I padded out of the bedroom, and down to the corridor to the lounge. The sun was already bright and streaming in, and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. I expected to see Nick fussing over the kettle, the toaster, the stove top with eggs and bacon, but the kitchen was entirely empty. I ducked back down the hall to the bathroom, to check if he was in there, because I hadn’t heard any signs that he was. But the bathroom was empty, and clean, as if no one had been in there at all.
OK, he was doing a bagel run. I shrugged, and thought I’d take the time to freshen up and have a quick shower. I turned the water on hot, and stepped under the large rainwater showerhead, the water pummelling down onto my shoulders, kneading out any knots in my muscles. Twenty minutes later I emerged, fresh and clean, with newly washed hair smelling of Nick’s green-apple shampoo.
I walked to his room in the towel, expecting to smell the beautiful wafts of breakfast, but there was still nothing. ‘Nick?’ I called out into the bedroom. No answer.
‘Nick?’ I padded back out into the lounge and kitchen. But it was empty, still. I picked up my phone, but there were no texts or voicemails. I even checked my personal email and my work one, but there was nothing.
How strange.
In the bedroom I tried to think about where else Nick could be. Maybe there’d been a work thing, but then he would have left a note.
I called his work mobile but it went straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. And I didn’t have any other number for him. For the next five minutes I scoured the bedroom and kitchen for a note, but there was absolutely nothing. He kept his minimalist urban-whatever-chic flat super clean, and all the benches were spotless and empty.
It’s not like he’s done a runner, I thought, amused, walking back into the bathroom, not from his own apartment. But it was becoming stranger and stranger that he wasn’t there. I checked the clock, and it was almost eight, and I was going to be late for work if I hung around here any longer. I still had to go home and get a change of clothes, before my day of finalising the menus, and confirming all the media spots, then getting ready for the designer decorations to be shipped into The Westin Hotel and setting up for the big event.
I poked my head out of the front door, but the hallway was empty. I even gingerly looked through Brett’s door, because I knew he was out of town for the week, but his bed was perfectly made up. An hour had gone by; surely if he was picking up bagels, he’d be here by now.
I called Nick’s mobile again, and left a quick voicemail in a slightly shaky voice. ‘Where are you?’ Because suddenly I was getting worried. Had something happened to him?
Somewhere a phone buzzed and it wasn’t mine. Curious, I followed the sound to the lounge. On a small glass table propped against the wall was a charger cord and phone. I leaned over, wondering if it was Nick’s. The phone buzzed again and the screen lit up with several text messages.
And there it was. The reason he wasn’t there. My mouth went dry. Oh, God.
The first was from Honey, around midnight: Hey you, when are you coming over? x
The next two were from Chloe, the first at 5 a.m.: Answer your phone. Need to speak asap xx
And then at 5.25 a.m.: Where are you? On your way? Need you here with me right now. Love you xxx
I ran to the toilet and only just managed to make it before throwing up. I washed my face with cold water, my hands shaking. I looked white and cold and drained in the reflection. I stood there, with only his old white T-shirt on, feeling totally exposed and vulnerable.
Chloe. Honey. Their names felt cold and hard in my mouth like a piece of ice.
My mouth burned. I rinsed it once, twice with water, then toothpaste. I couldn’t process it, them, what had happened with Nick … anything.
Nick was with Honey. He’d lied. To my face. In shock, I walked back into the bedroom, feeling as if I weren’t even in my body. Last night was nothing. It hadn’t felt like nothing, but then, that was what players did, made it seem like things were real, when they weren’t. He was playing us all, wasn’t he? He had to be. God, I felt like such an idiot.
I was grabbing my clothes, sliding on my pants, whilst hopping around the room. ‘Where’s my shirt?’ I was picking up items of clothes off the floor. His jeans. His belt buckle. His jumper. ‘WHERE’S MY SHIRT?’
Tears burnt at the corners of my eyes; my throat had a massive lump in it. There was a stabbing and pulling in my chest, in my heart. And that was the only reason I knew I was still breathing. I found my shirt under the bed, and pulled it on, and left his apartment.
