Chapter 15 December 15th
The snow has melted a bit. We shouldn’t get too caught up in our freedom again, according to the weather reporter.
He predicts a couple days of higher temperatures over the weekend before they plummet on Sunday evening, and a second wave of snow hits the UK.
It’s a record. There will be more snow this December than in ten years put together.
It’s unprecedented. And really fucking inconvenient.
The kids, however, are loving the endless ammunition and school closures.
I swallow and take one more peek in the elevator mirror, cringing at my cheek.
I underestimated the damage. During a night’s sleep, my cheek has gone from red to raging red.
It’s already shining through the bomb-proof concealer I’ve slapped on.
“Shit.” I pull out the tube and apply yet another layer, dabbing gently at my stinging cheek.
I’ve walked the streets of London for years, at every hour of the day and night.
I’ve never felt unsafe. Vulnerable. But there were always people around; it’s standard London.
When it’s not two feet under snow.
I was a fool. I should have considered that. I reach up to my cheek and breathe out my exasperation with myself, thinking Dec is not going to be impressed. Neither will Mr. Percival.
Dangling elves greet me as the doors slide open, and I sigh as I dip beneath them. “Those things are a health and safety hazard,” I mutter as Debbie gets up from her desk and joins me on the walk to my office. “Nice to see the office thriving once again.”
“Liar,” she retorts, handing me a file. I know when her face falls she’s clocked my injury. “Oh my God, Camryn, what happened?”
“Nothing.” I whip the file out of her hand. “What’s this?”
Her lips purse, but she doesn’t press. “Comparisons for the market you asked for.”
“That I asked for?”
“Yes, yesterday. By email.”
I cast my mind back, but for the life of me, I can’t find the moment I emailed Debbie and asked for any comparisons. I do, however, know why I would have asked for them. “Is Thomas here yet?”
“Yes, in his office. And so is Barbara.”
“I’m not in her good books.”
“Did she really pay for her injectable fillers on the company card?”
“So it was fillers?” I hardly want to admit I was wondering what exactly she’d tweaked. “How do you know it was fillers?”
“Crystal heard Thomas on the phone to her. Not a happy bunny. And Anthony is off around the Caribbean on the company too, huh?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.” I push my way into my office. “So the office jungle drums are pounding?”
“I’d stay out of Barbara’s way.”
“She doesn’t scare me.”
“Of course she doesn’t.” Debbie rolls her eyes. “Don’t forget Secret Santa on Monday.” Her eyebrows hitch. “I’m open to giving you ideas, just say the word.”
“I don’t need ideas, because I’m not included in Secret Santa.”
“You joined in for the Christmas jumpers,” she counters, shrill.
“Yes, and look where that got me.” Although, it was the first time I heard Dec laugh, so that made it almost worth it. I dump my bag on my desk. “What does a girl have to do to get a coffee around here?”
“Ask.”
I grit my teeth around my smile. “Can I get a coffee, please?”
“Sure.” Debbie curtsies. “I’d ask if you want sugar, but the whole building knows you need ten.”
“Do you want this job?”
She backs out the room on a bow and closes the door, and I shrug out of my coat and hang it on the hook. Before I’ve even opened my inbox, a text message lands, and my heart skips a beat as I scramble to find my phone.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or sad that it’s not Dec. But I certainly know I feel unspeakable fire in my belly that it is my husband.
I’m moving back into the house. We can’t afford for it to sit empty while you bury your head in the sand, and I can’t sustain a mortgage and rent forever. I’m sure you can’t either.
The only thing I’ve wondered if I can sustain is the unbearable pain.
I don’t care about money. I don’t care about the house.
I could never step foot in that place again, and it riles me to no end that he can, let alone live there with memories in every room, around every corner.
The evenings in the kitchen cooking. The lazy days on the enormous couch vegging.
The summers in the garden trying to figure out what were weeds and what were plants.
“Fuck you,” I mutter, going to my inbox and scrolling through the emails. Work. I need to focus on work. Not bastard exes. Not who would try to mug me on a deserted London street. Work.
I open an email from the accountant detailing the directors personal tax bills.
One for the end of January and one for the end of July.
“Jesus Christ.” I pick up my phone and call him.
“I got the personal tax predictions. Do you have a rough idea on the corporation tax bill due in October?” I ask, getting up and walking circles around my desk.
“It isn’t pretty.”
“They never are.”
“Give or take a few million.”
