Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-one
The next morning I wake up sick with dread. I feel exactly like a five-year-old who doesn’t want to go to school. A five-year-old with a severe hangover, that is.
“I can’t go,” I say as eight-thirty arrives. “I can’t face them.”
“Yes, you can!” says Lissy, doing up my jacket buttons. “It’ll be fine. Just keep your chin up.”
“What if they’re horrid to me?”
“They won’t be horrid to you! They’re your friends! Anyway, they’ll probably all have forgotten about it by now!”
“They won’t! Can’t I just stay at home with you?” I grab her hand. “I’ll be really good. I promise—”
“Emma, I’ve explained to you,” says Lissy in patient mother tones. “I’ve got to go to court today.” She pries my hand out of hers. “But I’ll be here when you get home. And we’ll have something really nice for supper. OK? Now, go on.” She opens the door to our flat. “You’ll be fine!”
Feeling like a dog being shooed out, I go down the stairs and open the front door.
I’m just stepping out of the house when a van pulls up at the side of the road.
A man gets out in a blue uniform, holding the biggest bunch of flowers I’ve ever seen, all tied up with dark green ribbon, and squints at the number on our house.
“Hello,” he says, “I’m looking for an Emma Corrigan.”
“That’s me!” I say in surprise.
“Aha!” He smiles, and holds out a pen and clipboard. “Well, this is your lucky day! If you could just sign here.”
The bouquet is unbelievable. Roses, freesias, amazing big purple flowers, fantastic dark red pom-pom things, dark green, frondy bits, pale green ones that look just like asparagus.
OK, I may not know what they’re all called. But I do know one thing. These flowers are expensive. There’s only one person who could have sent them.
“Wait,” I say without taking the pen. “I want to check who they’re from.”
I grab the card, rip it open, and scan down the long message, not reading any of it until I come to the name at the bottom.
Jack.
I feel a huge dart of stung pride. After all he did, Jack thinks he can fob me off with some manky bunch of flowers?
All right, huge, deluxe bunch of flowers, but that’s not the point.
“I don’t want them, thank you,” I say.
“You don’t want them?” the delivery man looks baffled.
“What’s going on?” comes a breathless voice beside me, and I look up to see Lissy gawking at the bouquet. “Oh, my God. Are they from Jack?”
“Yes. Please take them away,” I say to the deliveryman.
“Wait!” exclaims Lissy, grabbing the cellophane. “Let me just smell them.” She buries her face in the blooms and inhales deeply. “Wow! That’s absolutely incredible! I’ve never seen flowers as amazing as this.” She looks at the man. “So, what will happen to them?”
“Dunno.” He shrugs. “They’ll get chucked away, I suppose.”
“Gosh.” She glances at me. “That seems like an awful waste.”
“Lissy, I can’t accept them!” I exclaim. “I can’t! He’ll think I’m saying everything’s OK between us!”
“No, you’re quite right,” says Lissy, sounding reluctant. “You have to send them back.” She touches a pink velvety rose petal. “It is a shame, though.”
“Send what back?” comes a sharp voice behind me. “You are joking, aren’t you?”
Oh, for God’s sake. Now Jemima has arrived in the street, still in her white dressing gown. “You’re not sending those back!” she cries. “I’m giving a dinner party on Saturday! They’ll be perfect!” She grabs the label. “Smythe and Foxe! Do you know how much these must have cost?”
“I don’t care how much they cost!” I exclaim. “They’re from Jack! I can’t possibly keep them!”
“Why not?”
She’s unbelievable.
“Because…because it’s a matter of principle! If I keep them, I’m basically saying, ‘I forgive you.’ ”
“Not necessarily!” retorts Jemima. “You could be saying, ‘I don’t forgive you.’ Or you could be saying, ‘I can’t be bothered to return your stupid flowers—that’s how little you mean to me.’ ”
There’s silence as we all consider this. The thing is, they are pretty amazing flowers.
“So, do you want them or not?” says the delivery guy.
“I…” Oh, God, now I’m all confused.
“Emma, if you send them back, you look weak,” says Jemima firmly. “You look like you can’t bear to have any reminder of him in the house. But if you keep them, then you’re saying, ‘I don’t care about you!’ You’re standing firm! You’re being strong! You’re being—”
“Oh, God, OK!” I say, and grab the pen. “I’ll sign for them.
But could you please tell him that this does not mean I forgive him, nor that he isn’t a cynical, heartless, despicable user, and furthermore, if Jemima weren’t having a dinner party, these would be straight in the bin.
” As I finish signing, I’m red-faced, and I stamp a period so hard it tears the page. “Can you remember all that?”
“Love,” says the delivery guy, “I just work at the depot.”
“I know!” says Lissy. She grabs the clipboard back and prints WITHOUT PREJUDICE clearly under my name.
