by Carrie Elks
“Tell me.”
He's so reassuring it frightens me, and I'm aware that's a contradiction. But I've never relied on anybody except Alex and Andy, and the fact he's trying to involve himself in my problems is alarming.
“It's nothing.”
“Bullshit,” he says. “What fucking weirdo is waiting for you?”
I don't know whether I want Callum to back off or hold on. “There was some guy hanging around my house last week. He knew my name.”
“Did you call the police?” he asks with clipped words. It's obvious that in his easy, clean-cut world, involving the law would be the only thing to do.
“My mum...” I feel like I'm cracking. “She doesn't always stay on the right side of the law. Where I live we don't call the police.”
Callum leans towards me. “You should.”
I shake my head. “We don't involve the police. We have our own sense of justice. An eye for an eye...”
“Amy, if this guy bothers you again you need to call me.”
“That's what my brother said.”
“Thank God somebody's talking some sense. Promise you'll phone next time.”
I say nothing, looking at him through wide eyes.
“Promise me, Amy.”
I nod. “Okay.” It comes out as a sigh.
“Good. Now get some work done and then we'll go out for lunch.”
“What?”
“I still owe you that drink, remember?”
I sit back, staring at my boss. He's looking at me through pretty green irises, his mouth wearing a half-frown. I'm torn between touching him and drawing away, unsure of myself, unsure of him. When I answer him, it feels as if I'm reliving a nightmare. Painful. Awkward.
“I remember.”
* * *
Callum spends the next hour in a teleconference. His door is closed and I'm thankful for it, because he's confusing me, making me feel emotions I don't want to feel. I don't need to be protected; I don't need to feel safe. I don't need to feel this ache deep inside.
I spend every second of those sixty minutes trying to centre myself, remembering why I'm here. Degree, job and get out of here. Everything else is simply distraction.
I achieve nothing, apart from watching the words on my laptop screen float and dance in front of my eyes, the black letters blurring into a single mass. I hate feeling like this, all open and vulnerable, when I've worked so hard to grow a shell around me, but I feel powerless.
One step forward, two steps back.
Callum steps out of his office just after twelve. His hair is messy, his shirt half-pulled out of his waistband, his tie askew.
He looks glorious, despite my determination to stay strong.
“Give me five minutes and then we'll head out.” He smiles at me and my traitorous pulse speeds.
“There’s no need, honestly. I've brought lunch with me.” I pick up the foil-wrapped cheese and pickle sandwich I scraped together this morning. It folds limply in my hand and I put it down. “Yeah, it's appetising.”
He grins, revealing white, even teeth. “Come on, we deserve it. I promise not to take you to China's.”
“Good job, I'm banned,” I remind him.
He nods. “I just got the email from HR. I have to admit I'm tempted to take you anyway, see what they do when we walk through the door.”
“That's easy for you to say, it's not your job on the line,” I huff.
“Which is exactly why we're heading for The Don.”
I look up at him, surprised. “Seriously?” The Don is a swanky restaurant in the City of London, in a small courtyard on St. Swithin's Lane. It's a taxi ride away, far enough to take longer than my allotted 45 minutes for lunch, and part of me is afraid I'm going to get told off. Again.
“Seriously,” he repeats. “Grab your coat and we'll get a cab.”
Ten minutes later we're climbing into a black taxi, Callum taking the back seat while I pull down one of the chairs opposite. I suppose I could have sat next to him, but somehow that feels too presumptuous. I remain straight as a rod as we drive along the river, past the Rotherhithe tunnel and Tower of London, before the taxi comes to a stop just past the restaurant. Callum leans forward, his hand brushing my shoulder, and hands the driver a twenty-pound note. He climbs out, holding the door open and offering his hand as I step onto the pavement.
“Thank you.”
He squeezes my fingers. “You're welcome.”
There's an atmosphere growing between us I don't quite understand. It makes my spine tingle and my breath shorten as we walk into the restaurant, my hand opening and closing as it brushes against his.
