Chapter 6
6
KATE
‘Kate, have you got a sec before you head out?’
It’s Friday afternoon and I’m halfway out the door, but when Mina Choi asks for a second of your time, you smile brightly and say, ‘Of course.’
I roll my case back into my office, setting my handbag on top, and follow Mina into hers, where floor-to-ceiling windows look out over Tottenham Court Road. She takes a seat behind her desk, and I sit opposite her.
‘I won’t hold you up – you’re obviously off somewhere for the weekend,’ she says.
‘Uh, yes.’
‘Mini break with Jon?’ she asks, a reasonable question that instantly sets me on edge.
‘Uh, girls’ trip – to Amsterdam,’ I reply – not a lie, but not the whole truth.
‘Sounds fun. Look, I just wanted to check… is everything all right?’ she asks with a slight head tilt. ‘You’ve seemed a little off your game this week.’
Oh god. It’s far worse than I thought. After Monday’s fake migraine, I’ve been determined not to let the situation with Jon impact my work performance any further. I’ve obviously failed. Or perhaps it’s Mina’s uncanny ability to read people, something that has served her well at the helm of Elev8te but has now landed me in the hotseat.
Her dark-brown eyes study me thoughtfully as she awaits my answer.
Tell the truth or spin a lie? I wonder. Mina and I have an excellent professional relationship, but we’re not friends. I don’t want to jeopardise her faith in my abilities; will explaining my situation impact how she views me?
Sod it. I inhale deeply and take the plunge. ‘Jon and I are no longer engaged,’ I say – again, not an outright lie but also not the full picture.
Her eyes fly to my left hand, which is markedly missing an engagement ring. I hold it up and wriggle my fingers.
‘Not having it cleaned – but I didn’t want to break the news just yet.’
‘Oh, Kate, I am so sorry to hear that,’ she says sympathetically.
I shrug. ‘Thank you. And I apologise if my work hasn’t been up to snuff this week. I promise I’ll?—’
‘Kate,’ she says, interrupting. ‘Please – no apologies. Honestly, you operating at eighty per cent is far better than most people at a hundred. That’s not why I asked you in here. I was simply concerned, that’s all.’
‘Oh, well, thank you,’ I say.
Surprisingly, it’s cathartic telling Mina my engagement is off – and here I was worried that it would diminish her faith in me. I’m glad I was truthful. Well, partly truthful.
‘Of course ! We walk the walk around here,’ she says, referring to Elev8te’s key ethos that employee wellbeing comes first. ‘Now,’ she says, with her trademark grin. I can only guess from that glint in her eye what’s coming. ‘I know you’ll have planned to be back here first thing Monday morning…’
‘Because Monday is a workday,’ I state matter-of-factly.
‘Not for you, it isn’t.’
‘Sorry?’ I ask, confused.
‘I want you to take the day.’
‘Oh, I don’t need to?—’
‘Kate, when was the last time you took a mental health day? Oh, I know – never . Take Monday off. Stay in Amsterdam an extra day… go to a spa… lie on the sofa all day… Do whatever you like, but you’re not to come into the office.’
‘You’re sidelining me,’ I say, somewhat stung.
‘I’m looking out for you.’
I sit back against the chair. ‘So, I have no choice.’
‘Nope. If I clap eyes on you before Tuesday, you’ll owe me a week’s pay.’
‘A week? So, pulling out the big guns.’
She raises her brows at me, and I snigger softly. This conversation took a sharp and sudden turn from where I thought it would go – but for the better.
‘All right, you win,’ I say, standing. ‘I shall see you on Tuesday .’
‘And not before nine.’
‘Any other conditions you’d like to put on this mandate?’ I ask, laughing.
‘Only one,’ she says with a grin. ‘Have a brilliant time in Amsterdam.’
‘Will do.’
I leave Mina’s office, now in a hurry to catch the Tube to St Pancras where I’m meeting Margot.
* * *
‘You jammy cow,’ says Margot when I tell her Mina’s mandate. She leans across the table, punctuating her words with a light slap on my arm.
‘Oi. And what makes me jammy exactly? That I’m on my way to break another woman’s heart or that my fiancé is a lying arsehole?’
‘You know what I mean. And it’s ex -fiancé.’
‘I wish I did. And I’m not sure it’s right to call him my ex when I haven’t broken things off yet.’
‘Semantics,’ she says dismissively. I shake my head at her, but she misses it, her gaze lifting to the departures board overhead.
‘We should go,’ she announces, springing into action. She downs the rest of her pre-travel champers, then barrels through the crowd, her roller case in tow, as I rush after her.
We find our carriage and climb aboard, and I trail behind her to our seats. I’ve sprung for Standard Premier, which includes dinner and drinks. Although Margot has already sussed out our proximity to the Café Métropole car and plans to buy us a bottle of champers – whether I like it or not.
In her mind, I’m supposed to be celebrating – still , as if this is some sort of month-long festival. The Fuck Me, My Fiancé’s a Prick Festival. Imagine the throngs who’d attend if it were real – probably half of them engaged to Jon.
