Simply Divine (by W. Holden) 3 page

While we were taking off I counted very slowly with my eyes closed, and that kind of worked.

But I ran out of steam at about 350. So now I’m just sitting, sipping champagne, reading an article on ‘30 Things To Do Before You’re 30’ in Cosmo.

***

“I was just wondering, is that sound normal?”

“What sound?” The air hostess cocks her head.

“That sound. That kind of whining, coming from the wing?”

“I can’t hear anything.” She looks at me sympathetically. “Are you a nervous flyer?”

“No!” I say at once, and give a little laugh. “No, I’m not nervous! I just… was wondering. Just out of interest.”

“I’ll see if I can find out for you,” she says kindly. “Here you are, sir. Some information about our executive facilities at Gatwick.”

The American man takes his leaflet wordlessly and puts it down without even looking at it, and the hostess moves on, staggering a little as the plane gives a bump.

Why is the plane bumping?

Oh God. A sudden rush of fear hits me with no warning. This is madness. Madness! Sitting in this big heavy box, with no way of escape, thousands and thousands of feet above the ground…

I can’t do this on my own. I have an overpowering need to talk to someone. Someone reassuring. Someone safe.

Connor.

Instinctively I fish out my mobile phone, but immediately the air hostess swoops down on me.

“I’m afraid you can’t use that on board the plane,” she says with a bright smile. “Could you please ensure that it’s switched off?”

“Oh. Er… sorry.”

Of course I can’t use my mobile. They’ve only said it about fifty-five zillion times. I am such a durr-brain.

Maybe I’ll start counting again. Three hundred and forty-nine. Three hundred and fifty. Three hundred and–

What was that bump? Did we just get hit?

OK, don’t panic. It was just a bump. I’m sure everything’s fine. We probably just flew into a pigeon or something. Where was I?

Three hundred and fifty-one. Three hundred and fifty-two. Three hundred and fifty–

And that’s it.

That’s the moment.

Everything seems to fragment.

I hear the screams like a wave over my head, almost before I realize what’s happening.

Oh God. Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh… OH… NO. NO. NO.

We’re falling. Oh God, we’re falling.

We’re plummeting downwards. The plane’s dropping through the air like a stone.

Oh God. Oh God. OK, it’s slowing down now. It’s… it’s better.

I just… I just can’t… I…

I look at the American man, and he’s grasping his seat as tightly as I am.

I feel sick. I think I might be sick. Oh God.

OK. It’s… it’s kind of… back to normal.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” comes a voice over the intercom, and everyone’s heads jerk up. “This is your captain speaking.”

My heart’s juddering in my chest. I can’t listen. I can’t think.

“We’re currently hitting some clear-air turbulence, and things may be unsteady for a while. I have switched on the seatbelt signs and would ask that you all return to your seats as quickly as–”

There’s another huge lurch, and his voice is drowned by screams and cries all round the plane.

It’s like a bad dream. A bad rollercoaster dream.

The cabin crew are all strapping themselves into their seats. One of the hostesses is mopping blood on her face. A minute ago they were happily doling out honey-roast peanuts.

This is what happens to other people in other planes. People on safety videos. Not me.

“Please keep calm,” the captain is saying. “As soon as we have more information…”

Keep calm? I can’t breathe, let alone keep calm. What are we going to do? Are we all supposed to just sit here while the plane bucks like an out-of-control horse?

I can hear someone behind me reciting ‘Hail Mary, full of grace…’ and a fresh, choking panic sweeps through me. People are praying. This is real.

We’re going to die.

We’re going to die.

“I’m sorry?” The American man in the next seat looks at me, his face tense and white.

Did I just say that aloud?

“We’re going to die.” I stare into his face. This could be the last person I ever see alive. I take in the lines etched around his dark eyes; his strong jaw, shaded with stubble.

The plane suddenly drops down again, and I give an involuntary shriek.

“I don’t think we’re going to die,” he says. But he’s gripping his seat-arms, too. “They said it was just turbulence–”

“Of course they did!” I can hear the hysteria in my voice. “They wouldn’t exactly say, ‘OK folks, that’s it, you’re all goners’!” The plane gives another terrifying swoop and I find myself clutching the man’s hand in panic. “We’re not going to make it. I know we’re not. This is it. I’m twenty-five years old, for God’s sake. I’m not ready. I haven’t achieved anything. I’ve never had children, I’ve never saved a life…” My eyes fall randomly on the ‘30 Things To Do Before You’re 30’ article. “I haven’t ever climbed a mountain, I haven’t got a tattoo, I don’t even know if I’ve got a G spot…”

“I’m sorry?” says the man, sounding taken aback, but I barely hear him.