I linger behind as he talks to the maître d', his bearing relaxed and assured. They both laugh and speak rapidly, before Callum reaches out for me. “Are you ready?”
I stare at his outstretched hand. It feels as if I'm standing on the edge, scared to step onward, afraid to move back. I nod tightly, ignoring his hand, and the host leads us down some stairs to a low-ceilinged vaulted room. It’s empty except for the three of us.
“Where's everybody else?” I ask. It's half past twelve, late enough for the restaurant to be full.
“This is the private dining room,” Callum tells me. “I thought you'd be more comfortable here.”
Oddly, he's right. It does feel more welcoming, less in the spotlight than the glitzy restaurant upstairs. I’m touched by his kindness, with the knowledge he thought of me when booking a table.
“Thank you.” The maître d' pulls out my chair and I slide into it, letting him push me back in. Callum sits opposite me, nodding at the waiter who brings over the wine list. He glances at it for a moment before reeling off a request that flies right over my head.
I get the impression the waiter knows Callum well. It's in the way he takes his instructions, the way they talk.
Leaning forward, I cup my chin in my palms. “So,” I say. “Do you come here often?”
He chokes out a laugh. “Smooth.”
I grin. “Thank you. I pride myself on my chat-up lines.”
“You're very good at it.” His voice drops. “Have you been practising?”
The waiter opens the bottle of Fleurie, pouring a dash for Callum to taste. He smells it, swilling the red liquid around in his glass, and gestures for the waiter to fill up our glasses. Callum stares at me, enough to make me feel heated and awkward.
“I've just come out of a long term relationship,” I blurt out, grabbing my wine glass and swallowing a mouthful. “I can't even remember how to flirt.”
He takes a sip of his own glass. “Tell me about him.”
“My ex?” I ask, my voice raised. “Why do you want to hear about him?”
Callum shrugs. “Maybe I'm a masochist. Indulge me.”
The waiter slides menus into our hands without trying, while I attempt to form the words to explain my life.
“I met Luke when we were fifteen,” I say. “We were in the same science classes and ended up sitting next to each other. I was pretty low at that point. I'd just been diagnosed with scoliosis and told I'd have to wear a back brace, and I was pretty sure that nobody would want me. But Luke was...” I search for the right way to put it. “He was understanding and sweet and made me feel good about myself.”
The waiter comes over to take our order and Callum murmurs to him quietly, not taking his eyes from mine. He makes me feel safe and on edge at the same time.
“You were grateful?” Callum asks.
“Looking back he made me think that way, too. As if I should be pleased he was paying me attention, regardless of my problems. I think he played on my insecurities.”
In fact I know he did. He'd pay me backhanded compliments, telling me I had a good body in spite of my spine, that I was pretty for a girl with a disability. But I didn't see it at the time. I was too grateful for his attention, too desperate to feel normal. He was an expert at making me feel indebted.
“The first time he was unfaithful I knew it was my fault.�
� My voice breaks. I thought I was over this, but saying it out loud dredges up painful memories.
“He's an arsehole,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“I know that now. But back then I really thought it was my fault. If I was prettier, if I was normal, maybe I'd be able to keep him.”
“You are normal. As normal as any of us are. And what the hell is normal anyway?” Callum asks.
“It's what I always wanted to be. When I was a kid and everybody's dad came to their school plays and I only had my mum. When I was a teenager and everybody could wear tight clothes and I had to wear baggy dresses.” My eyes glisten with unshed tears. “Even now I feel out of place. I've got too much ambition for my friends at home, but I don't belong at Richards and Morgan either.”
“Of course you do.”
“I'm the only intern who isn't from Oxford or Cambridge,” I tell him. “They only took me on as a token gesture. Trying to show how liberal they are.”
“You're better than the rest of them put together.” He slides his hands up mine, grabbing hold of my wrist. The movement sends shoots of pleasure down to the tips of my toes. “You're not a token gesture.”
