Chapter 17
THE FOLLOWING DAYS are, gently put, deeply awkward.
If I’d somehow imagined everything going back to the way it was before, I was grossly mistaken.
Val looks awful, with dark circles under his eyes and a beard that’s too long.
On top of that, he’s acting like I don’t exist, only talking to me when he’s out of other options.
It’s mostly him telling me what to do. Hannah, will you summarize that report?
Or, Hannah, I need three copies of these documents. No please. No thank you.
Over the course of a few days, I get to experience what my predecessors all went through before me, and it’s no joke.
It feels like he’s starting off every request with an okay, Google.
One time—I couldn’t help myself—I used a robot-like voice in reply.
Okay, Val. You need three copies of these documents. Here you go.
In the past, that would have resulted in a little twitch at the corner of his mouth or an amused glance my way, but now all he gives me is a stoic expression before continuing on to his meeting.
We’re no longer eating together and we’ve stopped our morning walks from the hotel to the office.
He often leaves for work before I’ve even crawled out of bed and when I hear his door open and close at night, I’m usually already lounged out in my loveseat with a stash of chocolate and some sparkly pink champagne—my newly adopted guilty pleasure.
It’s on a night like that, binge-watching Bridgerton with some of that wildly sweet bubbly, that I hear Val’s voice at the far end of the hallway.
He’s not alone this time, though. I hear a woman laughing as they walk up to his room together.
Shocked, I stare at the door and take another bite of chocolate. Surely it’s not . . .
Eyes wide, I focus in on the wall dividing our rooms and lift the champagne bottle to my lips, fully expecting to hear a squeaking bed frame and loud moaning in just a few moments.
Thankfully, I’m wrong. When Val’s door opens and closes again a while later, my bottle is empty and the Duke of Hastings seems to have acquired a twin brother.
This is my rock bottom. I somehow got myself completely plastered on unicorn pee.
What happened between you and Val? Robin asks me curiously as we make our way out of the office. She wouldn’t have had the guts to ask me that before Friday night’s events, but her blue eyes seem friendly now, instead of being in I can’t wait to feast on your misery mode.
I give her a startled look. Is it that obvious? I ask, pushing open the exit door.
Val is still holed up in his office, probably chewing out the new intern for accidentally projecting an NSFW video instead of his final presentation.
Robin scoffs, shooting an incredulous look my way as she wraps her scarf around her neck.
Yeah, duh. For the past few days, you’ve looked like you’ve been watching the end of Titanic on repeat.
And Val is even grouchier than usual. I feel like I need to tiptoe around him every time we talk.
She gives her head a commiserating shake. So, what happened?
I bite my lip, an unsure expression on my face. Unbelievable: here I am, debating whether or not to tell the rainbow dodo—who only two months ago was ripping the avocado costume off of Dante’s pasty white behind—what my boss and I have been up to.
But everything that happened with Ronald really brought her human side to light for me, so I decide to offer her a little glimpse. Let’s just say the line between our work and our personal lives got temporarily blurred, but now it’s perfectly clear again.
There’s compassion in her eyes when she briefly lifts an arm, about to wrap it around my shoulders before deciding against it. We might be getting along these days, but physical affection is still a bit of a stretch. She nods, then goes quiet for a beat.
You should really go check out Winthrops, by the way, she says, changing the subject in an effort to cheer me up.
That wall of yours is a total hit. It’s so packed with letters that they had to expand it.
Val was telling me about it yesterday. Sounds like he went to check it out in person.
She seems to hesitate for a moment, not sure at first whether to keep going.
He seemed really proud of you. The Daily Mail even did a big piece on it.
She shakes her head, as if she still can’t quite believe it. Anyway, she says with a smile. If you ever decide you want a job in marketing with one of the best agencies in the Netherlands . . . I’m sure my boss would welcome you with open arms.
With an inquisitive look on her face, she pulls out her subway card. My hotel’s in Knightsbridge. We could head that way together if you want? You really should see that wall one last time before you head home.
