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‘That’s good. I already told you, Eleanor, he has an unhealthy way of dealing with his parents’ deaths. Don’t be one of those ways. Leave that to the Alexas of this world.’ She nods and leaves the library. My relief should be evident in the deflation of my lungs, but I’m not relieved at all. Her words have stung like a monster wasp. I’m instantly transported to the nightclub last night and the women draped all over him. And to outside his office when he put on a special show for me. And just like it was then, my ability to breathe is stolen from me. My heart constricts painfully in my chest and worrying fury burns my mind, like acid has been poured over my brain. Leave that to the Alexas of this world. The temporary women. The many temporary women.
My craving for Becker has made way for uncertainty following Mrs Potts’s subtle nudge and blunt words. It’s ridiculous. Anyone with semi-functioning vision could see plain as day what was going on in here. I’m not naïve enough to believe Mrs Potts bought my lame lie. She knows damn well. This is a backward, mutual understanding, that’s what it is. A twisted way of acknowledging it, but jointly pretending it never happened.
The knife twists. I’m in mental fucking agony. Problem is, I’m not sure who to blame for my hurt. Really, it’s my fault. All me. For being weak in the moment. I quickly remind myself I have a job I love, and I should focus on keeping it.
I laugh to myself and my stupidity, as I find a chesterfield and drop into it. The warnings, the disapproval. I’m not about to fall in love with the arrogant twat. My thought process, in particular my last thought, hits me like a brick. Categorically, that isn’t going to happen, which leads me to my next sobering thought, assisted conveniently by a flashback of my encounter with the bitter woman in the ladies’ at the nightclub last night. What’s the point of encouraging anything between us? It has a sell-by date, and what happens then? Namely, with my job? My palm comes to rest on my throat when I begin to feel suffocated. I wouldn’t be able to work here. We’ll have our fun, one of us will get bored and end the affair – probably Becker – and then it will be impossible to work together. The whole friends thing never works, and the whole employer–employee relationship definitely won’t. Oh God, what have I been thinking? Mrs Potts is trying to do me a favour. She said herself that she needs me here. She knows as well as I do that a reckless affair with Becker will be the end of my time at The Haven. One night alone nearly destroyed it. She wants to keep me. It’s no wonder she’s trying to prevent it. She’s seeing sense. This is good, since my sense has abandoned me all too often lately. I came to London to pursue my dream career. Not to get caught up in a fling with a notorious womaniser. What am I thinking?
I don’t get a chance to analyse the situation any further, not that I need to. The door opens and Becker’s head pops around. ‘Is it safe?’
‘Thanks for that,’ I say sarcastically. Why’s he looking all smiley?
His shoulders jump up on a tiny shrug and he slips in, closing the door quietly behind him. He wanders over to me casually and when he makes it to me, he crouches and cages me in on the couch. I lean back, wary, and he frowns, confused by my withdrawal. It’s the cutest expression, if a little annoying. I’m certain Mrs Potts would have found him and given him a reality check, too. Or a warning. Whichever. Doesn’t he care any more? Well, I do. Mrs Potts’s looks of disdain and sobering words are currently stomping all over my mind. I won’t be forgetting any of that in a hurry.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, straightening up. He looks worried, and so he should be.
‘Didn’t she just give you a subtle warning?’
‘I’ve been on a call.’
He’s been on a call. To his therapist? What’s this therapist saying? What are they talking about? Is this thing between us being encouraged? Or discouraged? Whatever, his behaviour now doesn’t seem like he’s had the same dose of reality shoved down his throat that I had. Does he actually want to carry on where we left off?
It looks like it’s up to me to put a stop to this crazy shit once and for all. I stand, forcing him to stand, too. ‘I’ll be getting on.’ My voice is shaking, and I’m staring at his chest. I can’t look at him. I mustn’t look at him.