“I’d like to take off a few million, Jeff. Thomas’s wife and son need a crash course in how tax works. They look at big fat bank accounts and rub their hands together. It doesn’t enter their heads that much of it is earmarked for company and personal taxes.”
“I’m not going to bullshit you, Camryn. The coughers have depleted drastically these past few months. It might come as a shock to you—”
“Nothing comes as a shock to me anymore, Jeff.”
“The directors have been drawing dividends like they’re going out of fashion these past few weeks.”
Past few weeks? “By directors, I’m assuming you mean Barbara and Anthony specifically.”
“Yes. Have you seen the bank statements?”
“For the holding account? No. I run my eye over the current running accounts daily, but the holding accounts statements land the thirtieth of the month, since the activity is minimal.”
“Not so minimal at the moment. The ship is going to sink if you don’t repair the leaks.”
I rest my arse on the edge of the desk. “I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle.”
“Why are you still there, Camryn?”
I blink, frowning. “What?”
“A woman of your calibre. Why haven’t you walked?”
Because I need this job. “I like the challenge,” I quip, and he laughs. “Look, Jeff, the important question is, can TF Shipping afford these tax bills?”
“Yes, but it’ll wipe them out.”
“No more filler on the business for Barbara,” I singsong quietly.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I sigh. “Thanks for shining your Friday rays of sunshine on me.” I hang up and tap the desk by my butt with my phone, seriously wondering if I’m up for another battle today. I feel like I’m trying to wrangle wild horses.
And where the hell is my coffee? I swing the door open and find Debbie on the phone. I scowl at her as I pass. “I’ll get my own, or I’ll die of caffeine deficiency.”
She looks about as impressed as a cow seeing a McDonald’s truck pull up on the farm. “Sorry,” she says, her hand over the receiver.
“No sweat,” I mutter to myself. “I wanted to stretch my legs anyway.” And duck and dive through the grotto. I frown at a twinkling snowman as I pass. Is she still adding shit to the already jammed corridor? “My God,” I murmur, passing a wooden shed that’s been sprayed with artificial snow.
The smell of caffeine hits me when I push the door to the kitchen open, and see Crystal pouring eggnog into cups. “Making up for the few days you couldn’t make it into the office, are you?”
She flashes me a tight smile as I pull a cup down, but it falters when she clocks my cheek. She doesn’t ask, though. It’s a small mercy. No one will ask, except Debbie, of course. “Want some?”
“Eggnog? No.” I take the percolator and pour. “You shouldn’t be gossiping about Thomas and what you hear him saying on his private calls.” Looking out the corner of my eye, I see her still mid-pour, her mind obviously racing.
“Sure you don’t want any?” She grabs a cup and thrusts it my way with a cheesy—guilty—smile.
I take my coffee and hold it up, seeing a Panettone and some cute little Father Christmas cupcakes.
“Sure,” I say, slowly lifting my coffee to my lips.
I blink, getting a snapshot of me in the kitchen of my old home, icing sugar everywhere.
Slade yelling from the Alexa. Mulled wine simmering on the stove.
“Sure you do, or sure you don’t?”
I retreat from the flashback and frown at Crystal. “What?” My eyes drop to the cup hovering between us. “I said no.” Someone breezes into the kitchen, spots me, and performs a quick about-turn, heading straight back out. “Thomas,” I call, going after him.
“Sorry, just remembered I’m late for a call.”
It’s quite an achievement in these heels, but I somehow manage to overtake him and block his path.
Thomas recoils and peeks above my head, and I follow his line of sight and see a bunch of mistletoe dangling from the ceiling above us.
“Why would you even allow that?” I ask, reaching up and yanking it down.
“You’re begging for a sexual harassment lawsuit. ”
“Hey, wait a minute, I wasn’t suggesting—”
“I’m talking in general, Thomas.” He’s wary of me, like most people around here, so I’m safe from being caught under the mistletoe unexpectedly.
“What the hell’s happened to your face?”
“I fell over walking home.” I resist my natural instinct to reach up and cover it from his questioning eyes. “I just got off the phone with Jeff. We need—”
“Grandpa!” The screech hits my eardrums and rattles them, and Thomas is quickly gone from in front of me, being tackled by a young girl, maybe fourteen.
“Marcy,” he sings, catching her in his arms and hugging her.
“Hey, Dad,” a lady says, pulling off her gloves, her pink lips stretched wide.
“Gail.” Thomas sighs, as if he’s relieved to see her, keeping Marcy to his chest, all bundled up in her fleece, scarf, and hat, while opening his other arm for his daughter. She walks straight into it. “Where’s Curtis?”