Canada Square (Love in London #3) (25 page)

27

Talking to Jonathan is so much easier than being interrogated by Diana. He listens patiently as the words spill out with the tears, silently handing me his soft, linen handkerchief. The whole story comes out; from the first kiss to the declarations of love, and it feels as though a weight has lifted off my chest.

When I’m out of words, he hands me a glass of water and leans back against the desk. There’s no look of shock on his face, no expression of surprise, and I find myself wondering how much of this he already knew.

“You don’t seem too perturbed by a woman crying in front of you,” I say, as much to break the silence as anything else. “Most guys would be running away screaming.”

“I’ve got four sisters,” he says, the corner of his lip quirking up. “I’m used to the waterworks and drama. They trained me well.”

It’s strange how you only see one side of people until the shit hits the fan. I’d never have put Jonathan—my ever-so-posh, very restrained boss—into the confidante category, yet he’s playing the role very well.

“Callum texted me and asked me to get you away from here,” he says.

“Where is he?” I lean forward. “Can you take me to him?”

Jonathan shakes his head. “I think the partners are grilling him while Diana grills you. I spent half an hour wandering the corridors looking for you.”

I look up at him with a watery smile. “Thank you.”

“So now I need to get you home. I’ll get us a cab.”

This time I shake my head. “You’re too busy, there’s that meeting at three. I can take my own taxi.”

“I’ve postponed it until next week,” Jonathan tells me. “You don’t think I’d go in there without my project manager do you?”

He calls for a cab anyway, and I sit quietly next to him as we wind our way through the busy London streets. I lean my head against the door, my mind still racing as I wonder what the hell Callum is saying, and whether he’s about to lose his job too.

We knew about the damn policy, we simply didn’t think it applied to us. Apart from a couple of kisses, we conducted our relationship away from the office. But now I realise how obvious we must have been. Especially last night when we ended up making out in the corridor.

Eventually we pull up to my street. Any embarrassment I might have felt at Jonathan seeing the state of our road is blotted out by the sickness that is still tugging at my stomach. I mutter a goodbye and grab my bag, practically falling out of the cab and into the gutter.

Not a metaphor
, I tell myself.

Before I close the door I look back at Jonathan. “If Callum calls you first, can you ask him to ring me?” I say. Jonathan nods his head and I slam the door shut, using my other hand to dig into my purse to turn my phone on.

There are missed calls and texts, from both Callum and Jonathan. I listen to Callum’s more than once, just to hear his voice. At the end, there’s a message from Charlie—who asks me what the hell is happening—and I realise the news is already spreading fast.

I try to call Callum while I sit on the front step, unwilling to enter the house right away. It goes directly to voicemail, and I leave a message, asking him to call me as soon as possible. After I hang up, I try Charlie. He answers after the second ring.

“Amy? Are you okay?” He’s breathless, as if he’s been running. “Is it true what they’re saying?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing my forehead. My brain is starting to hurt. “What are they saying?”

“That you’ve been having a massive affair with Callum Ferguson. Someone said you were caught shagging in the toilets.”

“We didn’t have sex in the toilets.”

“Caro said she saw you practically humping him outside the bathroom,” he says, almost cheerfully. “Were you?”

“Caro Hawes?” I echo, recalling the bathroom door banging just as I was kissing Callum. Then I remember the grainy photo that Diana showed me, of the two of us in the corridor.

“Did she say anything else?” I ask.

“Like what?”

“Somebody reported us to HR and sent them a photo.”

“And you think it was Caro?” he asks.

“If she saw us outside the bathroom then yes.” Now I feel even worse. Not only were we caught, but the one person who hates my guts happened to be the person who spotted us.

“So you
are
having an affair?” he asks.

I sigh. Callum and I hadn’t discussed what we were going to tell the office. It was as though we were in this little bubble, floating mindlessly above everybody else, oblivious to the fact our world was about to crash land.

“I’m in love with him,” I whisper. A car comes speeding down the road—a souped-up Ford Focus—and the sound temporarily drowns out Charlie’s response.

“What?” I ask as soon as the engine quietens.

“I said, ‘oh fuck’.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” I reply.

“What are you going to do? Caro reckons you’re going to lose your job. Do you think they’ll sack you?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “It’s possible, I suppose.” The tears start to flow again, but this time I don’t try to blink them away. They weave a hot trail down my cheeks, dripping from my jaw and onto the step.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Listen, if you need anything, anything at all, you call me. And in the meantime I’ll put a hit out on Caro.”

“I think you’ll find that’s illegal.”

“I know,” he says, grimly. “But I’ll risk it anyway.”

* * *

When I let myself into the house, Mum’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, a cigarette balanced between her forefinger and thumb as she scrolls through her phone. She looks up and crushes her cigarette into the glass ashtray.

“You’re home early,” she says. I glance at the clock; it’s just after 1:00 p.m. Early is an understatement.

“I got sent home,” I tell her. “I was sick in the toilet.”

Why don’t I tell her the truth? Fear, maybe? An unwillingness to see the disappointment in her face?

“You poor thing.” She stands up and puts a cool palm against my forehead. “Ooh, you do feel hot. Have you got a temperature?”

“I’ll be fine.” I pull back, wrinkling my nose at the smell of smoke wafting from her. It does nothing to stem my nausea. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” she asks. “I’ve got a shift in half an hour but I could call in sick.”

“I’m just going to sleep it off anyway,” I lie. “You go ahead.”

She looks at me closely. “It’s not about the other night is it? Because it was nothing, you know? Digger and I were having a few drinks and talking about old times and one thing led to another… it won’t happen again. I promised your brother that.”

