Chapter 8 December 8th #2
She magics one from the cupboard behind her desk. “Everything okay?” she asks, cautious.
“Just dealing with one of life’s injustices.
” The irony that I’m about to pack today’s injustice into a box and snap a lid on it doesn’t escape my notice as I walk back to Phillip’s office and dump the box on his desk.
He still appears in a state of shock, his usually loud, tall presence shrunk.
“Security will see you out.” I glance at Thomas who nods at my silent request to call someone to escort Phillip off the premises, and then I go back to my office and sit quietly in my chair for half an hour, cooling off.
I close my eyes and rest my head back, seeing my unsigned divorce papers.
Unreasonable behaviour. Was it any fucking wonder?
I exhale and reach for my throat, massaging the lump away. Then I send a message that I really don’t want to send.
I have a work commitment this evening.
He replies quickly.
What time will you be done?
Eight, maybe nine.
The three dots on the screen dance forever, to the point I’m obsessing about what he’s saying that could take so long. And my heart sinks when I read his message.
I’ll call you tomorrow.
I drop my phone on my desk heavily, breathing deeply. Calming the storm within. Tomorrow. It feels like an eternity away from relief.
At four, I pack up and leave, clocking Debbie’s raised brows as I go. “Off to buy an outfit for tonight?” she asks as I breeze past.
I throw a pointed glare her way, and she does a terrible job of hiding her amusement.
There are no dangling elves when I make it to the elevator, and a mild, unfamiliar pang of guilt grabs me as I look over my shoulder toward Crystal’s office.
“Shit,” I murmur, backing away from the doors currently sliding open, and doing the right thing.
Her door is open, so there’s no need to knock.
Fucking hell, her office looks like Christmas threw up all over it.
“Is that fake snow?” I blurt, looking at my feet as I tread on the spot, frowning at the white puffs of something sticking to the soles of my heels.
Crystal looks up and leans back in her chair, wary. “Thomas told me to fill my boots.”
I laugh sardonically. “And you sure did.” And now this fucking snow is filling my boots.
“Can I help?”
“I um . . . I . . .” Goddamn it. “I’m sorry about how I behaved this morning.”
She stares at me and says absolutely nothing, quite happy to watch me squirm on the threshold of her office. She has every right to relish my unusually acquiescent state.
“Okay then.” I turn.
“Camryn?”
Looking back, I see she’s stood up. I’m quite sure I don’t like the bravery coming back at me. Bravery mixed with curiosity. “Why do you hate Christmas so much?”
“I—”
“It’s just that, well, if we knew, maybe we would understand.”
“I—”
“And could be more sensitive.”
“Will you let me fucking speak?” I snap, and immediately regret it. Crystal jumps, startled, then lowers to her chair like a scorned child. I push my fingertips into my temple. Because my love of Christmas was stolen when my entire world fell apart. “It’s personal.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry for snapping.”
“No problem.”
“Okay. I’ll be going then.”
“Enjoy this evening.”
“I won’t.” I leave before she can push, or maybe point out she’s no closer to understanding my aversion to the holidays, stopping at the elevator to lift a foot in turn and brush off the white stuff.
And now I have to face the shops and find something to wear to this glamorous gala thing that I’m obliged to attend.
Something Christmassy.
I don’t think so.
My body refuses to take me farther into the clothes store, unwilling to expose me to the bedlam.
It’s organised chaos. Sequins, glitter, and sparkles litter the space, every man and his dog rummaging through the rails.
Which is fine. I don’t need to wrestle my way through this crowd, elbow people out of the way, or fight over the last size in any of the festive pieces on offer.
I’m looking for something less . . . triggering.
Bypassing the throngs of shoppers in the party section, I make my way to the back of the store and start sifting through the rails. It takes me less than a minute to find something suitable.
A black dress. Simple, plunging, satin, long sleeves.
I very nearly don’t buy it because of a single gold button at the top of the back slit, but I reason with myself.
If it can be worn outside of December, it’s not Christmassy.
I grab some black suede slingbacks, gold hoops, and head for the pay desk.
Easy. Done.
But I’m still feeling breathless, and by the time I’ve paid and made it out of the store, I’m hot, bothered, and short of breath. My flustered state is a reminder that I haven’t been to a social event for over three years. I haven’t mingled or made conversation.
