Page 60 of (Not) The One
‘About Olivia’s age, would you say?’
‘Harry, for the love of God, stick to your usual type. Consider the consequences.’
‘The consequences of falling in love? It’s a bit late now to be experiencing cold feet. Whatisgoing on between you and Olivia?’
‘Nothing,’ he bites out. ‘I’m done with this conversation. But let me tell you I neither want to know nor sanction what you have in mind.’
‘Thanks,Dad. Just give me the address of the office Miranda works out of.’
‘No.’
‘I can look it up. I was just doing you the courtesy—’
‘You look it up, then because I’m not about to smooth the path for you inanyway.’
‘What’s crawled up your arse and died since last night?’
‘I’m serious, Harry. Miranda works for Olivia. If you make my wife’s life any more difficult than it currently is by indiscriminately dipping your pen in her company’s ink, Iwillswing for you.’
I don’t recall Beckett ever threatening me before. Firstly, we’re friends, but also, it’s not his style. He’s more prone to action than threats and hot air. But what strikes me more about his response is the note of regret his angry words expose.
‘Beckett, whatever it is you’ve done or said, go home. Throw your arrogant, self-serving arse at her feet and apologise.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he answers in that insufferable tone of his.
But that’s fine. If he can’t take the stick out of his own rectum, I’m not going to do it for him. It’s not imperative that I involve him in this. What is it they say about the various ways to skin a cat?
Or get your hands on the skin of the cat-sitter, as the case may be.
15
Miranda
I gointo the office late Monday morning, glad that I didn’t need to be in earlier today. I’d accrued a little time off in lieu of working my butt off on Friday, which is just as well as I couldn’t get out of bed this morning. In fact, I’ve been ill all weekend.
I had started in James’s bathroom that morning, and so far, there had been very little letup all weekend. In fact, I was so ill, I think my parents called a temporary truce. Or maybe it’s just hard to argue effectively over the noise of your daughter retching.
I don’t suffer in silence when it comes to illness.
Anyway, I thought I wouldn’t be able to come into work this morning because I’d vomited again. But since about nine o’clock, I’ve been okay. I’ve also managed to keep a cup of tea and some toast down, so while I’m as weak as the runt of a litter of newborn kittens, I’m definitely on the mend. I also can’t afford to hide at home this morning after my behaviour on Friday night.
On the drive in, I consider the conversation that’s probably waiting for me and the justifications of my actions.Who am I kidding? There’s no justification for being drunk at work.But maybe Olivia will listen to my explanation, and if I grovel enough, I might get to keep my job.
On Friday, I’d worked so hard, and I was so excited. The culmination of months of work was coming to a head. I’d started at seven in the morning, working right through until the evening. I didn’t even take a few minutes to eat lunch or even go home to get changed when Heather and Olivia did. I just had too much to do, existing on a nervous, excited kind of energy. The only time I managed to grab for myself was a few minutes right before the attendees arrived, and I used that time to change into my dress and fix my makeup.
But as an excuse, it’s a poor one. I’d dearly love to blame my schedule and a lack of food for my drunken behaviour, but I can’t. Best-case scenario, I’m looking at some kind of disciplinary action this morning.
Maybe? I don’t know.
Between bouts of vomiting on Saturday, I’d tried calling Olivia to apologise, but her phone must be switched off. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, her being a newlywed and all, but since I started working at E-Volve, she’s been available to talk work almost twenty-four seven. I’d also called Heather to apologise, who questioned me so hard, she made the Spanish Inquisition look like part-timers. So I told her about my fake diamond to go along with Cameron’s devotion. As for the rest, the official timeline of events, as far as she’s concerned, it looked like this:
Beckett’s friend, no name used, had followed the cab to the club after her panicked entreaties.
There he’d talked some much-needed sense into me, poured some equally necessary caffeine in me, acquired via a McDonald’s drive-through or some greasy spoon, maybe, then taken me home, where he’d left me unsullied and contrite at the door.
I’ve had the whole weekend in bed to think on the trajectory of my life, and I’ve decided I’m like one of the ducks I sometimes see as I drive by the local park, serenely gliding across the murky waters, despite the sunshine. But dip beneath the surface and my little ducky legs are working overtime to keep me afloat. To keep me moving forward. To keep up the appearance of competence.
I’m determined my existence isn’t going any farther south. I’ve decided to view the consequences of owning a worthless ring from a pragmatic standpoint, rather than an emotional one, which means I need to find some other way of getting my hands on a little more cash in my efforts to save enough for a rental deposit.
