Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
Antonia
“Delivery for Antonia Cole.”
I look up.
Framed in the doorway of my office is a deliveryman in a green uniform, a red rose stitched on his chest. He’s peering over the top of a bunch of pink flowers that are so big that he has to tilt them to the side to see me.
“Antonia Cole?” he asks.
I just sit there, not speaking.
No one sends me flowers.
Clara bustles in past him. “Yes, yes, this is Antonia Cole. Bring them in, bring them in. Like I said.”
He exhales, obviously glad to have somebody who knows what they’re doing.
The flowers land on my desk with a soft thump. My lips stay sealed. Clara hands the man a twenty-pound note as a tip. He scurries off with a beaming smile, a sign of what he thinks is a job well done.
She turns to me. “Flowers? Who sent you flowers?”
I shrug, pretending not to know. It can only be Ben, but I can’t imagine him sending me flowers, not after the first date. Surely, a nice evening with wine doesn’t require such a large display of pink blossoms. A chaste kiss doesn’t need an exclamation point.
“It’s probably a business thing,” I say, plucking the small blue card from the base, all the time knowing my gut says otherwise. It tightens as I peel back the opening.
Thank you for a lovely evening. I’m glad you stepped off the edge. Ben.
I stare at the card longer than I should, my pulse quickening with each read.
“Well,” Clara mutters. “Who’s it from?”
Before I know it, she swipes the card from my hand. “Whoa,” she says. “Dinner must have gone well.”
Every muscle in my face tightens.
Of course she knows; he asked her about the wine.
At the time, I’d been quite impressed he had the forethought to ask her what wine I like. It meant he cared, that he really wanted the night to go well. But now, in my office the following day, it feels like an overstep.
My assistant knew I was going on a date before I did.
Did he think it was a date?
I asked him to dinner.
I suppose I thought it was a date before I asked him. Even if I didn’t admit it to myself.
But it still stings a little. That lack of control I’m not used to having. The uncomfortable truth that someone else being in charge makes my nerves fire.
The flowers sit on my desk.
I pick them up, take them out to reception, and place them on the coffee table between the two big sofas where our clients sit when they’re waiting to speak to me.
Clara scowls, unimpressed. “They’re for you,” she says. “For you to appreciate.”
“Well, they’re better out here. Everyone can enjoy them then.”
She exhales loudly through her nose, tutting.
I go back to my desk, control slightly restored. That’s what I tell myself anyway.
Clara struts into my office about an hour later. “You need to leave. You’re going to be late.”
I glance at my clock. Ten a.m. I have to be at the retreat in one hour for a site visit.
I don’t want to go.
He’ll be there.
That kiss. It’s been on repeat since the flowers were delivered. Excruciatingly enjoyable, but bloody distracting. My work productivity today is zero.
I haven’t been kissed in a long time. And I don’t remember the last time it felt that good.
Dangerous, but good.
I don’t know if I can let myself go there. The last time—my ex-husband—he left me when I needed him. So, to leave myself vulnerable again, I’m not sure I’m ready. Why step into the lion’s cage when you’re safe on the outside? In my experience, all love brings is loss.
Life on my own has suited me for years. I’ve been able to focus on what keeps the memories at bay. Pour myself into Opengate. Carve a path that suits me without risking who I love. When there’s no one, you can take every step with confidence that the only person you can hurt is you.
“Antonia,” she says. “Come on, you’re going to be late. Protesters are already there. You’re walking into a minefield. You need to make sure you’re ready.”
She gestures toward the bathroom door.
“Go on. Wash your face, put your makeup on, reapply your lipstick, brush your hair.” Her finger continues to waggle to where I should be heading. “You want to be on-site first before the board walk in there and pretend it’s their project.”
Reluctantly, I push back my chair and stand. My hands rest on my desk, almost holding up the weight of my shoulders. Today is heavy. Professionally and personally. Not only have I got protesters to face, but also the man I locked lips with. Both make my heart beat harder against my ribs.
“I’ve got plenty of time,” I tell her. “You don’t need to be such a dictator.”
