CHAPTER 52
Boss squints at me. ‘What are you—’
I shove the screen closer towards him so he can read.
Boss’s eyes turn molten with rage. ‘WHAT THE ABSOLUTE …?’
It’s happening. The story has broken. On The Daily Mail.
The Daily fucking Mail.
I’m Meghan Markle without the money, I’m Kim Kardashian without the booty. My life has become the stuff of tabloids, and I’m nothing more than a junior staffer hiding in a country hotel room. They could have called me the media director for god’s sake!
I’m mute. Paralysed.
‘What the fuck, Mill?’ hisses Boss. ‘I’ve been kissing girls in hallways for years and it’s never been an issue!’
I have an overwhelming urge to projectile-vomit on his face. He’s done it BEFORE?!
‘Your phone!’ yells Boss suddenly. ‘You’ve been hacked. Those stupid talking points you just read to me.’ He points at the phone in my hands. ‘You pretty much wrote the story yourself! Does anyone know your passcode?!’
‘No,’ I whimper. ‘But apparently it’s very easy to guess.’
‘WHAT?!’
‘I have enough stupid stuff to remember! I deserve to have one thing in my life that’s simple.’
‘I can’t believe I trusted you!’
‘That’s … rich!’ I splutter, dumbfounded. If anyone should be questioning their trust radar, it should be me.
‘You’re fired, Camilla,’ snarls Boss.
‘I already quit!’ I cry, my voice breaking as a hidden part of me shatters into a million shards of glass.
I can’t believe it’s come to this. The man I’ve devoted six years of my life to is dropping me like the sniffer dogs have arrived and I’m the illegal drugs, yelling at me while his brethren look on from the portraits on the walls, all furrowed brows and inherited privilege.
A tiny part of me thought maybe he’d put up more of a fight, unveil a real reason for the kiss, exculpate himself and therefore excuse my own judgement.
I don’t know what I was expecting. A personality disorder?
An elaborate prank? A remake of Candid Camera gone horribly wrong?
But there’s none of that. Only spit flying from his mouth and an oily tendril of hair at his forehead.
There are no excuses. The truth is the truth, and I can’t pretend it isn’t.
‘I’m going home,’ I mutter, my eyes fogging.
‘The tunnel is in gridlock,’ calls Boss malevolently as I run towards the quadrangle, desperate to escape. ‘It’ll take you hours to get back east.’
For once in my life, I don’t care what he says. I keep running for the door. Boss has never bothered to remember where my real home is.