Chapter 52 Andrea
Andrea
“So where are you meeting Christian?”
Eliza was stirring her pot of Purrl Gray, and a tabby jumped onto her lap and started to knead.
“New Delhi. He’s meeting me off the flight.”
“And have you got all your—”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m sure you’ve thought of everything.” I smiled.
“I … yeah. Thanks.”
“Let me know if you want a ride to the airport,” I added.
She stopped stirring.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay with this, you know,” she said. “It feels weird, Andy. If you want to say something, you can.”
“I am okay with it.” I sipped my Cheshire Chai.
“I know you want to list tropical diseases and accounts of women abducted in Asia over the last ten years,” she said.
“I don’t.” I paused. “Well, maybe just a bit.”
Eliza grinned. “Thanks, Andy.”
“What for?”
“Being cool.”
“I’m not that cool.” I pulled a bag out from under the table.
“What’s this?”
“Universal adapter, oral rehydration salts, and Deet,” I said. “Oh, and a slim power pack.”
She opened the bag and looked at me.
“This isn’t me being your mum,” I said quickly. “I just know that functional sockets don’t always show up where you want them.”
She shook her head. “It’s nice of you, Andy. Thanks.”
I smiled.
“And what about you? Have you sorted stuff out with Liam yet?” she said.
“Ah … no.”
The thought of Liam reading the HR letter still made me feel ill, even now. Correcting it didn’t undo it.
I’d been willing to risk his reputation and spin the facts just to make myself feel safe. That wasn’t a part of myself I wanted to think about. But it wasn’t just the letter. I’d been going over it for days—what Eliza had said.
She’d been right. About all of it. I just hadn’t been ready to hear it.
And even now, I still couldn’t get Liam out of my mind.
Stupid memories kept interrupting my thoughts.
Him sprawled across my sofa with Mr. Darcy on his lap, flicking through Netflix to find me a show I liked.
Running down the street after the lift fell to see if I was okay.
The quiet concentration on his face when he’d put together the flat-packed furniture for me even though he could have just bought me something that didn’t require effort.
A hand on the small of my back, pulling me into him when he knew I was nervous.
It hurt to think of what I’d lost.
I’d let him get close. Closer than anyone since Dad died. And then I’d found a reason to blow it up.
How was it I’d needed my sister to tell me what seemed so obvious now? I’d been looking for the exit before he could find one first.
“Well,” she said. “Don’t leave it too long. It might not be fixable, but don’t you at least owe him a conversation?”
Was she right about this too?
All I wanted was to make all this go away—falsely accusing him of buying my artwork, the letter I’d filed with HR, the redundancies …
But none of that would go away, and even if it did—if I could wave a magic wand and change it all—would he want to talk to me anyway, after the hurt I caused him?
*
“Oh my God.” Mum was standing with her hands on her hips, watching the TV. “I look about sixty.”
“Mum, you are about sixty.”
“I’m fifty-eight!”
On screen, a woman lay on a pale carpet in a suspiciously elegant sprawl, an expression of composed inconvenience on her face. Her lilac knitted top was stretched over a rather ample bosom.
“—but when Margaret had a fall, she wasn’t alone.”
“They really should have just booked someone older.” She tutted. “They’ve styled me like a granny.”
The voice continued, “Hello, Margaret. This is CareLine. Are you hurt?”
Murray leaned out of the kitchen. “Don’t worry, Margaret. You don’t look sixty.” A beat. “You look like the before photo.”
“Bloody CareLine. They’ve added a decade and taken my cheekbones.” She huffed. “Still, two days’ work. Falls pay better than youth.”
My phone buzzed.
James: Where are you?
Me: Still at Mum’s. Why?
James: Turn on the BBC news. Now.
I frowned and reached for the remote. Amara Patel’s voice filled the room.
“—has announced a significant internal shift following recent restructuring at the pharmaceutical firm.”
Footage of the Novexia building cut to a stock image of medics providing trauma care.
“Isn’t that where you used to work?” said Mum.
I nodded.
“The new unit will focus on emergency deployment of trauma-response medication, with staff redeployed into fixed-term roles supporting international aid efforts. The company says the move will allow Novexia to retain specialist staff while responding to urgent humanitarian need.”
“What does that mean?” Mum asked.
“After I left, I kept thinking about what happens next for people like that. Not soldiers. The ones who don’t choose to be anywhere near it.
The ones who survive the blast but don’t get help in time.
Traumex isn’t perfect, but it works. And in the right hands, quickly enough …
it gives people a chance they wouldn’t otherwise have.
I can push it where it’s actually needed instead of where it makes the most money … ”
“He wants to help others in need,” I said.
God, he was doing it.
A photo of Liam appeared.
“Oh, he’s handsome,” Mum said.
He was more than just handsome. He was kind and smart and funny. He wore a Snuggie … even bought me one so I could share in his fun. He watched romcoms and drank sherry and pretended he liked it just to keep me company. He was so much more than a lone-wolf CEO.
He was a man who always tried to do the right thing.
And for a short time, I’d thought we’d be okay.
“In a statement, CEO Liam Roth described the initiative as an extension of existing strategy, rather than a change of direction,” said Amara. “The announcement follows criticism of earlier job losses. Novexia has not confirmed how many roles will now be preserved.”
My phone pinged again.
James: Did you see it?
Me: Yes. What’s going on?
James: The type of change that doesn’t happen unless someone takes the hit personally, hon.
Me: Do you mean Liam?
James: I think you’d better call me.