She snorts. “Me, a dictator? Have you ever looked in the mirror?”
I ignore her, shaking my head. It’s a point I can’t argue with.
In the bathroom, I do as I’m told. I brush my hair, drawing it into a high ponytail tight enough to heighten my eyebrows.
My lipstick hides at the bottom of my bag. The one I wore at the restaurant. The one I always wear. The one that makes me feel comfortable.
I love it.
Once fished out the chaos of clutter, I put an extra layer on to be doubly sure.
It’s my armor.
It’s how I feel safe.
Ready, I stroll back out. Clara’s still standing there, hands on hips, waiting for me. She cocks her head to the side. “Nice lips,” she says. “You look good.”
“I look the same as I always do.”
She laughs. “No, Antonia. There’s something different. A sparkle in your eye. And that’s the kind of sparkle only one type of person can give you—a man.”
“Whatever you say,” I mutter.
I pick up my car keys from my desk and look over to the corner where my shoes lie.
I’m still in my slippers. It’s kind of a habit. I get into the office in the morning, kick off my heels, and put on my furry slippers.
No one knows except Clara. No one’s seen them. I’m always quick to change.
My pink wellies — well, the new ones that Ben gave me — sit next to the old ones.
Should I wear the old ones or the new ones?
If I wear the old ones, my feet get wet, and yet again, I’m going to be sitting in the office with cold feet and dirty toes.
If I wear the new ones, then I’m giving him some possession of me.
Or am I reading into it too much?
It’s a pair of pink wellies. A nice thought. Not a marriage proposal.
He’s thoughtful. I can see that.
I mean, this is a man who contacted my assistant to ask what kind of wine I liked when I invited him out for dinner. Dinner to say thank you for securing the funding. A dinner to say thank you for the pink wellies.
And he went that bit further.
I’m just not sure what’s best to do.
Last night felt like something. Today, with the flowers, knowing I’ll see him again, feels like more. And more is dangerous when your heart’s involved.
Clara watches every step. Not speaking, assessing. Like she does in board meetings when someone tries to push my buttons. Or when a client is rejected for a clinical trial I know they’re eligible for. She watches. She waits. Then acts exactly as I need her to.
To hell with it.
I’ll wear the new ones.
I hate having wet feet. Casually, I stroll over, pull off my slippers, and slide my feet into the new pink boots.
She doesn’t say anything, but her mouth twitches. I ignore it.
She asked if I wanted to throw the old pair out after Ben delivered the new ones.
I said no.
She asked why.
I said it didn’t matter. Just because something’s old and broken doesn’t mean it needs to be disposed of straight away. Sometimes, we need to breathe before making irreversible decisions.
As I walk over to the door to leave, Clara follows. She steps in my path, her hands on my shoulders.
“Antonia,” she says. “Whatever they say, don’t listen to them. I know you’ve found these past months hard.”
I nod. She’s right.
Being openly abused online and called names, when all I’ve tried to do in my life is make things fair for people who need medical treatment, has been hard to take.
“What they’re saying is not true.” She smiles, soft but sad. It’s the first time I realize how much this hurts her too. Opengate matters to both of us, more than we admit.
The protesters, the signs, the online comments, they never go away.
I can switch the computer off, ignore the tweets, turn off my phone, but they’re still there, hating me. Hating Opengate. Hating everything we stand for. Or what they believe we stand for.
“Antonia,” she says again.
My eyes, which have dropped to the floor, rise and meet my friend’s.
That’s the truth about Clara and me. We may not socialize together, but she’s been here since the beginning, since I started this place. My cheerleader and sounding board every step of the way. My rock. A rock I could talk to whenever things got bad. No judgment. Just strategy.
I mean, we wouldn’t talk about personal stuff. I couldn’t really tell you much about her home life. But she knows I’ve got her back, and I know she’s got mine.
And today is no different.
“You’ve got this,” she says. “Go out there, red lipstick and all, and show them who the CEO of this company is.”
She laughs out loud, her cheeks reddening. I laugh along with her, though I have no idea what she’s laughing at.
“And get your man while you’re at it.”