The waiter brings our starters—two steaming bowls of soup. Callum releases my arm and I immediately feel the loss.
“You said you didn't have a dad. Are your parents divorced?” he asks.
I spoon some soup between my lips, the broth burning the tip of my tongue. “He's dead. Was killed in the first Gulf war when I was a baby.”
“He was a soldier?”
“Yes.” I feel the need to wipe away any sheen of romanticism. “He hooked up with my mum a few times then walked out of our lives. Don't feel sorry for me, I never knew him.”
“I know what it's like to lose somebody.” Callum pushes his half-eaten bowl of soup away. “So I'll feel the way I want to.”
I look up at him through my lashes. The air between us is laden with something intangible, drawing us together whether I want it to or not. “You've lost somebody?”
“My wife. She died two years ago.”
The soup in my stomach feels thick and viscous, curdling inside me. I remember that photograph, the way he looked so happy standing next to that beautiful blonde. His wife. His dead wife.
“I'm sorry.” I play idly with my spoon, twisting and turning it inside my soup bowl. It's clear neither of us has much of an appetite. “That must have been awful.”
He catches my gaze with his beautiful eyes. “It was.” He blinks, lashes thick. Then he steals my words. “Don't feel sorry for me.”
He pours us both another glass of wine, and I'm surprised at how fast the first glass has disappeared. I can feel the alcohol working its magic, making my muscles loose and fluid. “Should we drink this much at lunchtime?”
“Probably not,” he admits. “But I think we need it, don't you?”
As if to underline his point I swallow another mouthful. “How did she die?”
“She had a heart attack in the middle of the night. Cocaine-induced.” He drains his glass, drops of red wine clinging to his lips. “By the time I woke up she was dead.”
I try to imagine the horror. It's one thing to have a father killed in combat in a country thousands of miles away, another to lose the love of your life at such a young age.
Especially when she was so beautiful. So vibrant.
“That's terrible.”
“Yes.”
Tears sting at my eyes and I squeeze them shut, unwilling to let him see them fall. But the thought of him going through that, seeing her lying dead next to him, is enough to strike me dumb. This time it's me who reaches out and threads my fingers between his. I circle his knuckles with my palm, warming his skin with my own. His touch makes me shiver.
“Don't cry.” He reaches out with his free hand, capturing a rogue tear. It beads on his finger and he stares at it for a moment.
It's that confusion that steals my breath. The way he stares at my tear as if he can't understand what it is. For the first time I realise we don’t just share an employer. Both of us are more damaged than we're willing to admit.
Silence descends as our main courses arrive, but it crackles like static. As I chew on a steak that melts in my mouth, I realise that I'm not just falling for my boss.
I've already fallen. And it hurts.
12
The following Friday evening Charlie walks into the office, his coat buttoned to the top and a striped scarf hanging around his neck. He slumps onto the sofa on the other side of the room, groaning loudly as he drops his head into the backrest, closing his eyes.
“Hi,” I say, amused. I've noticed he has a tendency to the dramatic. “Have you got problems?”
“Ninety nine,” he replies, cracking open an eyelid. “But the bitch ain't one.”
I pull open my drawer and slide my laptop inside. “Well, on the bright side it's Friday,” I say lightly. “Time to kick back and relax.”
I glance at Callum's office. Though the door is closed I can see him pacing behind the frosted glass, no doubt talking rapidly into his headset. Things have been strained since our alcohol-fuelled lunch, as if neither of us is sure how we’re supposed to treat each other any more. Our mutual confessions left me feeling as if we are more than just boss and subordinate, but I know there's nothing else we can be.
I think he's been avoiding me, and in many ways that's left me relieved. It's always easier to avoid than confront.
“Do you fancy a drink?” Charlie asks, his voice cutting through my murky thoughts.