***
I went home and got straight into bed, sending a quick email in the cab to Glenn: Sorry can’t make it in today, really sick. Before switching my phone off, and crying softly until I fell asleep.
When I woke up a few hours later, the same sentences were playing out in my head.
When are you coming over?
Need you here with me right now xxx
Their words kept haunting me.
I switched my phone on just after midday, expecting Nick to have contacted me – but nothing came through. I looked at my texts, my emails, my missed calls. Nothing from Nick. Nothing. That was how little he cared about me?
My head was a mess. I kept thinking about how he’d kissed me, as if he liked me, no – as if he almost loved me. I’d let him in last night, really let him in. I’d been completely vulnerable, because I’d thought he felt as I did. As if we had a connection, as if it was special.
The truth was, I was one of several girls. Who knew how many? I felt like throwing up again and ran into the bathroom, hanging my head over the toilet, but I only managed to spit out some saliva. In the bathroom mirror I looked dreadful, tired and drawn, dark and puffy circles under my eyes.
I curled back up in my bed, and turned my phone back off again. What had last night meant to him? Clearly nothing. The lump in my stomach hardened. Who slept with someone when they were seeing other people? Nick did.
I just felt like staying in my studio apartment forever. I couldn’t even bring myself to tell Tansy or Maggie; it felt too raw, too painful. And if anyone had reached out to comfort me, I felt as if I’d start crying and never stop.
Suddenly, I did that terrible thing that girls who had been dumped or ghosted did. I started thinking, what could I do to get him back? I thought about a thousand texts I could send: the hurt texts, the ‘do you care?’ texts, the ‘Where the fuck are you!?’ texts. I even thought about the nonchalant texts, ‘Hey where did you go mister?’ texts, just to get a reaction. A response. Anything.
I pulled out my phone and switched it on, tempted to craft the perfect message. But what was that message? I started to type out a few beginnings …
Hey is everything OK? Where are you? I’m worried. (Too bland and way too nice.)
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? (Too much.)
So I woke up this morning, and you were gone. Smiley face. I’m a big girl, and managed to get home OK, but I missed you. Where did you go? (Way too much of a pushover.)
Hey, a heads up. What you did was so uncool. Don’t ever do this to other girls. Think about your actions. (Too teachery. That was the thing about guys who cheated: they didn’t care in the first place. Trying to appeal to their heart or conscience and force them to care would never work.)
I saw the texts Nick. I saw them. Chloe. Honey. Who else? Who else are you screwing over? FUCKING JERK. (Too … something.)
That was what Old Emma would have done. Old Emma would have sent a text. She would have sent many texts – probably all of them. Old Emma who thought everything was her fault.
I wrote each one, and then deleted them. I didn’t see why Nick got to leave, and then I was the one chasing him. Besides, what if I sent a message, and he still didn’t respond? Then I’d become fixed to my phone, obsessed to see if my message had been delivered. If he’d read it. Looking for those three dots that suggested he was writing back. There was nothing worse than waiting for someone else, when t
hey might never respond. It was the horrible unknown, the mystery of not knowing what the hell was going on.
I knew texting him and waiting obsessively for a response wouldn’t help me at all. Using all my willpower, I put my phone down.
The lump formed again in my throat. Nick was a cheater and a player. Nick, who was also my boss. Oh, God. My stomach sank and I felt sick. I couldn’t go back to work. Maybe ever. I’d be reminded of him every morning, his office, his couch. The way his aftershave made our team area smell of leather and mint and the woods. I’d be reminded of him everywhere. I wouldn’t be able to go into a meeting with him without feeling sick. Or wanting to hurl a chair at his awfully good-looking head. I’d never be able to go near Hyde Park again. His apartment.
I could see exactly what life would be like – avoiding Nick, more projects, more deadlines, more babysitting, more working round the clock, then coming back to a damp studio apartment. More spending money I didn’t have. More lonely singles walks. More long weekends with not much to do. I’d feel empty. I’d feel as if everyone was getting on with their lives – with kids and marriages and house renovations – and I would be stuck.
A wash of panic came over me. I had to leave Maker. I couldn’t stay. But I couldn’t just quit, could I? Not without another job. I had bills to pay. Rent. And even though Maker paid a mere pittance, it was better than nothing.
