Chapter 21
Eve
Me: Eve 1–0 Kirsty
Jess: Do I want to know what you’ve done?
Me: Nothing as bad as what *she* was planning on doing
Will: You know you’re just feeding your emotional addiction, Eve
Me: I don’t have an emotional addiction — I’m a very logical person, you say so yourself
Jess: Don’t you ever feel like just crying about things instead of burning the building down??
Me: You know I haven’t cried since I was 17
Will: I would never tell a client there was something wrong with them
Will: But Eve
Will: There is something wrong with you
Me: Is that a formal diagnosis
Will: I wouldn’t even know where to start
Jess: I think meditation would be good, Eve. Try sitting and really tasting your food
Me: OK great speak later
I tap out of WhatsApp and into the notes folder on my phone, half a takeaway burrito wedged in my mouth. As I pace around the room, I read through the key points of Kirsty’s expo presentation. There’s a familiar fire burning in the back of my throat — a mix of anger, determination and satisfaction — and I draw energy from it.
I’m working from home today, a luxury I allow myself once every couple of weeks, so that I can make progress away from prying eyes. Every so often, a tiny part of me wonders whether I’m taking things too far, but then I remember F Ups again, and I push forward.
My laptop pings with a new email, so I walk over to the kitchen to check.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Summer Bundle mix up and expo prep
13:47 — 29 June 2022
Hi Eve,
I’ve received a formal complaint regarding the incorrect Summer Bundle figures in yesterday’s update meeting. For obvious reasons, I can’t tell you who the complainant is, but as a result, we’re trying to get to the bottom of where the falsified numbers came from.
Unfortunately, this complaint has been lodged directly against you, and while I’m sure there was no foul play on your part, it is company policy to investigate any allegations of misconduct. I am confident this will amount to nothing, not least because the document containing the numbers can’t be found on the internal printing log, but you have a right to be aware of any complaints filed against you.
A quick additional heads-up: your slot for the expo has been bumped up — I still hope to be there, but am unwilling to commit 100% to travelling/speaking when it’s so close to Eleanor’s due date, so you will now be presenting in my place, and Kirsty in yours, etc. Big ask, I know, but I have every faith you’ll pull it off.
Any qs just pop in when you’re next in the office.
Best,
Dev
I throw my head back and laugh.
A complaint. A complaint! Is she crazy? Did she think I wouldn’t find out?
A memory swims into my mind: Kirsty and I, stealing two bottles of champagne from the office Christmas party and escaping up the emergency exit staircase onto the roof of our building.
She was panicking, worried we’d get caught.
‘I’m shit at being sneaky,’ she’d hiccupped, sitting down on a vent and staring across the city.
‘I’m really good at it.’ I’d leaned my head on her shoulder. ‘We make the perfect pair.’
And then later, when Dev was recruiting the new Head of Finance, and the competition for the role became our own personal reality TV show: Paula, a meek but experienced accountant, was pitted against two men ten years younger than her.
‘What’s the point in her even going forward for it?’ I’d asked one day as we sat in my office, watching Paula fawning over Dev. ‘You can’t just... be yourself. You’ve got to play the game.’
‘Maybe she wants to change the system,’ Kirsty had suggested. ‘Prove that you get to the top through merit and hard work, not peacocking and bullshit.’
I’d shaken my head and laughed. ‘That’s cute.’
Paula didn’t get the job.
I slap my laptop lid shut. Yes, the complaint was a rookie move, but her little evidence stash suggests she isn’t as naive as she pretends to be. Was this her plan all along? Lure me in and then stomp on my head as she climbed her way past me?
What is this turning into? What is it turning us into? There’s no going back from this now. We’ll never slip easily back into what we had before. I’ve boarded the train, I might as well see it to its final destination.
My burrito is cold, so I throw it in the bin and then ease my laptop open again, paying attention to the final paragraph now.
I’ll be presenting Dev’s slot at the expo.
I drum my fingers on the table. This makes things trickier — the expo presentation I’m currently editing on Kirsty’s behalf is the one she was originally going to present; now she’s doing my topic instead, I’ll have to start from scratch.
Standing up, I begin pacing again. Perhaps I was too quick in showing my hand; I can’t go to Kirsty and offer to give her a falsified version of my work now, not after I gave her those Summer Bundle numbers.
I’ll have to hack into her desktop again and see what she’s doing — try to fiddle with things that way. Unless...
