Chapter 1
London
I stop a few streets away and take a deep breath, turn off the engine, and look at Vanessa.
"I assume you don't want to tell me which is the right church?"
"Are you thinking of going there now too?" she asks, her voice trembling so much I almost start crying myself.
"No, it’s okay." I take my hands off the steering wheel, rub my face, then reach into the back seat for my purse and grab my water bottle. After a sip, I say, "Those were complete strangers. I hope the bride still marries him. The guy didn’t even do anything wrong."
"Maybe we should go back and clear things up?"
"I did shout that I was in the wrong church." Whether that helped… "Better not interfere again."
Vanessa and I sit in silence for a moment.
"Are you mad at me for lying to you?" she asks.
"What? No. No... I put way too much pressure on you. I was so angry at that jerk. I shouldn’t have forced you to drive to the church with me to try to stop the wedding.
" I check the time. It’s way too late for that now anyway.
"Maybe he’s learned from his mistake and will stay faithful to her?
" I wish that for her. But I don’t believe it.
"How exactly did you find out about it?" There simply wasn't time for this earlier. Between all the tears and my anger, some questions remained unanswered.
"I was in town and met a mutual friend. I asked him what he was doing later, and he told me he was going to a wedding. Then he mentioned names, and I asked to see a photo. There he was. Dominic. It was really my Dominic. What a crazy coincidence."
"It's a small world," I murmur.
"And London's just a village," she adds in a mumble.
Vanessa lowers her gaze, then pulls out her phone.
I watch her scroll through photos of them together before deleting them all.
"Two months. I never noticed a thing. I mean, we both worked a lot, only saw each other on weekends or talked on the phone in the evenings.
How on earth was I supposed to know he had a fiancée? "
"Do you know anything about her?"
"Yes. She has a bakery and is busy on weekends. She even does deliveries herself. Her hours are from 2:00 PM to 8:00 PM. After that, she stays late to prep cake bases. She usually doesn’t get home before midnight."
"How do you know all that?" I ask, amazed.
"It’s on her blog and Instagram." She shows me the page, where a beaming blonde smiles back. "177,000 followers." She looks again. "177,892… Everyone loves her."
"So that’s why he had time for you on weekends and in the evenings. She was occupied with her business. How cruel..."
"Yes," she whispers. "I wanted to marry him. I wanted kids with him. I was so sure." She wipes away a few tears. "We walked through the city, hand in hand. He took me out to dinner, bought me flowers. He never once hinted we might get caught."
"Where’s her shop?" I ask.
"Richmond." Southwest London.
"And you live in Romford. That’s on the other side of the city. What’s the drive? Over an hour?"
"Almost ninety minutes through downtown, about ten less if you take the main roads north."
"So hardly anyone who knew you would’ve seen you there. Or he just didn’t care. He must have felt pretty confident." I take another sip.
"I even went to his place," she sighs. "An apartment just a few streets from mine. It all felt too perfect."
"He probably just rented it. That takes a serious amount of scheming." She nods.
"What do you want to do now?"
"Forget him. I’ve already blocked him everywhere." She looks at me. "Can you drive me home?"
"First, we’re getting burgers and ice cream. We both deserve it."
"With extra cheese?"
"Absolutely."
What a miserable Saturday evening. We stuffed ourselves with burgers, fries, and cola.
Then we demolished almost three liters of walnut ice cream with whipped cream and washed it down with two bottles of red wine.
We eventually passed out on Vanessa’s couch, and I didn’t make it home until the next day.
Unfortunately, I couldn't find out where that jerk’s fake apartment is. I simply have to respect Vanessa’s wish not to track him down. I promised, so I’ll stick to it, even though it’s killing me.
Back in my own apartment, I dig painkillers out of the drawer and swallow them down.
Way too much alcohol last night, but I live for these girls’ nights, even when the reason behind them is awful. It’s already 4:00 PM. We partied until sunrise, crashing sometime around six or seven. What a crazy night.
“I’m home,” I text Vanessa. A heart emoji pops up on my screen. Smiling, I plug in my phone and set it aside. Battery’s down to 12%.
I try to be productive, at least a little.
Laundry, tidying, chores. That’s all I’ve got in me today.
Tomorrow it’s back to work, and there’s a lot to do.
With the company’s summer festival coming up, I’ll be actively helping out my boss, Arthur Blackthorn.
Although he usually handles most things himself, as organizing festive events brings him joy, I'm happy to lend him a hand here and there. He’s seventy-six, and while he’s still fit for his age and looks younger than he is, occasionally he does need some support.
After his surgery and long hospital stay earlier this year he tires more easily.
Rumor in the office is he’ll soon name a successor, and the vultures are already circling, rubbing hands and sharpening their knives.
I’m dreading the day one of them takes over.
It’s unfortunately only going to make my life in this wonderful company complicated and certainly not easier.
In the evening, I'm only capable of curling up on the couch, enjoying strawberry-vanilla tea, and watching a true crime show. Lately, I've been craving this almost daily.
