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From: Ann-Christin Johnsson
To: all office
Cc: IT team, Paul Foot, Michael Waterstreet, Jack Shurlock, Petra Kairys
Subject: Safety
We would like to assure members of staff of the safety and security of the Flye TV computer systems. They are regularly serviced and monitored by the relevant teams, in line with company policy, and the security and privacy of data remains of the utmost importance to us as an organisation.
Thank you,
Ann-Christin and management
Human Resources
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From: Owen Kalimeris
To: Millie Chandler
Subject: Sorry
Millie, I’ve read your email reply to our wedding invite. I don’t know what to say. I’m super confused. Did you mean what you said? Tried calling. Is your phone off? Or have you blocked me? We need to talk.
O x
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I am hiding.
I am a grown woman of twenty-nine years old, and I amhidingat work, and no, this wasn’t part of the plan at all. Well. Theloose-ishplan Ralph and I put into place this morning, as we drank warm drinks in our pyjamas, the golden, late summer light glowing through the kitchen blinds, both of us slightly hungover on the great email dredge of the twenty-first century. (And a whole bottle of wine.)
‘What, ideally,’ Ralph had asked softly, ‘would you like to happen now?’ and for a beat, just a split second, the fresh slate of a new day in front of me, I felt like I had permission to say anything. Say something wild like, ‘Leave, actually!’ Or get on a plane. Do something uninhibited and new. Sign up to a yoga retreat in Bali or a cookery course in Corsica. Hand my notice in. Learn to play chess. Take a job in Brazil.Abseil.Because once everything you ever wanted to say is said, once the quiet life you’ve done your best to craft the last couple of years is suddenly the opposite, once things can’t really get much worse, there’s a way of looking at it, that feels like .?.?. freedom.
But instead, I’d taken a long sip of sugary tea, looked around at our little kitchen, one of my favourite work skirts drying on the airer, the paperweight I made from a kit Alexis gave me last Christmas (which I ended up somehow crafting into something that looks like a sweet potato) on the mantelpiece. All these things from my life, B. E. (Before Emails.) And I’d said, simply, ‘Ralph, I want to forget this ever, ever happened.’
And it was all going relatively well, all things considered.
Until just now, when I’d spotted Owen pacing quickly across the Flye TV car park, towards my desk after lunch. Lean and loping, that smoky-black hair, sunglasses on, car keys in his hand, everything about him, as always, perfectly clean-cut and turned out. And I .?.?. well, totally panicked. Shit myself. Jumped up, rounded the desk while hunched over like a human shelf bracket, as if that concealed me at all, and scurried in here, to the little document storage office behind my reception desk. Because – what will I evensayto him? Plus, what if people see us talking? Most of them are already acting weirdly with me, avoiding me, whispering, giving me pained, awkward smiles, side-eyeing me, like I’mthatvillain. I don’t want to give them even more reason to think I’m a horrible person. Plus, say ifhis fiancéeturns up? What if Chloesees us?
So, here I am.
Hiding from Owen, from my feelings, from everything and everyone, crouched in the gloom, squatting behind a promotional World Cup cardboard cut-out of a microphone-holding Gary Lineker. I really don’t know how Ralph can say something good might come of this. I don’t think hiding from your ex-boyfriend at work ever falls into the ‘something good has come of this’ category.
I peer around Gary’s cardboard arm. Owen is standing there, in front of my reception desk. Why is he still waiting? Why hasn’t he just assumed I’m on my lunch break? Does hewantpeople to notice him standing there, waiting for me? And, of course, Iwillspeak to him. Eventually. Just .?.?. when I’ve worked out what I want to say, beyond just: sorry (and ‘please, please ignore that email and pretend it never happened so everything can go back to its quiet, unproblematic way and nobody thinks I’m some sort of horrible homewrecker.’ Although, I admit, I’m feeling ‘pretty confused’ too now).
I blow out a long shaky breath onto Gary’s cardboard waist. I wish I didn’t but I always feel wobbly at the sight of Owen, like my fight or flight has been engaged or something. It’s because it’s like he sees right through me; that no matter what I do, no matter the resolve I construct, how much armour I wear, I’m made of glass. Glass he can shatter with just a few words, with a single knowing smile. Because that’s how it feels, isn’t it, with someone you’ve been vulnerable with? Being vulnerable with someone is like handing them a map of you. A map of every hard edge, every weak spot, every pressure point, and, eventually, they memorise every turn, every twist, until they know you, can navigate you, break you open with their eyes closed.
‘All right, mate?’ I hear on the other side of the glass. Someone else is out there.
‘Yeah, good, bro, yourself?’ Owen replies, and then some inaudible, deep-voiced chatter.
My ears whoosh with the galloping of my own pulse. Is that .?.?. Oh my God. Someone is .?.?.No.The door handle squeaks as it’s pushed down. Someone is coming in.Someone is coming in!
‘Yeah, I’m leaving around Christmas—’
