Every Silent Lie

Chapter 1

The sound of enthusiastic chatter and cheerfulness seeps through the wood of my office door. The only closed door on the sixth floor of the building. Always.

Do not disturb.

Stay out.

Enter at your own risk.

My legs crossed under my desk, my high heel dangling from my toes, my pen drags back and forth across the pile of paperwork as I check each line. Another swig of coffee. How long until I can have something stronger? I glance at the clock. Five forty-five. Why the hell are people still here?

There’s a knock at the door, a familiar sequence of taps, and I call out an okay for my boss to enter. He pokes his head around and removes his glasses. “Still here?” he asks, closing the door but remaining exactly where he is, scared to come farther into my office.

“No, I left two hours ago, Thomas.” I drop my pen and work my foot back into my heel. “Why’s everyone still here?”

“It’s the first of December, Camryn.”

“And?”

Frowning, Thomas shakes his head. “And . . . it’s tradition for me to bring in a crate of champagne and let my staff knock off work an hour early to enjoy it.”

“Why?”

“Jesus Christ, Camryn. Because it’s December first. Because we’re entering the final month of the year. Because, because, because.”

“Right.”

“Joining us?”

“No.”

“Of course you’re not. You’ve been working for me for two years and never have you joined in on any of the networking events or office drinks.”

You wouldn’t want to see me with alcohol in me, Thomas.

“With such emphasis put on never.” I get up and swing my coat over my shoulders.

“I’m not here to network,” I remind him.

“I’m here to get your company in the best financial shape, ready for the team you’re hiring to help make TF Shipping’s debut on the market. ”

“Those reports are two years in the making.” Thomas nods at my bag where I’ve just put said reports. “And you’re still not happy with the company’s financial position.”

“No, I’m not.” Collecting up some other files, enough to keep me busy this weekend, I slip them into my bag.

“Because you keep buying ships, Thomas.” Among other things the company doesn’t need.

“And your board members, aka your son and wife, seem to think a company business card seconds as a personal credit card.”

“I’m a shipping company. I need ships.”

It doesn’t escape my notice that he swerves my comment about his son and wife.

“You have plenty of ships for now. You’re being competitive, trying to own the most floating towns.

You need contracts to fill those ships with things to ship, Thomas.

Your company’s numbers need to be healthy to be taken seriously.

An IPO team will need a good foundation to get TF Shipping hitting the market strong if you want any credibility to get the investment you’re looking for to execute the growth plan.

” I tap my bag where it’s hanging on my shoulder.

“Any reputable IPO team would laugh at the state of these.”

“God, you just sucked the joy right out of my Friday.” Thomas opens the door as I pace toward him, pushing his back against it, ready to let me pass.

“Just keeping it real for you. My job’s hard enough without having to nag my boss about his and the board’s spending habits.

” I come to a startled stop, something about the corridor vastly different from this morning.

Tinsel. Everywhere. Every colour. Hanging off every door, including my own.

My entire office door is framed in red sparkly tinsel.

I want to reach up and rip it down. And the tree that looks like it’s had a bag of flour launched at it?

I want to kick it. December. The month I dread most of all the months.

“I see you’ve let Crystal loose,” I murmur, spotting a family of glowing reindeers by the elevators down the hall.

“I suppose you’re going to give me a hard time about increasing her budget for the holiday decorations this year, huh?”

“I’m not Scrooge, Thomas.”

A brief silence tells me he might not agree. “Didn’t she do a fabulous job?”

“Terrific.”

“Look, Cam, I know—”

“It’s Camryn.”

“Camryn,” he breathes. “Sorry. Look, I know you’re not a fan of Christmas—”

“Not particularly.”

“And I don’t know why that is—religion, whatever—but I need you to be at the Inter City Reception next Friday. You’ll have the answers to every question I might be asked about us floating TF Shipping.”

“Where?” I ask, picking up my feet, keen to get through the grotto ahead.

Thomas chases my heels as I march down the corridor through the throngs of people sipping champagne and the endless Christmas creatures—snowmen, elves, Mrs. Clause—all grinning at me.

