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 swallow and take one more peek in the elevator mirror, cringing at my cheek. I underestimated the damage. During a night’s sleep, my cheek has gone from red to raging red. It’s already shining through the bomb-proof concealer I’ve slapped on. “Shit.” I pull out the tube and apply yet another layer, dabbing gently at my stinging cheek. I’ve walked the streets of London for years, at every hour of the day and night. I’ve never felt unsafe. Vulnerable. But there were always people around; it’s standard London.
When it’s not two feet under snow.
I was a fool. I should have considered that. I reach up to my cheek and breathe out my exasperation with myself, thinking Dec is not going to be impressed. Neither will Mr. Percival.
Dangling elves greet me as the doors slide open, and I sigh as I dip beneath them. “Those things are a health and safety hazard,” I mutter as Debbie gets up from her desk and joins me on the walk to my office. “Nice to see the office thriving once again.”
“Liar,” she retorts, handing me a file. I know when her face falls she’s clocked my injury. “Oh my God, Camryn, what happened?”
“Nothing.” I whip the file out of her hand. “What’s this?”
Her lips purse, but she doesn’t press. “Comparisons for the market you asked for.”
“That I asked for?”
“Yes, yesterday. By email.”
I cast my mind back, but for the life of me, I can’t find the moment I emailed Debbie and asked for any comparisons. I do, however, know why I would have asked for them. “Is Thomas here yet?”
“Yes, in his office. And so is Barbara.”
“I’m not in her good books.”
“Did she really pay for her injectable fillers on the company card?”
“So it was fillers?” I hardly want to admit I was wondering what exactly she’d tweaked. “How do you know it was fillers?”
“Crystal heard Thomas on the phone to her. Not a happy bunny. And Anthony is off around the Caribbean on the company too, huh?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.” I push my way into my office. “So the office jungle drums are pounding?”
“I’d stay out of Barbara’s way.”
“She doesn’t scare me.”
“Of course she doesn’t.” Debbie rolls her eyes. “Don’t forget Secret Santa on Monday.” Her eyebrows hitch. “I’m open to giving you ideas, just say the word.”
“I don’t need ideas, because I’m not included in Secret Santa.”
“You joined in for the Christmas jumpers,” she counters, shrill.
“Yes, and look where that got me.” Although, it was the first time I heard Dec laugh, so that made it almost worth it. I dump my bag on my desk. “What does a girl have to do to get a coffee around here?”
“Ask.”
I grit my teeth around my smile. “Can I get a coffee, please?”
“Sure.” Debbie curtsies. “I’d ask if you want sugar, but the whole building knows you need ten.”
“Do you want this job?”
She backs out the room on a bow and closes the door, and I shrug out of my coat and hang it on the hook. Before I’ve even opened my inbox, a text message lands, and my heart skips a beat as I scramble to find my phone.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or sad that it’s not Dec. But I certainly know I feel unspeakable fire in my belly that it is my husband.
I’m moving back into the house. We can’t afford for it to sit empty while you bury your head in the sand, and I can’t sustain a mortgage and rent forever. I’m sure you can’t either.
The only thing I’ve wondered if I can sustain is the unbearable pain. I don’t care about money. I don’t care about the house. I could never step foot in that place again, and it riles me to no end that he can, let alone live there with memories in every room, around every corner. The evenings in the kitchen cooking. The lazy days on the enormous couch vegging. The summers in the garden trying to figure out what were weeds and what were plants.
“Fuck you,” I mutter, going to my inbox and scrolling through the emails. Work. I need to focus on work. Not bastard exes. Not who would try to mug me on a deserted London street. Work.
I open an email from the accountant detailing the directors personal tax bills. One for the end of January and one for the end of July. “Jesus Christ.” I pick up my phone and call him. “I got the personal tax predictions. Do you have a rough idea on the corporation tax bill due in October?” I ask, getting up and walking circles around my desk.
“It isn’t pretty.”
“They never are.”
“Give or take a few million.”
“I’d like to take off a few million, Jeff. Thomas’s wife and son need a crash course in how tax works. They look at big fat bank accounts and rub their hands together. It doesn’t enter their heads that much of it is earmarked for company and personal taxes.”