5. Ariadne
5
ARIADNE
I t takes Rand a week – a whole week – to call me.
The morning after I caught him with his hand in someone else’s cookie jar, I call in to work sick and collect all my meagre belongings from the apartment we shared. I leave him a parting gift. A framed picture of us together – in happier times, I like to believe – smashed to pieces against his PlayStation. Which also lies in pieces after my anger gets the better of me.
I promptly move my things into a shared apartment which costs me an arm and a leg but will have to do until I find something cheaper. Nothing like living on a shoestring budget. Nina offers me her spare bedroom; there is no way I am staying at Nina and Michael’s – no way am I opening myself to the possibility of running into Rand there. Plus, that is the first place he’d look if he really wanted to find me. Plus, Michael isn’t helping my mental health one bit.
So, Rand calls me four times and I let each and every call go to voicemail. So proud of myself. Until he sends me a text telling me he wants the key to his apartment back. Loser wants his key back.
I fall apart all over again. How could he just discard me so easily? What was so terrible about me that he can just gloss over two years like they never happened?
So, I do the only thing I know to do. I go out into the street and place the key in the middle of the road and watch as cars glide over it, and it’s tossed in the air a few times. Until it’s mangled beyond recognition and lies in the gutter, waiting for me to collect it. I drop it in his mailbox with a smile of satisfaction then send him a text.
Key’s in your mailbox.
Send my regards to Karma.
I’m wearing a self-satisfying grin as I walk away from the apartment block. I’m so proud of myself, I could almost purr. Until I see Rand walking up the street, his hand swinging in the hand of a female. Who looks nothing like the woman I caught him with at the hospital.
* * *
I fall apart all over again, sobbing huge hollow gasps into my pillow to drown out the noise I’ll probably get evicted over. The next day when I wake and straggle to the makeshift kitchen for coffee, my room mate looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.
“You have to pay for that,” she says, pointing at the coffee machine.
I look at her then turn my eyes toward the machine, and the tin she indicates on the bench top. I’m sure she didn’t mention this when I moved in, and I’m sure the four tins placed on the kitchen bench are new. Did she just change the rules of my tenancy without consulting me? I shake my head and put the mug down. If I’m going to pay for my coffee, it better be a Dutch Bros.
I grab my coffee to go, spill it down my white shirt as I rush so I’m not late to work again, and look anything but put together as I lurch through the office doors. Everyone looks up as I walk in, and they’re all staring at me. Some whisper. There is a snicker or two. And by the time I sit my ass down in my chair and switch on my computer, I’m close to tears again. But the tears just won’t come. Instead, they gather at the corners of my eyes, threatening to break through the dam that’s holding them back.
It’s been the week from hell for me. And now I’m certain I’ve committed professional suicide because my boss calls me into his office at midday. Lunchtime. This can’t be good.
He has his hands behind his neck as he leans back in his office chair, one of those ergonomic things that bounces back and forth every time he moves. I’d like to say my presence wipes the smirk off his face, but I’d be lying. He’s an eccentric old millionaire who inherited the business from his father and hasn’t written an article in his life. He wouldn’t know a good article if it hit him in the face. Except, he’s the boss, so I don’t tell him that.
“I’m getting mixed feelings when I look at you, Ariana,” he says, leaning into his chair.
“Ariadne,” I correct him. Four years of service, and not once has he addressed me accurately.
‘Yes, well, Ariana…”
“Ariadne.”
I should probably stop now. I’ll get fired just because my boss wants to call me Ariana. He ignores me and pushes on.
“There have been some concerns raised about your performance,” he tells me.
“Raised by who?” I shriek.
“That’s not important. But let’s just say I’m not overly impressed with your performance of late. You’ve been last to arrive and first to leave. You’re tardy and high-strung. Your appearance leaves a lot to be desired. And dare I say, you’ve missed two deadlines.”
“I did mention I was going through a rough patch,” I defend myself.
“Your rough patch is affecting your work. Which is costing us time and money. Neither of which we have much of.”
I frown and wonder what the hell he’s going on about.
“I’m sorry Mr Hinkelbaum, I’ll try harder.”
Please don’t fire me.
“Please don’t try , Ariana. Do . You must do better. And you haven’t… You’ve been…”
Oh my God, I’m going to get fired. Before I know it, I’m on my knees and I’m at his feet, begging for another chance. I can’t get fired now. My wage just barely covers rent and living expenses. If I get fired, I’ll be forced to stay with Nina and Michael, and then I’ll have to deal with Michael’s toxic advice.
“Please, Mr Hinkelbaum. Pleeeaasse don’t fire me. Please, please, please, I promise I’ll do better. I’ll do anything .”
He looks at me like I’ve grown two heads, then he kicks me off his feet and looks at me thoughtfully.
“Anything?” he asks.
* * *
Mr Hinkelbaum is giving me an impossible task. And when I say impossible, I mean Mission Impossible. There is just no way I can pull this off, and I start to think that he gave me this task knowing full well that I couldn’t pull it off, and it’s his out to get rid of me. So I have to try extra hard to make the impossible possible.
I start by calling a few sources, asking a few questions. It takes me two days, but finally I get the lead I’m looking for. Someone puts me onto someone else who puts me on to someone who can get me an in with Caleph “King” Rojas. I wait on the line as the contact I’ve made dials me into Rojas’ private line; no one is willing to give me the direct number, and I’m willing to do anything to speak with the man who’s at the center of my latest exposé.
A deep masculine voice reaches my ears through the phone. I don’t know why I’m expecting someone with a Spanish inflection, but he speaks perfect English in an American accent that does not belie his background. The man could’ve been born and bred in the US. I quickly shoot off my name and the reason for my call. In return, he asks how I got his number. I don’t really have his number, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“This is your chance to go on the record before we go to print,” I tell him, and I’m hoping he’s enticed enough to grant me an interview. I’m practically begging him, but the man doesn’t seem like he’s one to be swayed. If he doesn’t agree to this interview, I’m as good as screwed.
“No.”
One word, but it’s heavily laden with refusal and finality.
“No?”
“There will be no interview.”
“That means I will have to rely on what I get from my sources.”
A warning. Usually when people hear a reporter will resort to external sources, they like to step up and tell their own story. Not this man. He’s tight lipped as I continue to plead my case. I drone on and on and on before I hear the click and the phone goes dead.