After the train departs St Pancras and Margot pops out of her seat to procure the promised bottle, I retrieve my phone from my handbag and navigate to my messages – specifically the thread with Willem. I send a quick update:
On our way.
My pulse quickens as the dancing dots appear – wildly out of order considering who’s making those dots dance. Jon may be a cheating bastard, but a quickened pulse at another man’s hands (so to speak) feels like a betrayal. Oh, the irony.
Willem’s message finally appears:
Thank you again for coming. I really appreciate it.
I type out a quick reply:
All part of the service.
Oh no, that’s awful. Delete.
She’d do the same for me.
What the hell does that mean? Adriana doesn’t believe I exist – why would she do anything for me? Delete!
Looking forward to it.
Really? I’m looking forward to upending another woman’s life? Delete, delete, delete!
Of course. See you tomorrow .
There. Simple, clear, and not even the slightest hint that I’ve completely lost my mind.
And I’m certain I have. Swinging wildly between opposing emotions, in a constant state of conflict and confusion… Getting caught in an endless loop of questions that beget even more questions… Mentally replaying moments with Jon, and not one of them seeming like it actually happened.
It was only a week ago when my world was upended. It simultaneously feels like minutes ago and ten years ago.
‘They only had prosecco,’ says Margot, appearing at my side, holding aloft an open bottle and two plastic cups. She sits, then pours and hands me a brimming cup, mostly froth. ‘To my cousin, who is beautiful and brave and about to kick some serious arse.’
I snigger – how could I not? – then take a sip. Only bubbles go up my nose, making me splutter.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Bad pour.’ She reaches over and sticks her forefinger in my cup.
‘Oi, what are you doing?’
I watch, fascinated (and horrified), as the bubbles recede down the side of the cup. ‘It’s the quickest way,’ she replies. ‘I saw it on Instagram.’
‘It’s the disgusting way. Here.’ I swap my cup for hers and she shrugs, taking a drink.
My phone, which is set to silent, buzzes on the small table in front of me and I flip it over to read the incoming text message. It’s Willem:
Where are you staying?
I catch Margot reading over my shoulder and give her a sharp look.
‘What?’ she asks rhetorically. ‘Just seeing what Thor has to say.’ She reaches over and scrolls up.
‘ Margot ,’ I say, snatching the phone away.
‘He’s not exactly a sparkling conversationalist.’
‘I’m not sure what you were expecting. It’s not like we’re friends.’
‘Oh, I don’t know – a hint of flirtation. Is that too much to ask?’
‘Flirta— Remind me again why I brought you.’
‘You didn’t bring me. I invited myself along. And you need me.’
She’s probably right but I’m starting to wish this was a solo journey. I stare at her a moment and she steadily meets my gaze. Typical Margot.
‘So,’ I say, holding up my phone, ‘the address, please?’
Margot obliges and I send the address to Willem, having to override autocorrect four times to spell the street name correctly.
He replies almost instantly:
That’s not far from my house. If you’d like to meet up later, there’s a bar close by.
‘Huzzah! That’s more than a hint of flirtation. He’s asking you out.’
‘Not on a date. He’s just being friendly,’ I reply, not bothering to temper my irritation.
Margot seems unconvinced but doesn’t press, and I type out a noncommittal reply. We won’t arrive until late and I suspect I’ll be longing for sleep. Actually, I’m longing for sleep now and the lulling movement of the train isn’t helping.
‘Have you heard from Arseface today?’ Margot asks when I put my phone away.
I sigh heavily and rest against the seat. ‘Can we please talk about something else? Or nothing?’
Margot’s hand lands lightly on my leg, patting it three times. I slide my eyes in her direction, catching her supportive expression. She gives me a kind smile and I return it. One of the things I love most about Margot is her ability to switch seamlessly from cheery distraction tactics to empathetic love.
It’s probably best that she invited herself along, because if I linger on what I’m doing for more than five seconds, I break into a cold sweat.
‘Thanks,’ I say softly.
She pats my leg a final time, then takes out the latest book in the Mackenzie August PI series, her favourite. While Margot reads, I sip my prosecco and regard the English countryside out the window.
Seriously, what the actual fuck am I doing?
* * *
‘Is this right?’ I ask.
Our driver has dropped us off on a residential street that runs alongside a canal and Margot is rolling her case towards the water.
‘It’s right. Follow me,’ she calls over her shoulder. She stops in front of a houseboat, crosses a walkway, and checks her phone for the code to the lockbox beside the front door. It springs open and she holds up the keys with a grin. ‘See?’ she asks, looking up to street level.
When I put Margot in charge of accommodation, I thought she understood that meant a hotel. This is not a hotel.
‘Come on,’ she says cheerily. She disappears inside the houseboat, and I follow, closing the front door behind me.
