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Ralph blows out a long, thoughtful breath down the line. ‘Well, firstly, let’s trynotto freak out. And I think one step at a time is always a sensible approach, in any situation.’
I nod, hanging desperately on to his every word, Ralph, the mountain ranger, me, the idiot, lost in the wilderness.
‘I say allow management to continue to investigate, consider apologising where needed, and until you’re told otherwise, I suppose all you can do is .?.?. complete your working day?’
‘Oh, but Ralph, how can I?’
‘Well, you’re going to have to, Millie,’ he says, calmly. ‘Take a minute, make a cup of tea and go calmly back to your desk .?.?.’
And I peer now, to the ceiling, as if I’m who? Tom Cruise? What do I think I’m going to do instead? Push a tile upwards and worm my way into the vents?
‘I know this is unpleasant, Millie,’ continues Ralph. ‘But you must act accordingly. You’ve told the truth, right? And they have accepted the truth—’
‘Until a member of staff makes an official complaint and I am sacked forever and blacklisted.’
‘Conjecture,’ states Ralph, as if he isn’t going to dignify my catastrophising with an answer.
Someone comes into the bathroom now, heels on tiles, and locks one of the other cubicles, as my phone bleeps in my ear like a little siren. I glance at the screen –Cate Calling.Again. And her name sits on top of a selfie of us both, and I want to cry once more.
Cate. My maternal, witty, hopeless romantic of a best friend. We took that photo last year, on the annual holiday we always take with our other friend Alexis (this time, it was in a yurt in Gloucester, which was freezing and disastrous and ended in Cate having to go to the toilet in a Sainsbury’s bag, which definitely didn’t make it onto Alexis’s pastelly Instagram page). And IknowI’ve written her emails. All about her boyfriend, Knobby Nicholas, who micromanages her, controls her, all under the caveat of ‘but it’s because I love you!’ Cate’ll hate me. How could she not hate the best friend who secretly – or not so secretly now – hates her boyfriend?
And as for Alexis. Oh, I can’t even think about Alexis .?.?.
‘Listen,’ says Ralph, as a hand-dryer bursts into life on the other side of the door. ‘I’ll be home when you get in. We can sort this then. But this is just a .?.?. a hiccup, Millie. A blooper, if you will. Certainly not life-ending.’
‘Really?’ I cling to his optimism like a buoy. ‘Do you really think?’
‘Yes. Ablunder.’
‘A blunder .?.?.’ I repeat with a wistful sigh. ‘Oh, I really hope you’re right.’
*
A blunder. A blooper.IsRalph right? Is this just a blunder? Because it doesn’t feel like a blunder, as I stand here, washing my hands. It feels like the end of the world. The end ofmyworld as I know it. Like everything is upside down and it’ll never be the same again. That the whole universe is watching me; that I’ve passed through the looking glass. Forever.
I dry my hands. Twice.
Okay.
Okay, one step at a time, Ralph said, didn’t he? And I suppose step one would be: get to desk. Get. To. Desk. I can do that, can’t I?
I take a breath, and – here goes nothing – I push open the door to the main office. Low, mumbling chatter, ringing phones, computer keyboards clacking, the smell of coffee and burnt toast.
Get to desk. Get to desk.
I walk quickly, and as quietly as possible, across the office floor. Ten strides, that’s all it is, or there abouts, but oh, fuck.I can feel it: this heavy, awkward atmosphere, slowly seeping into the room, like steam as I walk. Heads turn in my peripheral vision, voices stop, and as I get to the exit, place my hand on the cool, metal handle .?.?. I just can’t help myself.
I glance up.
Just the tiniest, tiniest of glimpses, and .?.?. I wish I hadn’t. Because people are watching me. Most are watching and pretendingnot tofrom behind partition screens and computer monitors, but some are just plainlooking, as if I’m some sort of tragic art installation they’ve paid good money to see, thank you very much.
And as embarrassed heat sweeps up my back, and my eyes drift back to the exit, they land, firstly, on Leona from IT, who just stares at me, hard-nosed, and then, beside her, Jack. Hot Jack Shurlock who stands against a desk with an iPhone to his ear, his broad shoulders relaxed and square, white shirtsleeves rolled up. And his serious eyes, for just a second, flick up to look at me too.
Someone whispers. Another person laughs.
I push through the door, speed down the spiral staircase.
They must know. They must all know by now.Even if they didn’t get an email themselves, emails can be shared and forwarded and even printed and used to wallpaper a bloody room if the mood takes someone.
