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‘There’s no need.’
‘I can send you the protocol to formally complain to HR too. Course, they’ll swear they’re all about the employees, but .?.?.’ He smiles to himself, crooked, cynical. ‘They’re obviously all for the comp—’
‘Jack,’ I interrupt, and he pauses, lips parted, mid-sentence. He slowly turns his face, to me here, on the floor. ‘I really appreciate it, I do, but .?.?. I sort of feel like I’ve dodged a bullet, with, you know – not getting fired.’
Jack says nothing.
Distant, muffled laughter comes from the other side of the door.
‘I think I’d just rather move on,’ I whisper. ‘Pretend it didn’t happen?’
Jack hesitates, cocks his head to one side, like he’s trying to work a crick out of his neck, then his eyes move to the window. ‘Hm. Right.’ He looks older since he left to go travelling. Of course, not in a bus pass and tinned pilchards way – Jack must only be around thirty-two, thirty-three – but in that intangible, refined way; the mature and wise and seen-the-world way. And – yes, OK, maybe also thesexierway. He has stubble now. Hair, lightened to mapley brown by the sun; a little longer and messier. (And I say a little silent thank you now, to the universe, that my email to him never got delivered, because imagine theembarrassment.)
‘He looks like he’s about to leave. Owen,’ Jack clarifies.
‘Does he?’
‘Unless you were hiding from Steve. Or – me?’ His gaze drops to mine then – his eyes glint with amusement.
‘Oh. N-no,’ I fluster. ‘Not Steve. Not .?.?. you.’
Silence again. And then, ‘He’s – yep, he’s gone.’
‘Really? Like, definitely?’
Jack nods again. ‘Well, give it a few seconds,’ he says, ‘but yeah, I’d say you’re safe.’
‘Right.’
‘Steve seems to have gone as well,’ adds Jack, walking across the floor, closer to me.
‘Oh. Good.’
‘Bonus .?.?.’ Jack mutters, as if to himself.
‘Yes. Well, best get back to work I sup—’ I stand. And oh my God, my legs. My legs are suddenly swarmed with a warm, numbness of fresh pins and needles that – ‘Shit!’ – I buckle, wobble, and grab onto Gary’s flimsy cardboard frame to steady myself. He bows, his poor head bending right back, his cardboard neck, snapped. And I fall, smack bang on my arse. Gary, amazingly, stays upright, head bent, in a solemn bow.
‘Shit. Are you—OK?’ There’s a hesitant chuckle in Jack’s voice.
‘Oh, I’m fine!’ I say, dusting my hands pointlessly. I ammortified. ‘Just the worst pins and needles of my wholelife, but – fine.Fine.Ha.’
And, once again, I am face to face with Jack’s shoes, his long legs. I slowly glance up at him, as he shifts the folder to under his arm.
‘Try again?’ And as he slowly extends an open hand, I flush, like I’ve just been lowered into a hot bath. Hot Jack Shurlock is offering me his hand to hold.
‘Oh. Thanks,’ I say, placing my hand in his. He closes his fingers, warm and slightly rough, around my palm, and pulls me to standing. Thankfully, my legs, although covered in that prickling static, don’t betray me this time.
‘Stable?’ he asks, and the smile he gives me feels like wordless solidarity. Or .?.?. pity? Oh, please don’t be a smile of pity.
‘Yes. Just about, thank you.’ He releases my hand. ‘And thank you. For, you know, pretending I wasn’t in here and everything.’
‘Sure,’ Jack says, and as he pulls open the door, I call out, ‘And sorry for snapping Gary’s neck!’ and immediately, I wonder why I’ve decided to saythat, of all the things I could say to the operations manager who has not only covered for me while hiding during my working day, unjudgementally listened to my strange, rambling reasoning behind not wanting him to look into the emails,andhelped me up off the floor. And yet, my mouth keeps moving. ‘I sort of sacrificed him there. In the name of survival. Like .?.?. like, Jack in theTitanicor something. Gary. My very own floating door.’
Jack pauses in the doorway, and laughs, as if surprised. ‘Well. I’m uh, sure he was more than happy to help.’ Then he turns, walks out, and as he strides up the lobby stairs, I hear him answer his phone. ‘Yeah, sorry, mate,’ he says. ‘Got caught up in something.’
I pull Gary’s head up, meet his oblivious cardboard eyes. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say. ‘Appreciate it, though.’
*
