“Come!” She raced out of the bathroom and I followed behind her.
Five minutes later, and after some very careful massaging with a dash of washing powder, the stain was finally (almost) out. I was so relieved when I saw the last of the brown color disappear from the crisp white collar. As it turned out, Bradley from the accounts department was a legitimate germaphobe, not in the sense that someone who doesn’t like having dirty hands is, but the kind that actually goes for—what did he call it?—“exposure therapy.” Bradley is so obsessed with germs that he wears gloves to work, and in the trunk of his car he has every kind of washing detergent, disinfectant and cleanser,just in case.
Well, thanks to Bradley it looked like I might still have a job by the end of the day. I thanked Juniper profusely and promised I’d buy her a pay day drink. Now all I had to do was get this collar dry and it would be as if none of this had ever happened. Ryan Stark would put this shirt on and be none the wiser. I held the shirt under the hand dryer and watched the clock carefully. I had five minutes to get upstairs to his office and give him this shirt. And with exactly sixty seconds to go, it was finally dry.
I breathed a massive sigh of relief and headed up to his office again. Crisis averted! Nothing was going to go wrong now.
CHAPTERFORTY-ONE
Poppy
Ten minutes later and wearing one crisp, white, fresh shirt, we sat in his car once again. I’d had a moment of absolute terror when I’d handed the shirt over to him, but he hadn’t noticed, and in fact, he’d even said “thank you.”
The drive was silent once again—we never spoke when he drove—but the silence was suddenly shattered by the ghastliest sound I’d heard in a while. I got a fright and turned to locate the source of it.
“GGHHAARRGGHH!”
What the hell was that? I looked over at Ryan, who looked as surprised as I was at the strange noise that had just come out of his mouth.
“Excuse me,” he said, tapping his throat with his fingers. He seemed somewhat confused.
I turned and looked back at the road ahead of me, but a very sudden and violent movement made me turn and look at him again. He was scratching the side of his face, hard. I rolled my eyes quietly and turned away again. He hated me scratching and yet here he was, scratching away. Pot calling the old kettle, methinks. I looked out the window at the passing buildings until another horrific noise broke the silence in the car again and I turned once more.
“GGHHAARRGGHH!”
This time he seemed to be going a little red in the face. He tapped his throat a few times again and then . . .
“GGHHAARRGGHH!” The noise that came out of his throat was really disturbing, as if he was choking on something while simultaneously gargling.
“You okay? I asked as he started scratching the back of his neck.
“I’m fine.” He sounded belligerent and turned to me.
“Oh my God. Your face, what’s wrong with it?” I pointed.
His entire face had gone a strange shade of splotchy red.
“What do you mean?” He pulled the rear-view mirror down to look at himself, and when he did, he let out a strange moan.
“Are you okay?” I asked again. I was frightened by this uncharacteristically dramatic reaction of his.
He turned and looked at me; his big blue eyes were wide open and full of panic. My heart jumped into my throat. He opened his mouth to speak and . . .
“GGHHAARRGGHH!”
“Oh my God! Your eye is swelling.” I pointed in horror as his lid suddenly looked ten times the size it normally was.
“Shit!” he hissed. “Are you sure you picked my laundry up from Oliver and no one else, and are you sure you said it was for me?” His voice had an urgent high-pitched quality to it, and it unsettled me greatly.
“Yes!” I replied quickly.Panic!
“Well, something must have gone wrong with this shirt then.” He suddenly pulled over to the side of the road and put his hazard lights on. He reached for a bottle of water and then clicked his fingers at me frantically.
“First-aid kit! First-aid kit,” he said.
I reached into the cubbyhole and passed it over to him. He dug in it and pulled out an antihistamine. I recognized it immediately. Despite my mother loving flowers, she had a terrible pollen allergy—ironic.
“I’m allergic to certain washing powders,” he said suddenly. “The laundromat uses an organic one on my clothes, but something must have happened this time.” He swallowed the pill and then washed it down with half the bottle of water.
