Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“I—”
“It’s just that, well, if we knew, maybe we would understand.”
“I—”
“And could be more sensitive.”
“Will you let me fucking speak?” I snap, and immediately regret it. Crystal jumps, startled, then lowers to her chair like a scorned child. I push my fingertips into my temple. Because my love of Christmas was stolen when my entire world fell apart. “It’s personal.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry for snapping.”
“No problem.”
“Okay. I’ll be going then.”
“Enjoy this evening.”
“I won’t.” I leave before she can push, or maybe point out she’s no closer to understanding my aversion to the holidays, stopping at the elevator to lift a foot in turn and brush off the white stuff. And now I have to face the shops and find something to wear to this glamorous gala thing that I’m obliged to attend.
Something Christmassy.
I don’t think so.
My body refuses to take me farther into the clothes store, unwilling to expose me to the bedlam. It’s organised chaos. Sequins, glitter, and sparkles litter the space, every man and his dog rummaging through the rails. Which is fine. I don’t need to wrestle my way through this crowd, elbow people out of the way, or fight over the last size in any of the festive pieces on offer. I’m looking for something less . . . triggering.
Bypassing the throngs of shoppers in the party section, I make my way to the back of the store and start sifting through the rails. It takes me less than a minute to find something suitable.
A black dress. Simple, plunging, satin, long sleeves. I very nearly don’t buy it because of a single gold button at the top of the back slit, but I reason with myself. If it can be worn outside of December, it’s not Christmassy. I grab some black suede slingbacks, gold hoops, and head for the pay desk.
Easy. Done.
But I’m still feeling breathless, and by the time I’ve paid and made it out of the store, I’m hot, bothered, and short of breath. My flustered state is a reminder that I haven’t been to a social event for over three years. I haven’t mingled or made conversation.
Smiled.
When I make it to the corner of Regent Street, the accounts Jeff promised me land, and reading them is the best distraction while I take the Tube home, the walk too long to fit into tonight’s out-of-scope schedule. Even if, as Jeff predicted, I don’t like what I read. It’s worse than I thought. Terrible, in fact.
Deep breath, Camryn. I even almost smile thinking of Jeff’s suggestion that he wanted to say goodbye to me once I saw this report. He’s not fucking far off. “Jesus, Thomas,” I murmur, as I hop off the train and push my way through the clueless, lost tourists with the rest of London’s impatient commuters.
Dread coils up my spine like rising, thick smoke as I enter The Dorchester. I’m directed to the ballroom around the side, and I count five Christmas trees from the lobby to where the function’s being held. Endless giant baubles are scattered among snow-peppered foliage hanging from every available space. It’s over the top in a classy kind of way. I’d appreciate it if I didn’t hate December so much.
Christmas.
The season of joy and laughter, gratitude and perpetual hope.
Until it wasn’t. Until it only meant devastation.
I suddenly feel sick, my hand wrapped around my beaded clutch like it’s a life jacket. A dozen waiters and waitresses loiter by the double doors, wide smiles on their faces, a tray of champagne balanced artfully on one palm, the other tucked neatly away behind their back. My eyes instinctively scan the clusters of glasses full of golden popping liquid, searching in vain for the non-alcoholic option. Please don’t make me ask for it.
“Champagne?” a young lad asks. A student, no doubt. “Or an elderflower spritz?”
My relief is palpable. “The elderflower, please.” More so when he hands me a glass that’s only slightly paler in its golden appearance than the champagne. Not different enough for anyone to raise a brow and wonder why I’m not drinking. Because it’s Christmas, of course. Also the season of perpetual insobriety. “Thank you.” The sound of the crowds beyond the open doors, matched with the hordes of people dressed to impress, brings a mild sweat to my brow.
My feet refuse to carry me over the threshold into the room that glitters and sparkles, with fairy lights draping from one side to the other, forming a glowing crown above the Christmas kings and queens, who are all drenched in glitzy gowns and sharp tuxedos, smiles as wide as the hotel. The sight is blinding, the cheer deafening.
I need a moment.
Backing away, my hand squeezing the flute to the point I might shatter it, I divert to the ladies’, pushing my way in and taking a breath. I promised Thomas an hour, but I have no idea how I’ll make it through that hour. I’m struggling to even put myself in the room.