There is nothing to celebrate about December.

There’s nothing to celebrate about anything.

“The Dorchester.”

“Time?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll come for an hour so make the most of me.” I hit the call button for the elevator and step in the second the doors slide open, wrapping my cream silk scarf around my neck.

“Great.” Thomas smiles, and I force one in return.

I like the guy, I’ll admit. He’s a bit of a loose cannon, a child that needs keeping in line, but he’s a good guy.

His wife and son, however, I can hardly stand.

And I know the feeling is mutual since I came in here and started questioning every financial decision being made and penny being spent. “Have a good weekend, Cam . . . ryn.”

The doors meet, and I exhale a long breath, not quite breathing easy again, but certainly better than I was.

I have to close my eyes for a moment, not only to avoid the woman I don’t recognise in the mirror before me, but to concentrate on swallowing the constant ball of anxiety in my throat.

It’s Friday, which means I’ve two days ahead of no work days, just work in an apartment that’s not a home, just a place to sleep, shower, and keep my things.

I avoid it at all costs.

Which is why I’m not going home now.

As soon as I hear the doors slide open, granting my freedom, I open my eyes and hurry across the foyer, pushing out through the revolving door into the frigid evening air. I look down at the bottom half of my legs. Bare. I shiver, tying the belt of my camel trench coat and glancing down the street.

Once upon a time, Christmas lights would only grace the main shopping streets and tourist areas of London.

Now, they seem to be everywhere—on every corner, in every window.

Flashing lights at every turn, making me squint as I walk.

I’d usually avoid Regent Street like the plague, but it’s my quickest route to where I need to be, and I really need to be there now.

Ducking and swerving through the crowds, I hurry across the road, dipping between the stationary cars, then up one of the side streets, leaving the masses of people behind when I step into The Royal Constantine Hotel. It’s one of my preferred hideaways.

My heels click on the lobby’s marble floor as I walk through. It’s all standard and familiar. A nod from the concierge, a smile from the guy behind reception, and when I make it into the bar, the barman immediately gets to making two dirty martinis.

My escape.

Peace. Anonymity. No one disturbs the woman at the end of the bar with two drinks before her and a coat draped over the next stool. In the office, I’m fair game. In a coffee house, bustling chaos assaults my ears. Yes, I could block it out, slip in my AirPods.

But I can’t get a dirty martini in a coffee house.

With my coat in position over the back of the second stool from the end of the bar, I take the last stool, setting some papers from my bag on the bar and checking my phone. There are no notifications—no texts, WhatsApp messages, or missed calls. Just work emails.

I stare down at the papers. Inhale. Debate if I should read them for the tenth time.

No, I should just sign them. Except the barman places the drinks in front of me, distracting me from torturing myself for that tenth time.

“Thank you.” I slide one glass over to the spare seat beside me and raise the other to my lips, sipping and swallowing, closing my eyes.

“Good?”

“Always.” This particular barman at The Royal Constantine does the best dirty martinis of all the barmen in all the hotels that I hide in.

I nod my approval and set the glass down, scissoring the stem with my fingers.

“It’s busy tonight,” I muse, glancing around at the tables. Six people. It’s a record.

The barman chuckles. “Tab?”

“Please.” Another sip. “It’s Friday.” And I have plenty of time to kill.

“I’ll leave you in peace. Just tap the bar when you need another.”

“It’s like you know me.” I get back to the papers, to torturing myself, chewing the corner of my lip as I scan the first page.

Then I push them away, not up for dealing with my personal affairs, and get my laptop, opening up my work email account.

I start archiving the bullshit I’ve been copied in on from various staff members and Thomas, shit I don’t need to know.

It takes me down to a satisfying fifty emails to work through this weekend, and I’m finished my first martini by the time I’ve closed my laptop.

I set the empty down and tap the bar, and the barman—as they all do—casts a brief look to the untouched one next to me waiting to be drank.

I ignore him, and he starts working on my second drink.

“Oh, and it’s busier,” he muses, getting rid of my dirty empty and sliding the fresh one into my hand.