Chapter 5
FIVE
Devereaux Partners HQ was located in Mayfair (naturally), in a white stucco-fronted former mansion (naturally), which it shared with a bespoke milliner and a Qatari prince’s family office (naturally, naturally).
Normally, although I knew full well that I was only on the very periphery of the world of wealth and luxury all these things represented, I relished the walk from the Tube station to the office.
I’d take pleasure in noticing that a new ‘farm shop’ had opened round the corner, where no doubt Jamie and I would purchase ham sandwiches that cost north of ten pounds next time we got paid.
I’d pause to admire the new window display in the bridal boutique two doors down, indulging in a little fantasy of one day marrying Sam in one of those impossible fairytale dresses and somehow not looking like something your grandmother would use to cover a toilet roll.
I’d stare in fascination at a passing Rolls Royce, regretting that its blacked-out windows prevented me from seeing if there was someone famous in there.
But today I noticed none of these things.
My head deep under my umbrella and my mind filled with gloom as black as the rainy morning – summer having apparently decided its work here was done and it was going to up sticks for another year – I trudged into the cobbled mews and beeped my access card at the door, barely acknowledged the receptionist’s smiling greeting, and then dragged myself upstairs to the first floor.
I shook the rain off my umbrella – soaking my tights in the process – hung up my coat and made my way to my desk, feeling as leaden and weary as if it was Thursday evening and not Monday morning.
And then it hit me.
‘God, what’s that smell?’ I asked, thudding down into my chair. ‘It’s like being on the 159 bus at school chucking-out time.’
Jamie looked up, his perfectly shaped eyebrows raised at the harshness of my tone. He looked hurt, and I immediately felt guilty about taking out my bad mood on him. ‘KFC nuggets. Breakfast of champions. Want one?’
‘No thanks. It’s not even nine o’clock, and they honk. Jasper will freak out when he comes in – he might have a client meeting.’
‘Well, you might not be eating these, but clearly something’s eating you.
’ Jamie finished his nugget and looked at me pointedly.
‘What’s wrong? Can’t be a bad hair day because it looks as fab as always.
Can’t be a hangover or you’d have bitten my arm off for one of my nuggets.
Chewing gum on your seat on the Tube? PMS?
If it’s that, I could do a chocolate run. ’
I glared at him. ‘Yeah, right. When a woman’s having a bad day, it must be her period. You just aced misogyny 101.’
To be fair to him, Jamie looked mortified. ‘Sorry, fair point. Coffee, then?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ In spite of my snappiness, his concern was making me feel a tiny bit better. ‘That would be great.’
‘On it.’ He jumped up and hurried away to the kitchen, concern etched on his face.
I took my water bottle out of my bag and switched on my computer.
While it booted up, for about the twentieth time since I’d left the flat, I checked my phone.
Nothing. I put the phone on my desk, face down, resolving not to look at it again for at least another half an hour, and clicked open my emails, skimming through them blindly.
‘Extra froth and chocolate sprinkles.’ Jamie placed a tall porcelain mug gently down next to me. ‘Unfortunately, we ate the last of the biscuits on Friday, but I can get some at lunch.’
‘I don’t want a biscuit. Thanks, though.’ I tried to smile but couldn’t manage it. Then, to my total surprise, a massive tear splashed down into my coffee.
‘Jesus, Georgia.’ Jamie squatted down, forearms on my desk, and looked at me, his normally smooth forehead furrowed. ‘What’s up? You can tell Uncle Jamie.’
‘I…’ I began, but I couldn’t get any words out. ‘Hold on…’
I spun my chair around and got up, hurrying back the way I’d come, and let myself into the ladies’.
This was another part of my working life that normally gave me a ridiculous amount of pleasure.
Not in the mundanity of going to the loo, obviously, but in the insanely plush surroundings in which I got to do it.
There were no flimsy particle-board partitions, wonky seats and empty soap dispensers in the Devereaux Partners’ toilets.
Since they were shared by staff and visiting clients, no expense had been spared in making them as luxurious as the powder rooms in a five-star hotel.
The vanity units were rose-coloured marble.
The toiletries were Aesop. The bog roll was quilted three-ply and a pack of it cost more than my daily Tube fare.
I grabbed a massive wodge of it, took a deep breath of the warm, frangipane-scented air, blew my nose and wiped my eyes.
Staring mournfully at my reflection in the mirror, I wished I’d thought to bring my make-up bag with me.
Even in the flattering warm glow of the ambient lighting, I looked like shit.
My eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, with deep shadows under them that might have been tiredness or mascara, or more likely both.
My hair, normally a pleasing sheet of shiny blonde, was limp and greasy because I hadn’t had the energy to wash and straighten it that morning and it turned out I had run out of dry shampoo after all – Jamie was obviously just trying to cheer me up when he’d complimented it.
There was an angry red blemish on my chin that my concealer wand clearly hadn’t been equal to.