I have to admit, Robin’s update has piqued my curiosity. I check my watch, let out a sigh, and nod. Okay. Let’s go.
Our subway ride feels a lot like the one I took with Matthew last week.
I’m trapped in a tangle of arms, I’m catching angry glares for taking up a few square centimetres of floor space, and a group of tourists is already plastered, even though it’s barely 5 p.m. When we finally arrive at Knightsbridge station, we’re swept along by the crowd.
Robin and I say our goodbyes before parting ways—she walks off in the direction of her hotel and I head the other way, toward Winthrops.
The streets are slick. The snowfall of the past few days has morphed into a hardened grey mass, and I’m close to slipping a few times in my heels.
The building slowly comes into view, looking grander the closer I get.
Once I’m inside and on the escalator up to the first floor, I can’t help but be completely in awe.
The area in front of the wall is packed with even more people than last time and the wall has grown to take up almost an entire side of the store. People are taking photos, hanging letters, giggling, . . .
I carefully put one foot in front of the other as I take in the whole scene.
It looks like a fairy tale: these sand-coloured bricks adorned with letters written in every possible language.
There’s ivy climbing up the wall and the store has put a huge heart on Juliet’s balcony as a Valentine’s Day tribute.
That detail feels a bit tacky to me, but everything else worked out beautifully.
I let my eyes scan the letters and all the names on the envelopes.
Stephen, Maya, Jolene, Aisha, Jason, Claire, Emir, Sara, Hannah, Yara, . . .
I freeze, slowly reading through the names again.
Hannah. It’s definitely my name. My name, written with those illegible letter As I’ve learned to decrypt over this past year.
My name on an envelope with a little golden W in the corner.
I swallow and gaze at the letter. Can you just .
. . pull letters from the wall? Surely not.
I look around. There doesn’t seem to be anyone keeping tabs.
I bite my lip as my brain cycles into overdrive. I want to know what it says.
I open my purse, fold a piece of paper in two, quickly scribble Hannah on the back of it, and step forward.
I’m lightning-quick when I yoink Val’s letter from the wall, tack my own in its place, then swiftly retreat as I open the envelope, fingers shaking.
My heart pounds in my throat as I begin to read.
Dear Hannah,
I still remember the first time I ever saw you. You were wearing that blue suit you’d forgotten to cut the tag out of . . .
The memory brings a grin to my face.
I was out of work at the time and I knew Wouters was one of the most prestigious department stores in the country.
That’s why I didn’t want to walk into my interview wearing an outfit from H&M, so I bought myself a suit so expensive that I had to leave the tags on it.
The deal was that I could keep it if I landed the job, but would have to return it if I didn’t.
After my interview, I popped into the ladies’ room, instantly spotting the tag sticking out of my collar.
I could have kicked myself. I’d really hoped that Val didn’t notice it. Shaking my head, I read on.
Your wild red curls danced around your face and you gave me such a nervous look as you walked in.
I imagine that applicant before you leaving my office with their lip quivering, didn’t do much to bolster your confidence.
I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at the time, but you were so intriguing to me.
You came across as a gorgeous, independent, intelligent, witty woman, and I wanted nothing more than to hire you on the spot.
(Since you’ll never read this letter anyway, I suppose I can admit here that I would have met your desired salary if you’d insisted on it.
Let’s just say your negotiation skills could use some work.)
Leading this family business and this huge department store brand has been incredibly stressful.
Along the way, I began to notice how little joy I was getting from my work, but I still always looked forward to walking into the office in the morning to find you sitting at your desk.
I would wonder what you might be wearing, whether you’d finally ditched those brightly coloured scrunchies you wore for a while, and what kind of snarky responses you would shoot my way that day.
It was refreshing to know that you—unlike anyone else in the office—were never worried about how I might respond.
That felt to me like it used to, before I took over the company from my dad.
When you’re suddenly the one in charge and your coworkers are suddenly your employees, it changes so much about the way everyone interacts.