Chapter 8 December 8th
A string of bunting attacks me as I step off the elevator the next morning, my sight robbed from me by a mass of swinging elves in my face, the cord they’re dangling from all caught around my head.
My knee-jerk reaction to rip them all off nearly gets the better of me, my hands flexing and fisting as a collection of gasps ring out and then .
. . silence. My mind’s eye gives me a clear vision of Crystal staring in horror, wondering why of all the people in this office who could have exited the elevator at this very moment, it was me.
Reaching up to my face, I calmly pull the elves away, finding her. She’s still on the stepladder, one end of the bunting hanging limply from her grasp. “Let me help you,” she blurts out, scrambling down and rushing to me as I try unsuccessfully to unravel the string.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, now tied up around the waist. “There’s not enough decorations splattered all over the place already?” The coiled string falls to my knees. If I try to walk, I’ll fall flat on my bloody face. “You’ll have to cut it.”
“Cut it?”
“Yes, cut it.”
“But then it’ll be ruined,” she says, crouching in front of me, frantically trying to unravel the knots. “Just give me a minute.”
“I don’t have a minute, Crystal, I have to dial in on a call.”
“This moment?”
I look around, spotting Debbie coming this way, her face a picture of surprise and horror at the sight of me mummified by bunting. “Scissors,” I bark, making her jump before she dashes into the nearest office and appears a moment later brandishing a pair.
“No, it’s okay, I’ve nearly got it,” Crystal says from the floor, her face up close to my knees as she picks at the string.
Debbie passes the scissors, and I dip, snipping my way through the bunting.
It falls to the floor in various pieces.
“There.” A few bits dangle from my legs, and I reach down as I stride on, pulling them all off and dropping them, leaving a trail of broken elves in my wake.
“Can I get an espresso?” I call back, pushing into my office.
As I turn to close the door, Thomas appears, all smiles.
I’ve worked for this guy long enough to know what I’m looking at.
He’s nervous. His smile twitches when he’s nervous. “What is it?” I ask.
“Tonight. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
“No, Thomas, because you had Debbie remind me numerous times.” Fuck, why did I agree to go, especially on a Friday? And, fuck, fuck, fuck, I have nothing to wear.
“Okay, was just checking.”
“What time?”
“Seven.”
“Remind me where.”
“The Dorchester.”
“Got it.” I go to shut the door, but he puts his hand out, stepping forward, albeit apprehensively. “What now?”
“The dress code—”
“Is glam for glamorous, I know.”
“And Christmassy.”
And there explains the nerves. “Christmas glam,” I say, wary.
“Yeah.”
I laugh, slamming the door, making him jump back to avoid being clattered in the face. “Shit.” I look down at my watch. Double shit.
Scooting around my desk, I drop into my chair and quickly dial in, kicking my shoes off.
Jeff—a poker-faced string of a man with wire hair and a bulbus nose too big for his face—is waiting, head down as he makes notes.
He doesn’t look up, even after the system dings my arrival to the meeting.
I like Jeff. No small-talk is expected, and there’s no diversion from business or annoying intervals.
He gets done and gets off. “Morning, Jeff,” I say, pulling my phone out of my bag and setting it on my desk.
“Morning,” he says, still not looking up. I’ve had meetings with Jeff before when he’s not looked at me the whole time. He’s marvellously efficient. “You requested the accounts.”
“I did.”
“You’re not going to like what you see.”
I sigh. “Half expected.”
“And they’re not finalised just yet.”
“Can you give me drafts?”
“Indeed.”
“Thanks.”
“By end of play today.”
I lean forward on my forearms, my brow knitting. “You wanted a call, Jeff. Why?”
“Just wanted to say goodbye.”
“You’re retiring?”
His pen stops moving across the notepad, and he slowly lifts unamused eyes to mine. I know instantly I’ve put my foot in my mouth. “I’m fifty.”
Fuck. Life has not been kind to him. My flinch is hard. Do I look older than my years, because life has definitely been cruel to me? A total, unrelenting, brutal bitch, actually. “Of course,” I say, shrinking. “So, where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
“I’m really fucking confused, Jeff.”
“I’m saying goodbye, because you’re leaving TF Shipping.”
“I am? Since when?”
“When you see the accounts that land in your inbox later today and you quit.” Jeff disappears from my screen, just as a knock rings out. “Yes, Thomas?”
He pops his head around the door. “I have a problem.”
So do I, it seems, Thomas. “What’s the problem?” Fucking hell, how bad is it? Irreparable? I need this job.
“I need to launch an investigation and I’ll be spending money.”
“Why? The investigation, not the money.”
“There’s been a complaint made about someone.”
“Who?”