“My career’s a complete joke. I’m not a top businesswoman at all.” I gesture half-tearfully to my suit. “I haven’t got a team! I’m just a crappy assistant and I just had my first ever big meeting and it was a complete disaster. Half the time I haven’t got a clue what people are talking about, I don’t know what logistical means, I’m never going to get promoted, and I owe my dad four thousand quid, and I’ve never really been in love…”

I draw myself up short with a jolt. “I’m sorry,” I say, and exhale sharply. “You don’t want to hear all this.”

“That’s quite all right,” says the man.

God. I’m completely losing it.

And anyway, what I just said wasn’t true. Because I am in love with Connor. It must be the altitude or something, confusing my mind.

Flustered, I push the hair off my face and try to get a hold of myself. OK, let’s try counting again. Three hundred and fifty… six. Three hundred and–

Oh God. Oh God. No. Please. The plane’s lurching again. We’re plummeting.

“I’ve never done anything to make my parents proud of me.” The words come spilling out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Never.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” says the man nicely.

“It’s true. Maybe they used to be proud of me. But then my cousin Kerry came to live with us and all at once it was like my parents couldn’t see me any more. All they could see was her.

She was fourteen when she arrived, and I was ten, and I thought it was going to be great, you know. Like having an older sister. But it didn’t work out like that…”

I can’t stop talking. I just can’t stop.

Every time the plane bumps or jolts, another torrent of words pours randomly out of my mouth, like water gushing over a waterfall.

It’s either talk or scream.

“… she was a swimming champion, and an everything champion, and I was just… nothing in comparison…”

“… photography course and I honestly thought it was going to change my life…”

“… eight stone three. But I was planning to go on a diet…”

“I applied for every single job in the world. I was so desperate, I even applied to…”

“… awful girl called Artemis. This new desk arrived the other day, and she just took it, even though I’ve got this really grotty little desk…”

“… sometimes I water her stupid spider plant with orange juice, just to serve her right…”

“… sweet girl Katie, who works in Personnel. We have this secret code where she comes in and says, ‘Can I go through some numbers with you, Emma?’ and it really means ‘Shall we nip out to Starbucks…’”

“… awful presents, and I have to pretend I like them…”

“… coffee at work is the most disgusting stuff you’ve ever drunk, absolute poison…”

“… put ‘Maths GCSE grade A’ on my CV, when I really only got C. I know it was dishonest. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I so wanted to get the job…”

What’s happened to me? Normally there’s a kind of filter which stops me blurting out everything I’m thinking; which keeps me in check.

But the filter’s stopped working. Everything’s piling out in a big, random stream, and I can’t stop it.

“Sometimes I think I believe in God, because how else did we all get here? But then I think, yes but what about war and stuff…”

“… wear G-strings because they don’t give you VPL. But they’re so uncomfortable…”

“… size eight, and I didn’t know what to do, so I just said ‘Wow those are absolutely fantastic…’”

“… roasted peppers, my complete favourite food…”

“… joined a book group, but I just couldn’t get through Great Expectations. So I just skimmed the back and pretended I’d read it…”

“… I gave him all his goldfish food, I honestly don’t know what happened…”

“… just have to hear that Carpenters song ‘Close to You’ and I start crying…”

“…really wish I had bigger boobs. I mean, not Page 3 size, not completely enormous and stupid, but you know, bigger. Just to know what it’s like…”

“… perfect date would start off with champagne just appearing at the table, as if by magic…”

“… I just cracked, I secretly bought this huge tub of Haagen-Dazs and scoffed the lot, and I never told Lissy…”

I’m unaware of anything around us. The world has narrowed to me and this stranger, and my mouth, spewing out all my innermost thoughts and secrets.

I barely know what I’m saying any more. All I know is, it feels good.

Is this what therapy is like?