All at once, this feeling felt all too familiar. This one had snuck up on me, and pulled the rug out from underneath. But it felt like The White Horror all over again. Failing at something. Miserably. And then being left alone, to pick up the pieces.
I grabbed a bottle of sav blanc and a large glass and I flicked on the TV, and what did you know? Bridget Jones was on. I thought, Is that me? Single. Living in pajamas. Eating cereal straight from a box. Drinking straight from a bottle of wine. Terrible luck in love. Because it was true, no matter what I wore, or how I did my hair, perhaps I’d never be as cool or gorgeous as Donna or Sadie or Honey. Perhaps it was time to accept I was just plain old Bridget Jones. Before she got Mr Darcy. And maybe there wasn’t even a Darcy for me.
I grabbed a handful of cereal clusters from the box and shoved them into my mouth. For a second last night, I had thought Nick could be my Darcy, but the truth was clear: Nick was my boss. And it seemed as if he was also into other women. Nick was very clearly my Daniel Cleaver.
Suddenly my phone beeped with a text. I lunged at it, sure it would be Nick. But it was Glenn.
PR mixer tonight. Take a Tylenol. You need to represent Maker.
Chapter 24
The PR mixer function was already buzzing when I arrived. It was a monthly get-together of everyone in the industry and it reeked of style. All around me, women in slinky black jumpsuits and Alexander McQueen scarves were carrying Champagne as if it were a life source. Botoxed to the hilt, no one made any expression, so you had to listen very carefully to their voices, which was the only way you knew if they were angry or ecstatic.
Young twenty- and thirty-something men in tight pants, and open-necked, lumberjack, red and blue plaid shirts looked as though they’d just come in from chopping logs to chat about artisanal bread and microbrewerys, some with man buns, and all of them with perfect man hands – which made me swoon. And the older men were all pocket hankerchiefs and perfect navy three-piece suits. Also swoon.
I felt completely out of place in my black A-line dress, with capped sleeves, a blue snakeskin belt and ankle boots. The dress had become a little, um, tight, after too many nights wolfing down mac and cheese when I was too tired to cook. It was especially restrictive under my arms, like a squeezing boa constrictor, so I had to lift them up at intervals to keep the blood flowing. Plus, I’d had to heap a pile of make-up on, and a lifetime of concealer under my eyes, just to look as though I hadn’t been crying all day.
As Glenn had suggested, I had dosed up a little, not on Tylenol, but Panadeine Forte. It was meant for really bad pain, like migraines, or being left alone in apartments. Just one tiny tablet. But already, it had helped to take the edge off, so at least I wasn’t feeling as anxious as I had been an hour ago; in fact, I felt a bit warm and light-headed and floaty.
I was proud that I’d managed to put my phone away in my bag and not think about Nick, Daniel Cleavering his way around the office. Well, not much. I had even managed to stop looking at the entrance to the PR mixer, seeing if Nick was going to walk in. I didn’t know what I’d do if he did. I didn’t want to create a scene, but maybe I could throw a Champagne or the entire food table at him and call him a jerk.
I repositioned my badge, looked around, and smiled half-heartedly at some glitzy woman who totally blanked me, as if I were just empty space.
Some people had nightmares about turning up to school naked. Some people about being eaten alive by rats. I had a recurring nightmare about having to make small talk with business people, and, even worse, perfectly glitzy, very cool people, and never knowing what to say. For me, a party in full swing where nobody noticed I was there was perfect, just like this one. That way I just hung about the food table, where, thankfully, because this was a PR gathering, it was completely untouched.
‘You’re Emma, right?’
‘Yes.’ I turned around to see who was asking. A tall guy smiled. He was cute. Spiky dark hair, strong jawline, a little stubble on his face – not too much or too little, in fact on a Goldilocks’ scale it was just right. He was at least a head taller than me and he had piercing green eyes. But I hated men right now, especially gorgeous ones, so he could just get lost.
‘Trent,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Enjoying the night?’
‘The free food,’ I said, refusing to shake his hand, instead picking up another falafel from the table and shoving it in my mouth. Please go away.