Unfortunately, I fall asleep on the couch without setting my alarm.
When I wake up the next morning, it's already bright out, and I'm lying in probably the most uncomfortable position of my entire life. One leg is half-hanging on the side table, one arm across the cushion, and the other leg bent and dangling over the armrest. My poor back. Maybe you can fall asleep like this at seventeen when you come home from a wild night of partying. At twenty-eight it means I’ll need at least a good dose of pain relief cream and a few new bruises that I'll surely wonder where they came from.
Something hard is digging into me.
There's nothing hard here.
Okay, I have found the remote control. It will certainly leave a nice pattern on my back for a while. Fantastic.
Still half-asleep, I reach for my phone and nearly choke. 7:51 AM. I’m supposed to be in the office by 8:30 at the latest.
"Damn it!" I curse and roll onto the floor. Thud!
How am I supposed to shower, get dressed, and drive to work without being late?
Although I've been working for Blackthorn Data Solutions for three years now, I've never been late before, and I’m not breaking my streak today! I strip on the run, leaving a trail of clothes across the living room and down the hall. In the bathroom, I crank on the shower and hop in, taking my toothbrush with me. Whatever. Details don’t matter now.
I wash myself lightning-fast with minimal effort and run to my bedroom wrapped in a towel.
"Hello bed. Sorry, I cheated on you last night. Won't happen again!"
Then I yank open the closets and dry myself off in front of the full-length mirror.
Well, I look pretty good - except for the remote control pattern on my back. Not good.
Underwear. Bra, nude pantyhose. Then a turquoise blouse, black skirt with a slight drape, and white sneakers.
Done. I dash back to the bathroom, put on some deodorant and perfume, my jewelry, and stuff my makeup into a cosmetics bag.
I brush my hair, wrap it into a tight bun (but with a small curl at the side of my forehead so I don't look too austere) and leave the bathroom.
I give a last sad look toward the coffee maker.
"I'll need you again tomorrow!" I promise, then leave the apartment.
And... almost close the door without taking my handbag and keys.
Oh, and my phone. I run back inside. It's 8:04.
If traffic is merciful, it is twenty minutes to the office.
Thirty if the world insists on obeying speed limits.
I stuff everything I have into my bag and run off to the elevator that takes me from the seventh floor to the underground garage. At 8:06, I start the engine and speed off.
Naturally, I hit every red light and take advantage of the time to apply my makeup. Mascara. Eyeliner. Finally, a sweet peach stain on the lips—cute, matches my skin tone. The clock keeps ticking.
The minutes pass relentlessly on full digital display on the dash clock. At the next red light, it's already 8:27. Three more minutes. I won't make it on time.
My boss is really particular about punctuality. I hope he won't be mad at me. But then: a message from him. Damn!
He wants to know where I am.
Usually, I arrive at the office around 8:00 to make myself a cup of tea before the day starts.
"A request, Miss Waverley, could you kindly pick up the breakfast I ordered from the nice little café across the street and bring it to me? I have an important meeting at 9."
I text back right away: "Happy to! Leaving now."
Oh, this is perfect…
"Very good, I'll be a bit late today. Please prepare everything."
"Gladly." My heart. Oh God, my poor heart! How much luck can one person have? Fate seems to be on my side.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and ignore the angry honking from the driver behind me.
Take it easy.
I need a moment to catch my breath, and then I keep driving. It's just a few more miles to the café. Once there, I pick up the order and place the food on the back seat. It's packaged in pretty, sturdy practical boxes.
Now I just need to drive to the company and act as if I've been there the whole time.
Being the boss’s PA has perks. No one really questions where I am or where I’ve been. I've worked hard to earn this position and respect. In this industry, you can't show any weakness or uncertainty, otherwise you're an easy target. Especially as a woman.
Fourteen percent female staff. Two women in tech. The rest are secretaries or accounting. Outnumbered and underestimated, and that’s just sad.
So, it’s important to try to radiate presence and strength without coming across as snappy or catty.
Unfortunately, people call you that quickly when you're a woman trying to assert yourself.
In reality, I'm very insecure and quiet, but at work, I try to be someone I would like to be.
A little more self-confidence would do me good. Fake it ‘til you make it and all that.
At 8:41, I slide into my parking spot. I swap my sneakers for uncomfortable black heels I fish from the passenger footwell.
Over time, you get used to being three inches taller, but I prefer walking in flats.
They’re so much more comfortable, but I have to suck it up as there's no way around it.
The dress code requires it, and white sneakers just don't go with a business look.
I grab my handbag and go to the back seat to pick up the four boxes. I nudge the door shut with a skillful hip swing and lock the car with the remote.
Made it.
From now on, I'm setting two alarms. This won't happen to me again. I really don't want this stress again. What a lousy start to the day. But hey! I made it, and everything turned out fine in the end. Maybe this will even be the best day of my life? Who knows?