“… name was Danny Nussbaum. Mum and Dad were downstairs watching Ben Hur, and I remember thinking, if this is what the world gets so excited about, then the world’s mad…”

“… lie on my side, because that way your cleavage looks bigger…”

“… works in market research. I remember thinking the very first time I saw him, wow, he’s good-looking. He’s very tall and blond, because he’s half-Swedish, and he has these amazing blue eyes. So he asked me out…”

“… always have a glass of sweet sherry before a date, just to calm my nerves…”

“He’s wonderful. Connor’s completely wonderful. I’m just so lucky. Everyone’s always telling me how great he is. He’s sweet, and he’s good, and he’s successful and everyone calls us the perfect couple…”

“… I’d never tell anyone this in a million years. But sometimes I think he’s almost too goodlooking. A bit like one of those dolls? Like Ken. Like a blond Ken.”

And now I’m on the subject of Connor, I’m saying things I’ve never said to anyone. Things I never even realized were in my head.

“… gave him this lovely leather watch for Christmas, but he wears this orange digital thing because it can tell him the temperature in Poland or something stupid…”

“… took me to all these jazz concerts and I pretended to enjoy them to be polite, so now he thinks I love jazz…”

“… every single Woody Allen film off by heart and says each line before it comes and it drives me crackers…”

“… just looks at me as though I’m speaking some foreign language…”

“… determined to find my G spot, so we spent the whole weekend doing it in different positions, and by the end I was just knackered, all I wanted was a pizza and Friends …”

“… he kept saying, what was it like, what was it like? So in the end I just made some stuff up, I said it was absolutely amazing, and it felt as though my whole body was opening up like a flower, and he said, what sort of flower, so I said a begonia…”

“… can’t expect the initial passion to last. But how do you tell if the passion’s faded in a good, long-term-commitment way or in a crap, we-don’t-fancy-each-other-any-more way…”

“… knight in shining armour is not a realistic option. But there’s a part of me that wants a huge, amazing romance. I want passion. I want to be swept off my feet. I want an earthquake, or a… I don’t know, a huge whirlwind… something exciting. Sometimes I feel as if there’s this whole new, thrilling life waiting for me out there, and if I can just–”

“Excuse me, miss?”

“What?” I look up dazedly. “What is it?” The air hostess with the French plait is smiling down at me.

“We’ve landed.” I stare at her.

“We’ve landed?”

This doesn’t make sense. How can we have landed? I look around – and sure enough, the plane’s still. We’re on the ground.

I feel like Dorothy. A second ago I was swirling around in Oz, clicking my heels together, and now I’ve woken up all flat and quiet and normal again.

“We aren’t bumping any more,” I say stupidly.

“We stopped bumping quite a while ago,” says the American man.

“We’re… we’re not going to die.”

“We’re not going to die,” he agrees.

I look at him as though for the first time – and it hits me. I’ve been blabbering non-stop for an hour to this complete stranger. God alone knows what I’ve been saying. I think I want to get off this plane right now.

“I’m sorry,” I say awkwardly. “You should have stopped me.”

“That would have been a little difficult.” There’s a tiny smile at his lips. “You were on a bit of a roll.”

“I’m so embarrassed!” I try to smile, but I can’t even look this guy in the eye. I mean, I told him about my knickers. I told him about my G spot.

“Don’t worry about it. We were all stressed out. That was some flight.” He picks up his knapsack and gets up from his seat – then looks back at me. “Will you be OK getting back home?”

“Yes. I’ll be fine. Thanks. Enjoy your visit!” I call after him, but I don’t think he hears.

Extract 3

OK. So the truth is, we do both occasionally borrow Jemima’s clothes. Without asking. But in our defence, she has so many, she hardly ever notices. Plus according to Lissy, it’s a basic human right that flatmates should be able to borrow each others’ clothes. She says it’s practically part of the unwritten British constitution.

“And anyway,” adds Lissy, “she owes it to me for writing her that letter to the council about all her parking tickets. You know, she never even said thank you.” She looks up from an article on Nicole Kidman. “So what are you doing later on? D’you want to see a film?”

“I can’t,” I say reluctantly. “I’ve got my mum’s birthday lunch.”

***

Mum and Dad used to live in Twickenham, which is where I grew up. But now they’ve moved out of London to a village in Hampshire. I arrive at their house just after twelve, to find Mum in the kitchen with my cousin Kerry. She and her husband Nev have moved out too, to a village about five minutes’ drive from Mum and Dad, so they see each other all the time.

