Chapter Twenty-Two
As the sun reaches through the thin blinds and fills the room with morning light, I instantly feel an uncomfortable sensation rush through me. Like the way you feel on the last day of your holiday when you have a flight to catch. This has hardly been a holiday; it’s been a nightmare really. What with being abandoned in Scotland with a man I hated. And yet, there’s an unmistakeable heaviness in my core as if I’m saying goodbye to something.
Today I return to my reality.
I roll onto my front and turn my head to find the space beside me empty. I can hear the low hum of the power shower down the hall. Seizing the moment, I roll out of bed, pulling my clothes on before he comes back. I make the bed and sit there anxiously, scrolling through the TV channels.
I’m restless. I’m ashamed of the feeling but I’m dying to get my phone back. To be reconnected to the world. I want to talk to my parents, check my emails. James offered me his phone to use, but I don’t know either Mum’s or Dad’s numbers by heart. Why would I? They’re in my phone.
There’s also a familiar dull ache between my legs, reminding me of last night. I take a deep breath as footsteps approach the door. James comes in fully dressed. Thank god for that. No more nudity between us. Colleagues again now. That’s for the best.
He grins shyly when he sees me. His damp hair has been combed back with his fingers, almost like normal.
“The water is still hot if you wanted a shower,” he offers.
“Yeah,” I say, hopping off the bed and walking round to the door to grab my towel hanging on the hook.
As I open the door James says, “Felicity?”
I pause. “Hmm?”
“We ok?” His face is one of concern as he squeezes the back of his neck.
“Of course. That’s the plan, right?”
He frowns, nods. “Yeah.”
And with that I shoot out of the room and down the corridor, banishing the heaviness forming across my abdomen. A pressure that’s warning something bad is happening, or that something bad might happen yet.
I let the water wash over me, scrubbing all my emotions away to the smell of the lavender shower gel.
*
We check out of the B&B and get a taxi to take us back to the hotel. Turns out, we aren’t all that far away. The forty-minute drive takes us on a picturesque journey through Scotland. I make sure to look out the window and maintain space from James. This was the agreement. I get these sudden bursts of memory, scenes from last night, and feel myself blush, hoping James doesn’t notice.
I sort of want to reach over and squeeze his hand or stroke his hair, now dry and floppy again. But then I remind myself of what things will be like on Monday. Only forty-eight hours away. I picture the morning meeting, how Michael will make a decision regarding our next event and James’ idea. My stomach tightens from the fear of it all. Will we be able to keep this professional? Will we be able to act as if nothing ever happened between us? What if he tells Michael?
“You’re freaking out,” I hear his low voice beside me. I don’t look around though. There’s no way he can tell without even seeing my face. And so, what if I am? It’s none of his business now.
The taxi rolls down the driveway to the looming castle, stopping just outside reception. We stand side by side, both unsure how to confront this situation.
“We can’t let him think he’s won,” James says.
I exhale slowly. “So what? We hate each other again?”
“I don’t know, do we?”
I blink, finally turning to look at him. He’s watching me with an unreadable, blank expression. I want to ask him what he’s thinking, why he’s being distant, but I know that’s dangerous territory. It’s easier to be practical about this. We both agreed.
“I’ll go first,” I say, striding off, composing my face into one of pure annoyance. By surprise it isn’t hard to achieve. I think that’s because I am annoyed. Furious, in fact. I want to find Michael and scream at him.
But Michael isn’t even here.
I ask the receptionist to point us in his direction. She says she was expecting us and passes me a note. Strangely, this time, it’s specifically addressed to James, and when I turn to find him a few steps behind, I pass it to him with a glare.
Why would it be for him and not for us both?
James casts his eyes over it. He glances my way once he’s finished. He looks tired or resigned. He sighs. “Michael left yesterday. Wanted to spend his weekend in London.”
“Wow,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.
“He booked us return flights. And he’s put money behind the desk for a taxi.”
“What else does it say?” I ask. There’s more than that on the note.
James scrunches it up, tucking it in his pocket before I can snatch it off him. Well now I’m fucking suspicious. He shakes his head. “Nothing else.”