And there was absolutely nothing I could do about any of it, even if I could be bothered.
Wearily, I returned to my desk, my coffee and Jamie.
‘Okay?’ he asked. ‘Please don’t cry. I hate it when people cry because it makes me cry too, and then I feel like a right plonker.’
I sniffed and blew my nose. The threat of tears seemed to have subsided, at least for now. ‘I think you’re safe.’
‘Thank God for that. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or are you just going to sit there all day looking like you put your cashmere jumper in the tumble dryer by mistake?’
I managed a smile, touched that he’d remembered that this had, in fact, happened to me. And that I’d cried about it. At work. To Jamie.
‘I… it’s stupid.’
‘And? You’re talking to the man who once had a meltdown because the sandwich shop put salad cream on my egg bap instead of mayo. Admittedly, I was hungover to all fuck, but still. You can tell me. I won’t judge.’
‘Like I could forget salad cream-gate.’ Like anyone could. Particularly the poor man in the sandwich shop, who was probably still in therapy for PTSD. ‘But this is different-stupid.’
‘Go on. A problem shared is a problem that saves us from doing any work for the next half hour.’
I took a gulp of my coffee. It wasn’t properly hot any more, but it was milky and comforting, especially as Jamie hadn’t stinted on the sprinkles.
If I was being ridiculous and overreacting, I knew he’d tell me and that would make me feel better.
And if I wasn’t – well, maybe I’d feel better anyway.
I said, ‘Sam didn’t come home last night.’
Jamie’s eyes widened. ‘Shit, Georgia. Is he okay? Do you know where he is?’
I nodded. ‘At work.’
‘So at least he’s safe, right? But… I mean, where was he?’
‘In Manchester.’ I took a breath and added miserably, ‘Seeing his ex.’
Jamie stared at me for a moment, eyes still wide with shock. ‘Wait, what? How did you find out?’
‘He told me.’
Hesitantly, I spilled out the whole story.
How Sam had been weird and silent since receiving Ava’s text.
How he’d announced that he was getting the train up north to see her.
How he’d messaged at seven in the evening to say he was going to be late, then not picked up his phone when I rang him at midnight, then messaged again to say he’d missed the last train and wouldn’t be home.
‘Okaaay.’ Jamie looked at me, his head on one side.
I could see his mind working as he searched desperately for the right things to say – the things that would make me feel better without being meaningless platitudes.
‘That’s not great, is it? But he was in touch with you basically the whole time, right?
It’s not like he was sneaking around behind your back. ’
‘Yeah, I know. But… he never talks about Ava. This whole thing came totally out of the blue. And she was – I mean, the two of them were serious. Like, serious, serious. So I can’t help wondering if she wanted to see him because she wants him back, and I won’t be able to do anything about it.’
‘Georgia.’ He still had that How do I make it so she doesn’t cry again? look on his face. ‘Come on. Is Sam your boyfriend or a car you nicked off this Ava woman? Does he have agency, or is he a stray cat you took in and now its owner’s tracked it down and wants it back?’
‘You think I’m overreacting?’
‘I genuinely think you probably are. Maybe she’s getting married and wanted to tell him, and the two of them got drunk chatting about old times.
Maybe she’s been working on a research station in Antarctica and now she’s back, she’s touching base with all her old mates.
There could be a million innocent explanations. I know where I’d lay my money.’
‘You think so?’
‘Of course. Talk to him like an adult. Come on – you can do it. A tenner says everything will be fine. He loves you, Georgia. He’s hit the bloody jackpot with you. He’d be an idiot to chuck it away over some random ex, and Sam’s not an idiot, is he?’
Relief washed over me. I had been ridiculous.
I had been overreacting. The worry I’d felt since Ava’s first message and Sam’s prolonged silence the previous day, coupled with a sleepless night, had made me imagine things that weren’t there, panic about something that hadn’t happened and wasn’t going to.
Confiding in Jamie had been the right thing to do.
Then he added, ‘Of course, if it does turn out there’s something dodgy going on between them—’
‘Then what?’
‘Then you’d have to do something drastic to get him back.’
I laughed, and it sounded almost normal. ‘Like what?’
‘Like invent a secret boyfriend of your own. Rattle his cage, make him jealous. Wait for him to come crawling back and beg for forgiveness.’
‘Oh my God. Imagine…’
Jamie grinned. ‘You’re not temped to do it anyway?’
‘Of course not. I’m going to talk to him like an adult.’
‘Good job. Let me know how it goes.’
‘I will.’ I turned back to my computer screen. The mountain of emails didn’t look insurmountable any more, just like a normal Monday’s work. ‘Thanks, Jamie.’
‘You’re welcome. Just promise you’ll let me know if you change your mind.’
‘What? Why?’
Jamie stood up, phone and vape in hand. ‘Because the other way would be whole lot more fun.’