I feel a familiar pang as I see them, standing side by side by the stove. They look more like mother and daughter than aunt and niece. They’ve both got the same feather-cut hair – although Kerry’s is highlighted more strongly than Mum’s – they’re both wearing brightly coloured tops which show a lot of tanned cleavage, and they’re both laughing. On the counter, I notice a bottle of white wine already half gone.

“Happy birthday!” I say, hugging Mum. As I glimpse a wrapped parcel on the kitchen table, I feel a little thrill of anticipation. I have got Mum the best birthday present. I can’t wait to give it to her!

***

We’ve been sitting round the table now for forty minutes and the only voice we’ve heard is Kerry’s.

“It’s all about image,” she’s saying now. “It’s all about the right clothes, the right look, the right walk. When I walk along the street, the message I give the world is ‘I am a successful woman’.”

“Show us!” says Mum admiringly.

“Well.” Kerry gives a false-modest smile. “Like this.” She pushes her chair back and wipes her mouth with her napkin.

“You should watch this, Emma,” says Mum. “Pick up a few tips!”

As we all watch, Kerry starts striding round the room. Her chin is raised, her boobs are sticking out, her eyes are fixed on the middle distance, and her bottom is jerking from side to side.

She looks like a cross between an ostrich and one of the androids in Attack of the Clones.

“I should be in heels, of course,” she says, without stopping.

“When Kerry goes into a conference hall, I tell you, heads turn,” says Nev proudly, and takes a sip of wine. “People stop what they’re doing and stare at her!”

I bet they do.

Oh God. I want to giggle. I mustn’t. I mustn’t.

“Do you want to have a go, Emma?” says Kerry. “Copy me?”

“Er… I don’t think so,” I say. “I think I probably… picked up the basics.”

Suddenly I give a tiny snort and turn it into a cough.

“Kerry’s trying to help you, Emma!” says Mum. “You should be grateful! You are good to Emma, Kerry.”

She beams fondly at Kerry, who simpers back. And I take a swig of wine.

Yeah, right. Kerry really wants to help me.

That’s why when I was completely desperate for a job and asked her for work experience at her company, she said no. I wrote her this long, careful letter, saying I realized it put her in an awkward situation, but I’d really appreciate any chance, even a couple of days running errands.

And she sent back a standard rejection letter.

I was so totally mortified, I never told anyone. Especially not Mum and Dad.

“You should listen to some of Kerry’s business tips, Emma,” Dad is saying sharply. “Maybe if you paid more attention you’d do a bit better in life.”

“It’s only a walk,” quips Nev with a chortle. “It’s not a miracle cure!”

“Nev!” says Mum half reprovingly.

“Emma knows I’m joking, don’t you, Emma?” says Nev easily and fills up his glass with more wine.

“Of course!” I say, forcing myself to smile gaily.

Just wait till I get promoted.

Just wait. Just wait.

“Emma! Earth to Emma!” Kerry is waving a comical hand in front of my face. “Wake up, Dopey! We’re doing presents.”

“Oh right,” I say, coming to. “OK. I’ll just go and get mine.”

As Mum opens a camera from Dad and a purse from Grandpa, I start to feel excited. I so hope Mum likes my present.

“It doesn’t look much,” I say as I hand her the pink envelope. “But you’ll see when you open it…”

“What can it be?” Mum says, looking intrigued. She rips open the envelope, opens the flowered card, and stares at it. “Oh, Emma!”

“What is it?” says Dad.

“It’s a day at a spa!” says Mum in delight. “A whole day of pampering.”

“What a good idea,” says Grandpa, and pats my hand. “You always have good ideas for presents, Emma.”

“Thank you, love. How thoughtful!” Mum leans over to kiss me, and I feel a warm glow inside.

I had the idea a few months ago. It’s a really nice day-long package, with free treatments and everything.

“You get champagne lunch,” I say eagerly. “And you can keep the slippers!”

“Wonderful!” says Mum. “I’ll look forward to it. Emma, that’s a lovely present!”

“Oh dear,” says Kerry, giving a little laugh. She looks at the large creamy envelope in her own hands. “My present’s slightly upstaged, I’m afraid. Never mind. I’ll change it.”

I look up, alert. There’s something about Kerry’s voice. I know something’s up. I just know it.