“As long as it's not China's you're on. Just the one though, I want to make it to Yoga tomorrow.” I managed to get there twice this week and I want to keep the momentum going. It's better for me, both body and soul.
“You will go to the ball, Cinderella.” Charlie walks over to the exit as I shrug my coat on, pushing buttons through their loops. For a moment I wonder if I should tell Callum I'm leaving, but from the way he's leaning on the table, his arms tense and outstretched, I'm not sure I'm brave enough to bother him. So I take my bag and sling it over my shoulder, striding towards Charlie and the start of the weekend.
We join a mass-exodus of workers leaving Canada Square, and have to wait for the second elevator because the first's too busy. Stepping inside I feel like a sardine in a can. When we reach the ground floor it's a relief to be out of there. Charlie and I join the wave of people heading for the sliding exit doors.
I don't notice him at first. Perhaps I'm too wrapped up, my head full of work and thoughts of Callum. Or maybe it's because Canary Wharf is so far away from home that I don't even consider he might find me here. Regardless of the reason, I stand stock still as everybody pushes past, staring at the man about thirty yards away. Though I've only seen him once before, I recognise him immediately, from the broken nose and the scarred cheek, his eyes as vibrant as I remember them. They rise up to meet mine and he startles in recognition. He begins to walk towards me, pushing through the oncoming crowds, and panic stabs me like a knife.
My feet are glued to the concrete slabs, my body stiff and unyielding. It isn't until he's less than ten feet away that I finally find the strength to move, turning around and running back to the building. I barge my way through the workers exiting, and run across the lobby. The doors are closing on an empty lift and I squeeze through the gap, punching the button for floor ten as the elevator begins to ascend. Only then do I let the air escape my lungs, whimpering as I balance against the mirrored wall.
I've left Charlie behind. He's probably standing outside, wondering where I am, but I can't bring myself to care. I'm still gasping as the lift arrives at floor ten and I have to push through another wall of people.
When I reach my office, I pull the door shut behind me, panting loudly. I search through my bag, looking for my phone, desperate to call Alex and tell him Digger was here.
“I thought you'd gone,” Callum says, popping his head round the door. He takes one look at my face bef
ore walking over. “Jesus, what's happened? You look like you've seen a ghost.”
I'm too scared to talk so I shake my head, trying to bite back the tears. They flow anyway, hot and fast, and before I know it Callum's wrapping me in his arms, pulling me tightly against him. He's warm and he's safe and he smells amazingly good as I bury my face in his chest. I hold on to his shoulders with a death grip.
“Amy, try to calm down,” he says softly, his mouth right next to my ear. “Take some deep breaths, okay? You're safe here.”
That makes me cry harder. He starts to stroke my hair, tangling his fingers in the strands, and it feels so damn good. We stand there for a moment, him stroking, me sobbing, until I finally gain control. He pulls away and I feel bereft, seconds away from throwing myself back into his arms.
“Are you hurt?” He takes my chin in his hand, lifting my face until we're staring straight at each other. “Amy, has somebody hurt you?”
He keeps saying my name. More than he would normally. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remember Lara telling me it’s a technique she uses when her clients are having panic attacks. A way of grounding them, reminding them who they are. I wonder if Callum's trying to do the same.
“That man I told you about,” I say. “The one who was hanging around my house. He was outside the building when I left, it looked as though he was waiting for me.”
“Bloody hell, Amy.” He drops his head until our foreheads touch. When he blinks, his eyelashes brush my cheeks. “What did he do?”
“He started to walk over to me.” Our lips are so close I can practically feel them touch. It's thrilling. “Then I turned and ran back here.”
“He's still out there?” Callum frowns, loosening his grasp on my chin. He tries to step back, but I hold on to him without thinking, not wanting to let him go.
My hand moves up from his shoulder, my palm cupping the back of his neck. My fingers burrow into the thick hair that falls over his collar.
“Amy.” This time it doesn't ground me, it sends me soaring. Then his lips touch mine and we're flying together.