“It’s not about that, Mum, I’m just a bit sick.” I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it with icy cold water. “I’ll see you later.”

“If you’re sure.” She sounds almost disappointed. As much as I hate to admit it, she’d do almost anything to get out of work.

“I’m certain.”

I spend the next couple of hours holding on to a phone that doesn’t ring. I send Callum messages and leave more voicemails but get no reply. While I wait for him I Google employment rights and learn that I pretty much have none. If Richards and Morgan want to sack me tomorrow, they can do so without causing themselves any problems.

The thought depresses me enough to cry myself to sleep for half an hour. I’m disoriented when a shrill ring cuts through the afternoon air, making me sit straight up in bed. I grab my phone, scrambling to answer the call. It’s hard to hide my disappointment when I see the name that flashes across the screen.

Diana Joseph.

For a minute I consider not answering, but the need to know what’s going on outweighs any ostrich-like tendencies I might have.

“Hello?”

“Amethyst, how are you feeling?”

So we’re back to that. “A little better. I’ve had a sleep.”

“That’s good to hear. We’d like to meet with you tomorrow morning. In the management conference room at ten o’clock.” Her voice sounds different somehow. More conciliatory maybe? I wonder if Jonathan has worked his magic on her, or even better, maybe Callum has.

Where the hell is Callum anyway? I check my watch; it’s almost four o’clock. There’s no way they would have kept him for this long, so why hasn’t he called?

“What’s the meeting about?” I ask. The drugged, just-woken feeling is finally wearing off.

“It isn’t a disciplinary hearing,” Diana says quickly. “Really, it’s nothing to worry about. We just want to talk to you about a few things.”

“We?”

“Me and the partners on the Conduct Committee.”

Clearing my throat makes me realise how parched I am. I reach for the water beside my bed, letting the lukewarm liquid moisten my lips. There are cracks forming in the corner of my mouth.

“But it’s not a disciplinary?” I ask.

“No, not at all. Please don’t worry about the outcome, we just need to talk it through with you, and ensure that everything is okay.”

“What about Cal… Mr Ferguson? Is he going to be there?” I take another mouthful of water and swallow hard. The need to see him is pulsing through my veins. I’m desperate to talk to him, to check he’s okay, to feel his arms around me. More than anything I want to hear his voice telling me that
I’m
going to be okay.

“Mr Ferguson has met with us separately.” Her voice drops, as if she’s confiding in me. I still can’t interpret the weirdness of her change of tone. “You don’t have to worry about him being there tomorrow.”

I want to tell her I’m not worried about him being there. I
want
him to be there.

“Should I come into work as normal?” I ask, trying to work out whether I’m in as much trouble as I think.

“No need, just arrive at ten. We can talk about everything after that.”

She ends the call with a brief goodbye, and I stare at the screen for a moment, watching as the red phone symbol fades into nothing.

* * *

By six o’clock that evening I’m starting to feel like a prisoner in my own bedroom. The shock of the day seems to have paralysed my mind and body, and my thoughts can only focus on one thing: the need to find Callum. I’ve been calling him non-stop but his phone doesn’t connect. I’m guessing his voicemail is full of my messages.

I type out another futile text, and try to ignore the ache that’s throbbing in my chest.

I love him.

I’m completely in love with Callum Ferguson. At twenty-three years old, that should be enough. It’s not the nineteenth century, nobody should tell me who I can be in love with. What possible right do Richards and Morgan have to comment on our relationship? As long as it doesn’t affect work, then it shouldn’t be any of their business.

But it did affect work, the aggravating voice whispers again. You two were caught kissing in the corridor; you’re telling me that wasn’t their concern?

I try to forget about that kiss in his office, and all of the flirty, funny messages we sent each other across the network, but they lie in my mind like a list of misdemeanours. If Richards and Morgan want to get rid of me, all they have to do is call up the IT department.

But then they’d have to get rid of Callum, too.

The need to take action arrives from nowhere, but it’s a welcome change to the paralysis. It pulls me up from my bed, forces me to check in the mirror and attempt to make myself look suitable for the outside world. I run down the stairs and grab my bag, making my way to Plaistow station. The rush-hour crowds are pouring out of the entrance, and I have to fight through them, like the one fish in the sea swimming against the tide. Arms brush against me, briefcases hit my legs and bruise my skin, but I ignore the pain, pressing my Oyster card against the reader before rushing through the barrier.

The westbound platform is relatively deserted. Nobody travels out of Plaistow in the evening, only back in. It’s a place to sleep, not somewhere to commute to. A semi-suburban town full of people living part-time lives.

People like me.

The District Line train arrives five minutes later, and I grab a seat between two builders. Their ragged trousers are flecked with paint, their hair grey with plaster dust. They edge away from me as I sit, trying not to cover me with dirt. My phone is still firmly gripped in my right hand, and I occasionally touch the screen with my thumb, lighting it up, hoping that there’ll be a message from Callum on there.

There’s nothing. Only a photograph of Edinburgh on the wallpaper, and a grid of useless apps staring back at me. Once the train goes underground I stop checking, knowing the signal doesn’t reach that far down. It’s one of the few places in London resistant to 4G, and usually I like the silence it brings.

Getting off at Victoria, I walk the last mile to Callum’s house, past the smart restaurants and fashionable wine bars. More than ever, I feel like I’m playing with the big boys, about to lose badly.

There’s no sign of Callum’s car in his road. Still, I head for his door and bang on it, my heart hammering from a mixture of adrenaline and desperation.