“What do you mean?” says Mum.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Kerry. “I’ll just… find something else. Not to worry.” She starts to put the envelope away in her bag.

“Kerry, love!” says Mum. “Stop that! Don’t be silly. What is it?”

“Well,” says Kerry. “It’s just that Emma and I seem to have had the same idea.” She hands Mum the envelope with another little laugh. “Can you believe it?”

My whole body stiffens in apprehension.

No.

No. She can’t have done what I think she’s done.

There’s complete silence as Mum opens the envelope.

“Oh my goodness!” she says, taking out a gold embossed brochure. “What’s this? Le Spa Meridien?” Something falls out, into her hands, and she stares at it. “Tickets to Paris? Kerry!”

She has. She’s ruined my present.

“For both of you,” adds Kerry, a little smugly. “Uncle Brian, too.”

“Kerry!” says Dad in delight. “You marvel!”

All at once I feel close to tears. She knew. She knew.

“Kerry, you knew,” I suddenly blurt out, unable to stop myself. “I told you I was giving Mum a spa treat. I told you! We had that conversation about it, months ago. In the garden!”

“Did we?” says Kerry casually. “I don’t remember.”

Extract 4

We’re nearing the Panther building now...

As Katie and I push our way through the heavy revolving glass doors, we look at each other in bewilderment. The whole place is in turmoil. People are scurrying about, someone’s polishing the brass banister, someone else is polishing the fake plants, and Cyril, the senior office manager, is shooing people into lifts.

“What’s happening?” I say to Dave the security guard, who’s lounging against the wall with a cup of tea as usual. He takes a sip, swills it around his mouth and gives us a grin.

“Jack Harper’s visiting.”

“What?” We both gawp at him.

“Today?”

“Are you serious?”

In the world of the Panther Corporation, this is like saying the Pope’s visiting. Or Father Christmas. Jack Harper is the joint founder of the Panther Corporation. He invented Panther Cola. I know this because I’ve typed out blurbs about him approximately a million times. ‘It was 1987 when young, dynamic business partners Jack Harper and Pete Laidler bought up the ailing Zoot soft-drinks company, repackaged Zootacola as Panther Cola, invented the slogan “Don’t Pause”, and thus made marketing history.’

No wonder Cyril’s in a tizz.

***

The atmosphere in the marketing department is a bit like my bedroom used to be before we had parties in the sixth form. People are brushing their hair, spraying perfume, shuffling papers around and gossiping excitedly. As I walk past the office of Neil Gregg, who is in charge of media strategy, I see him carefully lining up his Marketing Effectiveness awards on his desk, while Fiona his assistant is polishing the framed photographs of him shaking hands with famous people.

I’m just hanging up my coat on the rack when the head of our department, Paul, pulls me aside.

“What happened at Glen Oil? I had a very strange email from Doug Hamilton this morning. You poured a drink over him?”

I stare at him in shock. Doug Hamilton told Paul? But he promised he wouldn’t!

“It wasn’t like that,” I say quickly. “I was just trying to demonstrate the many fine qualities of Panther Prime and I… I kind of spilled it.” Paul raises his eyebrows, not in a friendly way.

“All right. It was a lot to ask of you.”

“It wasn’t,” I say quickly. “I mean, it would have been fine, if… what I mean is, if you give me another chance, I’ll do better. I promise.”

“We’ll see.” He looks at his watch. “You’d better get on. Your desk is a mess.”

***

“OK, folks,” says Paul, striding into the department. “He’s on this floor. He’s going into Admin first…”

“On with your everyday tasks!” exclaims Cyril. “Now!”

What’s my everyday task?

I pick up my phone and press my voice-mail code. I can be listening to my messages.

I look around the department – and see that everyone else has done the same thing.

We can’t all be on the phone. This is so stupid!

I know what I’ll do. I’ll be the person getting a coffee. I mean, what could be more natural than that?

“I think I’ll get a coffee,” I say self-consciously, and get up from my seat.

As I’m waiting for the noxious liquid to fill my cup, I glance up, and see Graham Hillingdon walking out of the admin department, followed by a couple of others. He’s coming!

OK. Keep cool. Just wait for the second cup to fill, nice and natural…

And there he is! With his blond hair and his expensive-looking suit, and his dark glasses. But to my slight surprise, he steps back, out of the way.