“Show it to me,” I demand, my hand out, palm flat.
James takes it back out with a huff, passing it across to me. It reads, If you have arrived at the hotel together, I assume you have achieved the objectives I set you . Why isn’t this addressed to both of us? I glare at the paper but the rest of it is just about flights and taxis as James already told me.
“What does that mean?” I say.
James stares at me for a second like I might figure something out, then simply shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I open my mouth to start an argument because something in my stomach tells me that isn’t true. That he’s hiding something from me. But I don’t say anything. Instead, I leave him right there, brewing, as I spin on my heels and storm back out of the hotel lobby and into the surrounding countryside.
I half-expect James to follow but he doesn’t. That’s ok, though. That’s a good thing. And when he finally does join me again, a good thirty minutes later, he has our suitcases. He passes me mine. I mutter a thanks then we climb into the taxi.
*
We don’t talk again until we arrive at Heathrow. James is taking a different train to me, which comes as no surprise – I vaguely know where he lives. He’s closer to the office than me. He gets a direct train into London Liverpool Street. I’ve heard he even has his own flat. Not unexpected now I know how much more he earns than me.
James squeezes his chin as I stroll out of the arrivals gate, walking towards my platform. I have my wallet back now but still no phone. At the ticket machine I tap in the location then pay, turning to find him still hovering.
“What are you doing? You’ll miss your train,” I say.
“I can come with you if you want. Get you to your flat at least.”
I take a deep breath, uncertain why he’s offering this. Does he think I’m incapable of getting back, or is he worried about me? “Don’t pretend you care now, Gloatman,” I say, remembering the words he said to me as he faded in between the ruined castle walls.
He frowns. “You haven’t got a phone. I don’t… I just… When you get in will you let me know?”
“How?” I laugh. “I don’t have a phone.” James sighs, pulling something from his pocket. He passes a business card across to me. I blink. “Seriously? You’re giving me your business card?”
“Use a flatmate’s phone. Just to let me know you get home safe.” Then after a moment, he adds, “As a friend.”
“As a colleague.”
He laughs, blinking away from me. He’s doing that Austen stance again, his jaw flexing. “Can you not be a dick about this? Did I… Have I done something wrong?”
“No.” I bite on my bottom lip for a moment wondering what to say. “We agreed, didn’t we? That being colleagues is better?”
“We can’t be friends?”
“Is that what you want?”
“No,” he says, sharp and blunt. “I don’t think so, no.”
I can’t ignore the way that hurts. It’s not a surprise really. He never did like me before. Didn’t he admit he considered abandoning me by the roadside only two days ago? “Right then. Colleagues.”
James makes a frustrated sound. “Yeah, Fliss. Colleagues.” He shakes his head. “As my colleague , please can you text me whichever way possible when you get home? Please.”
“Fine. Yes. Goodbye, James.”
“Bye, Felicity,” he says, turning and striding in the direction of his platform. I’m sure I see him shrug as if I’ve personally offended him.
*
The flat is quiet when I arrive, I imagine my flatmates are all out working, or home with their families. They all tend to get away from the flat more than I do. It’s annoying because I was hoping at least one of them might have a phone I could borrow. Instead, I drop my bag in my room then nip out to the nearest store.
I return an hour later with a new phone and groceries to get me through to Monday. Thankfully the technician was able to get all my data across, including contacts, photos and apps. I make myself a blessed cup of tea with three sugars, sighing as the caffeine soaks into my arteries, and cross my legs. I finally text James.
Home , I write. No kisses, no emotion.
Thank you , he replies.
I frown at the screen. I don’t know where I stand with him. How would colleagues text? I write a few things then delete them, finally giving up and closing the app. Instead, I call the one person I’m eager to speak to.
It only rings twice.
“Flissity!?”
“Mum,” I say, but it comes out weepy.
“What’s wrong, darling? How was your work trip?”
“It was good.” I always say this, don’t I? Isn’t that the problem? I never want to offload my problems to Mum. “Well, actually, it was strange. And, well honestly, I’m really confused,” I say with a gasp as my eyes start to blur. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. I lost my phone.”