Smiled.
When I make it to the corner of Regent Street, the accounts Jeff promised me land, and reading them is the best distraction while I take the Tube home, the walk too long to fit into tonight’s out-of-scope schedule.
Even if, as Jeff predicted, I don’t like what I read.
It’s worse than I thought. Terrible, in fact.
Deep breath, Camryn. I even almost smile thinking of Jeff’s suggestion that he wanted to say goodbye to me once I saw this report.
He’s not fucking far off. “Jesus, Thomas,” I murmur, as I hop off the train and push my way through the clueless, lost tourists with the rest of London’s impatient commuters.
Dread coils up my spine like rising, thick smoke as I enter The Dorchester.
I’m directed to the ballroom around the side, and I count five Christmas trees from the lobby to where the function’s being held.
Endless giant baubles are scattered among snow-peppered foliage hanging from every available space.
It’s over the top in a classy kind of way.
I’d appreciate it if I didn’t hate December so much.
Christmas.
The season of joy and laughter, gratitude and perpetual hope.
Until it wasn’t. Until it only meant devastation.
I suddenly feel sick, my hand wrapped around my beaded clutch like it’s a life jacket.
A dozen waiters and waitresses loiter by the double doors, wide smiles on their faces, a tray of champagne balanced artfully on one palm, the other tucked neatly away behind their back.
My eyes instinctively scan the clusters of glasses full of golden popping liquid, searching in vain for the non-alcoholic option. Please don’t make me ask for it.
“Champagne?” a young lad asks. A student, no doubt. “Or an elderflower spritz?”
My relief is palpable. “The elderflower, please.” More so when he hands me a glass that’s only slightly paler in its golden appearance than the champagne.
Not different enough for anyone to raise a brow and wonder why I’m not drinking.
Because it’s Christmas, of course. Also the season of perpetual insobriety.
“Thank you.” The sound of the crowds beyond the open doors, matched with the hordes of people dressed to impress, brings a mild sweat to my brow.
My feet refuse to carry me over the threshold into the room that glitters and sparkles, with fairy lights draping from one side to the other, forming a glowing crown above the Christmas kings and queens, who are all drenched in glitzy gowns and sharp tuxedos, smiles as wide as the hotel.
The sight is blinding, the cheer deafening.
I need a moment.
Backing away, my hand squeezing the flute to the point I might shatter it, I divert to the ladies’, pushing my way in and taking a breath. I promised Thomas an hour, but I have no idea how I’ll make it through that hour. I’m struggling to even put myself in the room.
The marble vanity unit chinks when I place my beaded purse and glass down, and I take a breath.
Two. Three. “Goddamn it,” I whisper, in a starring deadlock with myself in the mirror, glaring at my reflection while silently screaming to not let myself down.
A drink will calm you. “No.” My voice is broken but adamant.
I puff up my already failing waves—I’m out of practice—and rub my lips together.
The low neckline of my dress makes the dips above my collarbones look exaggerated too.
Bony. I sigh, paying attention to my body for the first time in forever.
I’m too thin. The long sleeves of the dress and the tight fit make it impossible not to notice.
I can’t remember the last time I ate three meals in a day.
Shopping and cooking for one feels like an impossible task.
And pointless. I’ve never been a foodie.
But I ate a lot, and I ate healthily. He insisted.
And I didn’t object, because it was his arena, the kitchen, where he’d spend most of his evening prepping and serving, while I .
. . did other things. I ate to live. He lived to eat.
I was healthy without trying, and I was grateful for that.
Completely. As I was grateful for the nutrition lessons with each meal.
“Fuck,” I curse, snapping myself away from my memories and rummaging through my purse for my lipstick.
My shaky hands don’t help when I reapply, the colour falling outside the line of my lips.
Or is that because I’m out of practice in this area too?
I peek down at the gold Charlotte Tilbury tube, wondering if I should even be using this lipstick.
I can’t remember the last time I did. When your life had colour.
Finding it was like a haphazard stumble around the landmines in my life as I blindly felt through the box marked CAMRYN - DRESSING TABLE endless inanimate objects from my past waiting to be pulled free so they could explode in my face.
I reach for my mouth and trace the tip of my finger across my bottom lip, tidying it up.
You don’t wear lipstick, but you don’t need to. Because your lips are naturally rosy.