“Meredith.”
“Why?”
“She got a little . . . aggressive toward someone.”
“Meredith from Payments?”
“Yes.”
“Who was she allegedly aggressive toward?”
“Phillip.”
My eyes widen and blink. “Her husband?”
“Yeah. They’ve separated.”
“Right.” I rise, marching around my desk and past Thomas.
“What are you doing?”
“Dealing with it.”
“Whoa, Camryn, we have to follow protocol.” He chases my heels, blabbering a load of nonsense about policies and employee rights. I make it to Meredith’s office. Poor thing looks scared out of her skin faced with me. Placing my palms on her desk, I lean closer, dropping my voice. “What’s going on?”
Her eyes dart, checking the vicinity before she swallows, regret contorting her pretty face. “He called me crazy.”
“Well, that’s not so bad.” Thomas pipes up from behind me, laughing lightly but stopping the moment I turn a killer glare his way.
“I’m not crazy,” she says meekly. “I’m emotional. How does he expect me to be? He’s telling everyone I’m unhinged.”
And now he’s trying to get her fired. “Where did you supposedly get aggressive toward him?”
“In the kitchen.”
“When?”
“Last Friday when we all finished early and Thomas brought in the champagne to celebrate December.” Her lip wobbles. “I mean, I’d had a glass, but I wasn’t drunk, Camryn.”
I turn on my heels and head for the security office, entering and asking one of the tech people to pull up the kitchen CCTV from last Friday. “Sorry, I don’t have it.”
“What do you mean, you don’t have it?” I ask, watching as he merrily goes back to his screen, not giving me a second look.
“I mean, we assess footage regularly and delete it from the server to free up disk space.”
“Fuck.” I turn and leave, feeling myself getting more and more worked up.
“Ms. Moore?”
I stop and find one of the juniors pulling the door to the security room closed behind him. “Can I have a quiet word?”
Thomas looks between us, frowning. “What is it, Reggie?” he asks.
I point to a spare office, and he nods, accepting my silent offer and wandering in. I follow him and watch as his hands play nervously, closing the door when Thomas is through it. “I don’t want any backlash.” he says.
“For what?” I ask.
“Telling you something.”
“Go on.”
He nods. “We keep footage for two weeks.”
“But it’s only been one week since last Friday,” I muse.
“I came back from my lunch early yesterday and found Phillip West in the security office. He was handing over some money.”
I laugh, a light puff of utter disbelief, and slam my phone down, making both Reggie and Thomas jump. “The arsehole.”
“Oh no,” Thomas breathes. “Before you go in all guns blaz—”
I march out, on a mission, straight to Phillip’s office. He’s reclined in his chair behind his desk, relaxed on the phone, unperturbed, unbothered by the fact his wife’s falling apart. Just cracking on with his life, trying to eradicate her from his. Get rid of the crazy.
While simultaneously getting rid of the guilt he doesn’t want to feel for upending her world.
“I’ll call you back,” he says, setting the phone in the cradle. “What can I help you with, Camryn?”
“You’re fired.”
He laughs, eyes moving to Thomas beside me. “What?”
I don’t repeat myself, joining him on his side of the desk and pulling open drawer after drawer, scooping out the contents and dumping it on his desk.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he blurts, pushing away in his chair. Removing himself from the crazy woman.
“I’m helping pack your shit, Phillip, so we can get you away from all these crazy women before they cause you mental distress.”
“Are you fucking joking? She slapped me.”
“Really?” I ask, facing the waste of space.
“Yes, really. You can’t fire me, you need to fire her.”
“You want us to fire your wife?”
“Yes. She’s lost the fucking plot.”
“Why?”
He recoils, eyes darting between us. “We’ve separated.” He looks at Thomas. “You know that. She’s being unreasonable. Completely off her fucking rocker.”
My blood simmers so hot, I’m sure it could burn its way through my veins and have me bleeding out.
“Would you prefer a hearing? You sitting opposite Thomas, me, and the board while we talk about how you paid someone in security to wipe the footage from the system that shows your wife not being aggressive toward you? Not slapping you?” I have to steady myself on the side of his desk to stop myself staggering back with the force of my raised voice. “Would you prefer that, Phillip?”
Poor, useless fuck head looks startled. “No, I wouldn’t prefer that.”
“Didn’t think so.” I shove his stuff across his desk.
He’s a bully. I fucking hate bullies. You hate everything, Camryn.
“I’ll get you a box.” I walk out, vaguely registering Thomas’s wary eyes on me as I go.
What a fucking start to my day. “I need a box,” I bark at Debbie when I make it to her desk.
She blinks at me. Calm down. “I need a box, please,” I say, softer, straining a smile.