He stiffens. “Shit,” he says, stepping back.
I whip around, but there's no one there. “Who was it?”
“Rob.”
I start taking short breaths. I can feel the panic mounting. Anders takes my hand. “He won't say anything.”
He's right. Out of everybody in the company, Rob is the least likely to gossip. Still, our secret is only a secret when it involves just us.
I'm still fretting at lunchtime. Anders is out of the office, but I can't face the break room. What if I run into Rob? In front of everybody. That could be excruciating. It’s much safer to hide at my desk instead.
Except that just makes me easier to find. I see Rob coming well before he reaches me. I contemplate speed walking to the loo or locking myself in Anders's office, but in the end, I accept it's probably better to get it over with.
Rob seems as uncomfortable as I am. He hops from foot to foot. “I didn't mean to intrude. I'm sorry,” he says, his face the colour of beetroot, his eyes focussed somewhere to the side of me.
What can I say? “It's okay, Rob,” I tell him. “But I'd prefer it if nobody else knew.”
“Oh, I get it.” Rob's head turns further away. “But I think you're good for him.” Then he nods twice and walks off.
It's the strangest vote of confidence, but it does make me feel better.
Two days later and we've made it to Friday. I wake with excitement bubbling inside me. I won't see Anders until later; he's out all morning. But he messaged yesterday evening to tell me what he was planning to do to me tonight and how much he expected me to enjoy it. I had to get back into the shower and set it to cold before I could go to bed.
En route to school, I check in with Dana, making sure all’s well for her babysitting tonight. After I’ve dropped my daughter and as I’m threading my way through the London traffic,Feel Like Makin’ Lovecomes on the radio. I sing along, belting out the song at the top of my voice. It feels prophetic.
I'm barely settled at my desk when the phone rings. I start a little earlier than most of the staff because it's the best time to get anything done with Anders. So until nine o'clock, calls to the company are put through to my line.
“Good morning. This is Cerium. How may I help you?” My tone is super cheery, because it's that sort of day.
“Cora? Is that you?” The voice is a little wavery, but I recognise it, helped by the twang of an American accent on my name. It'sAnders's mum, Sonia. That's odd. I know dairy farmers get up early, but it must be the crack of sparrows there.
“Hi, Sonia,” I greet her pleasantly, but she cuts straight across me.
“Is Anders there?”
“No, I'm sorry. He's in meetings all morning.”
“I’ve been calling his phone but he's not answering.”
“It’s probably muted. Can I take a message? I'll be seeing him later.”
“Can you find him, please, Cora?” Her voice breaks on a sob. “It's his dad. He's in hospital.” Another sob. “The EMTs think it's a heart attack. Please?Findhim.”
“I will. I promise,” I say.
“I’ve got to go.” Sonia disconnects, so distraught she doesn’t even say goodbye.
My heart aches for her. For one moment, I think how it would feel to get such a call about my dad and then my heart aches for Anders too. Then I pull myself together. Anders will be upset. He will need me to do my job and help him. I know what he will want. He may not live on the same continent as them, but his family is important to him.
Quickly, I pull up a list of every flight from Heathrow to Chicago O’Hare. A short mental calculation gives me a best guess as to the earliest flight he can make, given the necessary time for security even with a business class ticket. I book him a seat.
There’s no point in calling him. If he’s not picking up for his mother, he’s not picking up for me. Just to be sure, I message him,Call me. Urgent!Then I try Piotr and Scarlett, who should both be with him. They’re not picking up either. I leave similar messages for them.
Anders will need his passport, and it’s likely to be at his home. I’ve held a key to his home ever since he locked himself outshortly after I started working for him. One very expensive call-out for an emergency locksmith was all it took to convince him he needed a trustworthy keyholder. I’ve used it before, but only under explicit instruction.
This is different. I'm presuming his consent. But am I acting as his girlfriend or his assistant? I hold the key as his assistant. But as his assistant, is it acceptable to rifle through his desk? Maybe. What about his bedside drawers? Absolutely not. It's messy. And what if he sees this as a breach of his trust? He might but without his passport, he'll never make this flight.
And he's the one who proposed marriage. He was prepared to make me his fiancée. Surely a fiancée should have access to all parts of his home? Maybe. I've never been engaged before. Do engaged people hide things from each other? And I’m not even a fiancée. Is there a word for someone you asked, who turned you down, but who is still dating you?