“What does that mean?” I say.
“It means ‘I’ll never forgive you, you complete bastard…but I’ll keep the flowers anyway.’ ”
“And you’re still going to get even,” adds Jemima.
—
It’s one of those amazingly bright, crisp mornings that make you feel like London really is the best city in the world.
The sun is glinting off the river and the windows of office blocks, and the dome of St. Paul’s looks like a picture postcard against the blue sky.
And as I stride along from the tube station, my spirits can’t help rising a little.
Maybe Lissy’s right. Maybe everyone at work will already have forgotten about the whole thing.
I mean, let’s get a bit of proportion here.
It wasn’t that big a deal. It wasn’t that interesting.
Surely some other piece of gossip will have come along in the meantime.
Surely everyone will be talking about…football. Or politics or something. Exactly.
I arrive at the Panther building, push open the glass door to the foyer, and walk in, my head held high.
“…a Barbie bedspread!” I immediately hear from across the marble. A guy from Accounts is talking to a woman with a “Visitor” badge, who is listening avidly.
“…shagging Jack Harper all along?” comes a voice from above me, and I look up to see a group of girls walking up the stairs.
“It’s Connor I feel sorry for,” one replies. “That poor guy…”
“…pretended she loved jazz!” someone else is saying as they get out of the lift. “I mean, why on earth would you do that?”
My optimism instantly dies away, and I consider running away and spending the rest of my life under the duvet.
But I have to face them. I have to do this.
Clenching my fists at my sides, I slowly make my way up the stairs and along the corridor to the marketing department. Everyone I pass either blatantly goggles at me or pretends they’re not looking, and at least five conversations are hastily broken off as I approach.
As I reach the door to the marketing department, I take a deep breath, then walk in, trying to look as unconcerned as possible.
“Hi, everyone,” I say, taking off my jacket and hanging it on my chair.
“Emma!” exclaims Artemis in tones of sarcastic delight. “Well, I never!”
“Good morning, Emma,” says Paul, coming out of his office and giving me an appraising look. “You OK?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Anything you’d like to…talk about?” To my surprise, he looks like he genuinely means it.
But honestly. What does he think? That I’m going to go in there and sob on his shoulder, “That bastard Jack Harper used me”?
“No,” I say, my face prickling. “Thanks, but…I’m OK.”
“Good.” He pauses, then adopts a more businesslike tone. “Now, I’m assuming that when you disappeared yesterday, it was because you’d decided to work from home.”
“Er, yes.” I clear my throat. “That’s right.”
“No doubt you got lots of useful tasks done?”
“Er, yes. Loads.”
“Excellent. Just what I thought. All right, then, carry on. And the rest of you”—Paul looks around the office as though in warning—“remember what I said.”
“Of course!” says Artemis at once. “We all remember!”
Paul disappears into his office again, and I focus rigidly on my computer as it warms up. It’ll be fine, I tell myself. I’ll just concentrate on my work, completely immerse myself….
Suddenly I become aware that someone’s humming a tune quite loudly.
It’s something I recognize. It’s…
It’s the Carpenters.
And now a few others around the room are joining in on the chorus.
“Close to yoooou…”
“All right, Emma?” says Nick as I look up suspiciously. “D’you want a hanky?”
“Close to yoooou…” everybody trills in unison again, and I hear muffled laughter.
I’m not going to react. I’m not going to give them the pleasure.
As calmly as possible, I click onto my e-mails, and give a small gasp of shock. I normally get about ten e-mails every morning, if that. Today I have ninety-five.
Dad: I’d really like to talk…
Carol: I’ve already got two more people for our Barbie Club…
Moira: I know where you can get really comfy G-strings…
Sharon: So how long has this been going on?!!
Fiona: Re: the body awareness workshop…
I scroll down the endless list and suddenly feel a stabbing in my heart.
There are three from Jack.
What should I do?
Should I read them?
My hand hovers over my mouse. Does he deserve at least a chance to explain?
“Oh, Emma,” says Artemis innocently, coming over to my desk with a carrier bag. “I’ve got this jumper I wondered if you’d like. It’s a bit too small for me, but it’s very nice. And it should fit you, because…” She pauses, and catches Caroline’s eye. “…it’s a size four.”
Immediately both of them erupt into hysterical giggles.
“Thanks, Artemis,” I say shortly. “That’s really sweet of you.”
“I’m off for a coffee,” says Fergus, standing up. “Anybody want anything?”
“Make mine a Harveys Bristol Cream,” says Nick brightly.
“Ha ha,” I mutter under my breath.
“Oh, Emma, I meant to say,” Nick adds, sauntering over to my desk, “that new secretary in Admin. Have you seen her? She’s quite something, isn’t she?”
He winks at me, and I stare at him blankly for a moment, not understanding.