In fact, no-one’s even looking at him. Everyone’s attention is focused on some other guy. A guy in jeans and a black turtleneck who’s walking out now.

As I stare in fascination, he turns. And as I see his face I feel an almighty thud, as though a bowling ball’s landed hard in my chest.

Oh my God.

It’s him.

The same dark eyes. The same lines etched around them. The stubble’s gone, but it’s definitely him.

It’s the man from the plane.

What’s he doing here?

And why is everyone’s attention on him? He’s speaking now, and they’re lapping up every word he says.

He turns again, and I instinctively duck back out of sight, trying to keep calm. What’s he doing here? He can’t–

That can’t be–

That can’t possibly be–

OK, keep calm. Maybe he won’t remember me. It was one short flight. He probably takes a lot of flights.

“Everyone.” Paul is leading him into the centre of the office. “I’m delighted to introduce our founding father, the man who has influenced and inspired a generation of marketeers – Jack Harper!”

***

Maybe he won’t recognize me. Maybe he won’t remember. Maybe he won’t–

He’s looking at me. I see the flash of surprise in his eyes, and he raises his eyebrows.

He recognizes me.

Please don’t come over, I silently pray. Please don’t come over.

“And who’s this?” he says to Paul.

“This is Emma Corrigan, one of our junior marketing assistants.”

He’s walking towards me. Artemis has stopped talking. Everyone’s staring. I’m hot with embarrassment.

“Hello,” he says pleasantly.

“Hello,” I manage. “Mr Harper.”

OK, so he recognizes me. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he remembers anything I said. A few random comments thrown out by a person in the next-door seat. Who’s going to remember that? Maybe he wasn’t even listening.

“And what do you do?”

“I, um, assist the marketing department and I help with setting up promotional initiatives,” I mumble.

“Emma was in Glasgow only last week on business,” puts in Paul, giving me a completely phoney smile. “We believe in giving our junior staff responsibility as early as possible.”

“Very wise,” says Jack Harper, nodding. His gaze runs over my desk and alights with sudden interest on my polystyrene cup. He looks up and meets my eye. “How’s the coffee?” he asks pleasantly. “Tasty?”

Like a tape recording in my head, I suddenly hear my own stupid voice, prattling on.

“The coffee at work is the most disgusting stuff you’ve ever drunk, absolute poison …”

“It’s great!” I say. “Really… delicious!”

“I’m very glad to hear it.” There’s a spark of amusement in his eyes, and I feel myself redden.

He remembers. He remembers.

“And this is Artemis Harrison,” says Paul. “One of our brightest young marketing executives.”

“Artemis,” says Jack Harper thoughtfully. He takes a few steps towards her work station.

“That’s a nice big desk you’ve got there, Artemis.” He smiles at her. “Is it new?”

“…this new desk arrived the other day, and she just took it…”

He remembers everything, doesn’t he? Everything.

Oh God. What else did I say?

I’m sitting perfectly still, while Artemis makes some showy-off reply, with my pleasant, good-employee expression. But my mind is frantically spooling back, trying to remember, trying to piece together what I said. I mean, God, I told this man everything about myself. Everything. I told him what sort of knickers I wear, and what flavour ice-cream I like, and how I lost my virginity, and–

My blood runs cold.

I’m remembering something I should not have told him.

Something I should not have told anyone.

“…I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I so wanted to get the job…”

I told him about faking the A grade on my CV.

Well, that’s it. I’m dead.

He’ll fire me. I’ll get a record for being dishonest and no-one will ever employ me again, and I’ll end up on a ‘Britain’s Worst Jobs’ documentary, clearing up cow poo, saying brightly “It’s not too bad, really.”

OK. Don’t panic. There must be something I can do. I’ll apologize. Yes. I’ll say it was an error of judgement which I now deeply regret, and I never meant to mislead the company, and–

***

I’m not going to let him fire me. I’m just not going to let it happen.

I stride across the office and down the corridor to the meeting room, knock on the door and push it open.

Jack Harper is sitting on a chair at the conference table, scribbling something in a notebook.

As I come in, he looks up, and the grave expression on his face makes my stomach turn over.

But I have to defend myself. I have to keep this job.

“Hi,” he says. “Can you close the door?” He waits until I’ve done so, then looks up. “Emma, we need to talk about something.”

“I’m aware that we do,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “But I’d like to say my part first, if I may.”

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 987