to bed there was nothing but darkness and the twisting spirals of my depressive thoughts. Each memory would be like a hand crushing my heart, reminding me of all I had, and of everything I lost.

  The second month was better. Though the pain remained, my placement coming to an end was a balm to my troubled soul. I’d loved my work but I hated the office, and I especially despised the memories that seemed pasted to the walls like paper. I couldn’t wait to leave, working in the same company as him was stopping me from moving on. That’s why I jumped at the offer of a job in New York. Leaving London was the only thing I had to look forward to.

  “Amy?” I look up to see Alex standing in front of me. Before I can say anything he pulls me out of my chair and against his chest, his tattooed, muscled arms wrapping around my slight frame. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispers into my hair. “The first Cartwright to get a degree.”

  Before I know it my family are surrounding me, and we’re a tangled mess of hugs and tears. My mum sobs loudly, enough for people around us to stare, and Andie suggests we head to the pub. I say goodbye to the few friends I made on the course, and let my family lead me out of the hall. As always, everybody is talking at once.

  We’ve hired the function room at a local pub; a small, wood-panelled room with high, vaulted cei
lings and dusty windows that block out the sun. Alex and Andie clubbed together to pay for the buffet, and Mum has laid on the Prosecco. Shortly after we arrive, the room fills with family and friends. They hug me and ask me to model my mortarboard for them. In the end I cave in and let them take photos, all too aware that these embarrassing pictures will follow me around for the rest of my life.

  Digger walks in about twenty minutes later, and comes over to congratulate me. He presses a card into my hand, his fingers rough from years of hard work, his eyes wary when Alex approaches us. Though neither of them says a word to each other, I count the lack of punches as a victory. Today is my day, and for now an armistice has been called.

  A few of the interns and managers from Richards and Morgan—those who are still talking to me—pop in during their lunch breaks from work. Although they’re still on Company time, it doesn't seem to phase them as they accept glasses of sparkling wine and stuff their mouths with sausage rolls. A few months ago I’d have been mortified for them to meet my family, but now I introduce them to Mum, Andie and Alex with pride.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Charlie reaches out to shake my brother’s hand. He looks alarmed at all the tattoos and the muscles that define Alex’s arms but he manages to keep his calm.

  Jonathan runs in for ten minutes between meetings. I’ve already had my leaving presentation at work, when he said lovely things before gifting me a Mont Blanc pen and £300 worth of Amazon vouchers. He takes the time to introduce himself to my mum, making sure to tell her how well I’ve done, and how sad Richards and Morgan are to see me go.

  For the first time in months I find myself feeling content. There are fifty people in this room, and the fact that they've come out on a sunny Friday afternoon to join in the celebration is heart warming. A shaft of sunlight breaks its way through the window; dust dancing in its spotlight. When it hits my face, spreading warmth across my skin, it makes me want to smile.