“Oh, it’s ok. I’ve been busy sorting the garden out. Such lovely weather this week. What’s your plan tonight then? Resting up?”
I sniff, wipe a tear from my cheek. I don’t know why hearing her voice has made me emotional. All I can think about is how much I’ve missed her. How much I want to tell her everything that happened, and yet I don’t. Because I carry her emotional baggage, not the other way around. She rarely wants to hear my difficult things. I think she likes to believe I’m living this huge exciting, happy life that I’m totally in control of.
“Mum I…” A sob racks my chest.
“Flissity? What is it?”
“I’ve just had such a weird week.”
I give Mum a rundown. I miss out a few key details but mostly she gets a play by play of my week with James. She hears how I nearly drowned in a river and how I slept in a tent for three nights. I remember my cut, reaching down to touch it. It’s healing fine – doesn’t require a doctor after all. I tell her about the lorry and not buying a train ticket. She asks if anything happened between me and James and I say, “Yes, yes it did,” because it’s true and I need someone to vent to. And for once she listens. She doesn’t try to give me advice, but empathises.
I tell her I want to quit my job. It flies out of my mouth so fast I almost can’t believe I said it.
“Give it another week,” Mum suggests.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Is it because of what Michael’s done or because you don’t want to face James?”
“Both,” I say. “I can’t do either.”
“You can, darling. If anyone can, it’s you. You’ve had a wild week by the sounds of it. If you make a rash decision now, you might regret it. Yes, another week is what you need.”
I tell Mum about the salary discrepancy between me and James. She sighs. “Hmm, I don’t know an awful lot about that.”
“I need to negotiate. I deserve to be paid the same as him.”
“Absolutely!”
I groan, throwing myself back into my bed. “I can’t do it, Mum.”
“You can, Fliss, darling.”
“What if he hates me again?”
“Michael?”
“No, James.”
“Well,” she sighs. “Then you know it was… What did you call it? Last people disease?”
“Last-two-people-at-the-end-of-the-world disease.”
“An awfully long slogan for someone in marketing. You should work on that.”
“It’s not really a slogan, Mum,” I laugh. “What’ve I missed with you then?”
Mum goes into her week without me. It’s all the usual stuff: shopping, gardening, tea with a neighbour. She works part time at the GP surgery in town and there’s always a ton of gossip there. I pop her on loudspeaker as I unpack my bag, whimpering when I see the state of my red ankle boots. They’re damaged beyond repair. I take them out to the kitchen and pop them in the big bin, stuffing my hiking gear in the washing machine.
As I’m emptying the final pockets of the bag that I’ve lugged around with me all week, a note falls out. The note from the start. I hold it in my hands for a moment as Mum natters on in the background. I read it over once more, then, instead of binning it, I’m about to place it in my top drawer for safekeeping, when I notice black ink on the other side.
This note was also addressed to James.
I grab my phone, turned face up on my bed. “Sorry Mum, my flatmate is calling me,” I lie, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ll call you in the morning, ok?” I barely register her response as I frown, that tight-chested feeling returning.
I hold it in my shaking hands. What does this mean? I read the letter over again.
In order to proceed to the next step in your career you must overcome the need to compete and find a way to cooperate. I would like to hear how you worked together as a team. See if this week will shine a light on your management skillset. Don’t let me down!
Was this addressed to James? Was the whole challenge set for him?
Then it dawns on me. He knew! He must’ve known the whole time.
I sniff as a rogue hot tear runs down my cheek. My brain starts to spin with all the possibilities. All the how’s and why’s and if’s.
Because, if this note was written for him, and only him, then was the challenge even hiking across Scotland? Was the challenge about survival and teamwork? Or was the challenge, in fact, horrifically… me ?
Oh my god. He tried to stop it a few times. Whenever I said I planned on being a director he acted offish and awkward. I get a sick, twisted feeling in my stomach with the thought of seeing him at work on Monday. How the fuck am I supposed to manage this now?
I fall asleep that night with shame and a stomach full of betrayal and deep, wretched embarrassment.
I hate you, James Gloatman!