Unless I just stopped all of this. Played fair. But the complaint — she’s not going to play fair, is she? And there’s another potential idea...
I am pacing so quickly now, so lost in my thoughts, that when I trip over something I don’t have time to catch myself. A yowl pierces through the room as I fly forward, grabbing onto the fridge door and smacking my back against the countertops as the momentum swings me round.
‘Agh,’ I wince, blinking and reaching round to rub my shoulders. ‘What—’
I spot the cat under the kitchen table, cowering.
‘You!’ I shout, hoisting myself up onto my knees. ‘You nearly killed me!’
The cat blinks back at me, her eyes sticky.
‘Shoo!’ I climb to my feet, glad to feel that there doesn’t seem to be any permanent damage, and pull one of the dining chairs out from under the table. The cat streaks past me, darting into the living room and leaping up onto the sofa.
‘No!’ I yelp, hobbling after her. ‘You don’t live here! That’s not your bed!’
The cat yawns, and then begins kneading the sofa, her claws clicking as she plucks strands of fabric out of the cushions.
‘Oh my god.’ I reach forwards and hold her gingerly around the waist. ‘Off!’
I pull her upwards, but her claws are embedded in the sofa, and she mews shrilly.
‘Shit, sorry.’ I drop her again. ‘No, stop it! Stop ruining my sofa, you vandal!’
She turns her head to look at me. As though she realises she’s gone too far, she tugs her paws away from the fabric and sits down.
‘Thank you.’ I slump to the floor, sitting cross-legged and assessing the damage. ‘You’ve fucked up my sofa.’
She regards me steadily.
‘Whose are you?’ I ask, reaching forward to touch her neck. She lets me. ‘No collar, hm? Little nomad.’
She meows, and I look at her properly. Her ears are scabby and dry, her fur patchy and matted in places. I feel a small pang of pity — does nobody own her?
I shake myself and stand up. ‘I’m too busy for this,’ I tell her, and pick her up, carrying her over to the back door. ‘Go on, go home.’
I drop her and she lands lightly on the patio. She stares at me accusatorially.
‘God, fine .’ I take my half-eaten burrito from the top of the bin and plonk it on a plate, placing it outside the door. ‘Bon appetit.’
I swing the door shut again and the house immediately feels cloyingly hot. I’ll give the cat a couple of minutes to take herself off, and then crack the window.
I open the fridge, intending to bin the Tupperware boxes of vegetables and salmon. The mixture is charred and dry and, by now, probably outside the range of safe human consumption. But I glance out of the window, and see the cat, skinny and sad-looking, still outside, staring forlornly at the burrito. I take the salmon from the box and pile it on a chopping board, remove the salty exterior and flake most of the remainder with a fork into a new tub. The last bit I scoop onto a plate and take outside to replace the burrito. The cat still doesn’t move, but she licks her lips.
Back inside, my little idea nudges at my mind again as I’m scraping at a rogue piece of butternut squash with a fork. I won’t need Graham for this one, which is useful as he hasn’t spoken to me since I left his house the other night. I should apologise — even I can admit that what I said was out of order — but we haven’t crossed paths at work. Sometimes, it feels like a sudden emotion overwhelms my common sense, and I’m unable to control my mouth. I feel a stab of guilt and push it down.
When I’m not with Graham, he doesn’t enter my mind. You can go back to pretending I don’t exist. He’s right; at work, we don’t fraternise, but I always assumed that was a mutual decision. In any case, what we have is casual, and we don’t owe each other anything.
My phone beeps with a message and I dump the empty Tupperware in the sink.
Will: Is anyone up for a drink at some point? It’d be nice to catch up properly
Jess: I’d love to — just name a date. Is everything OK?
Will: I’m fine. Do you want to come to ours? Nina could do with some fresh faces
Me: Sounds good — do you want to do a poll?
Jess: Can’t we just say Thursday?
Will: Works for me. 7pm?
Me: Maybe — send me a calendar invite
Will: No
I put my phone back down and go upstairs to change into my running gear. As I come back down, my phone beeps again.
Kirsty: Have you heard about the expo changes? Can we meet to discuss?
I put my AirPods in and leave through the front door. Closing Kirsty’s message, I open the Independent Women playlist on Spotify, setting off quickly and pounding the streets, until that questioning little voice trying to hold me to account in the back of my mind stops bothering me.