He leaned over to me, and, slightly touching his hand on my lower back, whispered, ‘Little known fact but the bruschetta here is out of this world. They do something sinful to true Italians and put avocado on it and then tomato, garlic and buffalo mozzarella. To die for.’
‘Noted,’ I said, stepping away from his hand, leaning over to grab three small toasted sourdough bruschettas. I piled them into my mouth at the same time, hoping this would disgust him. Unfortunately, it didn’t. He stood there staring at me in awe, or almost, it seemed, admiration.
‘You’re with Maker,’ he said, still sounding full of awe.
‘Who are you here with?’ I said, looking for his name tag. ‘Let me guess, a bunch of Botoxed women and over-compensating men. Possibly also Botoxed.’
He let out a laugh. ‘Wow, you hold nothing back, do you?’
I responded by grabbing another bruschetta and shoving it in my mouth.
Trent continued. ‘I’m here with the usual gang. We’re a small boutique PR firm. Hunters. Have you heard of it? We get the entrails of the deals you guys at Maker decline. Then Cromwells decline it. Then Red Hot. Then maybe it reaches us.’ He laughed. ‘So basically, I’m trying to get the world excited about new local medical equipment currently. They’re not.’
That made me smile a little, even though I tried not to. Which unfortunately seemed to encourage him to keep talking.
‘What are you working on?’ he asked casually, leaning over to get another bruschetta. ‘Told you these were genius.’
‘It’s top secret.’ I shoved another falafel in my mouth so I didn’t have to say any more.
‘Who am I going to tell? The large gathering of orthopaedic surgeons I meet each Monday?’
I shrugged. ‘I’m sworn to secrecy.’ I made a pretend blood oath pact. And he laughed.
‘Oh, to be involved in something that has a bit of secrecy about it. That’s the dream. Can I get you another Champagne? Wine? Whisky?’
Whisky. I thought about the last time I’d had whisky. Nick. Ugh. He flew into my thoughts before I could even stop myself. Just like that a surge of sadness filled my stomach. I needed not to think about him at all. I looked down; my glass was half
empty. ‘Sure, why not? Champagne.’
Trent nodded the waiter over and handed me a Champagne. ‘For the beautiful lady.’
I laughed bitterly. ‘Beautiful? Is that your standard pick-up line? Think you can do better than that. I mean, you are in PR.’
‘OK,’ he said thoughtfully, mulling it over for a few seconds. ‘How about this? Emma of the Maker Clan. Wearer of tight black dresses. Holder of amazing green eyes. Sporting a Kim Kardashian booty – not that I’m looking; I’m a gentleman. OK, I looked a bit.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘Eater of Falafels. Taster of Bruschetta. Someone I’d like to meet again.’
‘Well, now we know one thing. You’re an absolute Game of Thrones geek,’ I said, taking a sip of Champagne. His joking was having a softening effect on me, or was that the Panadeine Forte kicking up a notch?
‘How about we take a walk out into the gardens here? They’re quite magical. No dragons, I’m afraid.’ He offered up his arm. ‘Then I promise we can come back for food replenishments.’
I thought about Nick again, and gave the room a quick glance, but he still wasn’t there. Not that I needed him to see that I was fine. Although, it couldn’t have hurt to see me on the arm of some other gorgeous man.
‘OK, then.’ But I didn’t take his arm, instead I strode out in front, through the large ballroom and out into the gardens. Trent wasn’t lying; it was magical. A landscaped garden with a fountain in the middle led into a large hedge maze that made me feel I was lost in a labyrinth. Tiny fairy lights dotted the sky, strung like pearls, the only light besides the almost-full moon.
‘I didn’t know anything like this existed in the city,’ I said, running my fingers along the perfectly cut tree walls, thinking this could be a good place to hide from the people at the mixer, or from my life.
‘Haven’t been to one of these functions before?’
‘No, I’m new back in the city and new to these PR functions,’ I said distractedly, still staring around at the hedge, which was almost as tall as my head. I could just see over it, and manage to get my way in and out – should I ever need to become lost, this could be great place.
Just As You Are Page 21