Margot is running around switching on lights as I take in the main room of the houseboat. It’s lovely – Scandinavian-style furniture, a chunky knit throw on the sofa, a dozen or so pot plants, and pops of orange in the throw pillows, an area rug, and lamps. There’s a table for two butted up against the wall, and the kitchen is compact but, as I hadn’t expected we’d even have a kitchen, it’s a bonus. Especially as it bears a welcome basket with tea, coffee, long-life milk, and a packet of stroopwafels !
‘Your room’s down here,’ says Margot from one end of the house.
I follow the sound of her voice into a bedroom that’s decorated similarly to the lounge. She’s spreadeagled on the double bed, her eyes closed.
‘You sure?’ I ask with a mocking smile. ‘You look rather comfortable.’
She cracks her eyes and peers at me through her lashes. ‘The other room only has a single bed.’
‘That’s okay. I don’t mind.’
She props herself up on her elbows. ‘But what happens when you want to bring Thor back for a shag?’
‘Margot!’ I plop onto the edge of the bed, laughing. ‘You do realise you sound like a teenager when you talk like that?’
‘You do realise that it’s mostly an act?’
We exchange a weighty look as she gives me a rueful smile. I’m the only person Margot is ever truthful with about her inner struggles.
‘Right,’ she says, hopping off the bed. ‘I’m going to get settled in my room. What time are we meeting Thor?’
I’m overcome by a huge yawn. ‘Sorry.’
‘Very attractive.’
I give her a look, my mouth quirking, and she sits next to me. ‘So, no drinks with Thor?’
‘ Please call him Willem.’
‘Fine, so no drinks with Willem?’
‘Am I doing the right thing?’ I ask, abruptly changing the subject. I hold my breath. She’ll either make another joke or understand the gravity of what I’m asking and take the question seriously.
‘Jon deserves whatever’s coming,’ she says gravely, and I release the breath.
‘I know. But tomorrow, I’m going to meet Adriana and she’s Jon’s fiancée , Margs. His fiancée . He’s told her he loves her. They’ve had romantic dinners. They’ve walked hand in hand along the canals. They’ve slept late on a Sunday morning, then stayed in bed, reading and drinking coffee. He’s made love to her. He’s put a sodding ring on her finger! Everything I thought was ours, he’s had that with her. She’s the “other woman”.’
‘Not in the way that usually means. She’s not his mistress. She’s convinced she’s the only one.’
‘Somehow, that makes it worse. The poor woman. She has no idea what’s about to happen. Maybe it was wrong to come here.’
Margot scooches closer and grabs my nearest hand, holding it in both of hers.
‘Look, Adriana won’t take Willem at his word – she’s too blinded by love. Because Arseface has lied to her, just like he lied to you. It’s the right thing to do, helping her understand who she’s engaged to.’
‘It may be the right thing to do for her , but what about me?’ I ask, my voice small and hoarse. ‘How am I supposed to face the woman who’s been sleeping with Jon? God, even the idea of them together…’ I shudder, desperate to dislodge the gruesome thought.
Margot stands and faces me, hands on her hips.
‘Katherine Ellen Whitaker.’
My eyes snap to meet hers.
‘Take it from the ex-wife of a philandering twat, no good can come of going down that path. You think scrolling Instagram reels is a time suck? You can waste a lifetime entertaining those kinds of thoughts – and they will drive you mad. Of course you’re going to miss Jon – the Jon you knew. And, yes, you will get sad sometimes and, yes, you might be jealous of Adriana. But there’s no going back. That Jon, the life he promised? That’s a fallacy. It was never real to begin with.’
‘I know,’ I interject, somewhat defensive.
‘Good. And now you get to be there for someone who doesn’t know – well, not yet anyway.’
I stare up at her, succumbing to a smile. ‘You’re clever, you are.’
‘Well, yeah.’ We exchange smiles. ‘But I’m also of the belief that when you learn a lesson the hard way, tell everyone so they don’t have to make that same mistake themselves.’
‘Clever and wise.’
‘Exactly.’
I sigh, my heartrate slowing, the tangled knots in my mid-section easing. I glance at the clock by the bed. It’s close to midnight and I yawn again.
‘Probably a good thing you’re not seeing Thor tonight,’ Margot teases. ‘You’re an ugly yawner.’
My yawn transforms into a wide-mouthed laugh. ‘You muppet,’ I say, smiling up at her adoringly. I really am glad Margot is with me. I can’t imagine how riled up I would be if she weren’t here.
‘Right. I’m off to bed. You message the Norse god and tell him tonight’s a no-go – a brilliant tactic, that, playing hard to get.’
‘I’m not?—’
‘Goodnight!’ she sing-songs, making her way to the other end of the houseboat.
I’m still sniggering when I unlock my phone, discovering a message:
I miss you darling
‘Oh, sod off, Jon, you arse-faced twat,’ I say aloud, which is hugely satisfying. Then I navigate to the thread with Willem and fire off a message, apologising for being too shattered to meet up. A reply comes moments later:
Disappointing but I understand. See you tomorrow.
Disappointing . How can one word have the power to make my pulse quicken? Again.