Page 73 of Little Miss Fortune

‘You threw Toby under the bus?’ I lose my cool with her.

‘I didn’t.’ She hushes me and pulls me down to sit in the spinny chair next to her. ‘It was Toby’s idea.’

It’s as if a fuse blows in my skull, because my eye starts twitching and a ringing hums right into my eardrums. ‘What did you just say?’

‘He came to me yesterday and suggested that they can’t fire you if they think you were a victim.’

‘A victim? It was consensual,’ I screech. ‘He might lose his job.’

‘Oh please, pretty boy will be fine. HR will check to find out if it’s consensual, but the company cannot fire someone if there is even an ounce of doubt that it can be considered retaliation.’

‘What a reckless thing to do. What if there is some permanent record on him or a blacklist—?’

‘Or like a plague mark that will tell everyone to stay away. Please, Fuko, I beg, the man is going to be fine. He should’ve known better.’

The anger is not simmering down. Why does he get to be a martyr?

‘See you on Monday,’ I say, legging it to the lift.

Fuko: Sorry Leon, can’t do today. I need to do something.

Leon: Wooooow, I see how it is. I deserve this after how I bailed on you, ig.

Fuko: It’s not you, I promise. I just need to have words with someone.

Leon: Meow. Tell me everything later. Tomorrow works?

Fuko: Tomorrow it is.

There is not a moment to think this through. In twenty minutes, I reach the pub by Toby’s apartment and scan through it. He is not here. He is not at work. He is not at the pub. I don’t have his number. I walk to his apartment complex, hoping to see Rufus at his usual spot. It would be very hard to explain to anyone else what I am doing and why I can’t contact the resident.

Luckily, I do not have to explain anything, as I see a familiar head of blond hair walking out of the building in his running clothes.

‘Oi!’ I shout, but he already has his headphones in. ‘For fuck’s sake, Toby!’

I jog after him: poor form, poor stamina. His casual run is my sprinting. What a painful realisation that I am not in the prime shape of my life. I could just go back and wait for his return, but he is still within reach.

Lucky I may not be, but I was a bloody excellent pitcher at rounders. Inherited that from Dad. I take my trainer off and chuck it at him. I was aiming at his shoulder but hit him in the head instead.

‘What the fuck?’ he screams and turns around, pulling out a headphone. ‘Fuko? What on earth are you playing at?’

His anger diffuses into mild amusement and confusion as I trot to him, completely out of breath.

‘Is your pace’—I take deep breaths between each syllable—‘four minutes a mile?’

‘It really isn’t.’ He stares at me with whimsy and wonder and joy. The way you look at a cat when it does something quite pathetic.

‘Please, pretend.’

‘Oh yeah, I am actually on my way to set a world record, three minutes thirty seconds.’ He plays along, kneeling to place my shoe back on my foot.

‘That’s... so... impressive.’ I give him a thumbs up, as I recover bent over my knees.

‘Right, Grandma, let’s sit down.’

He leads me to a bench and pops into a co-op. When he returns, there’s an orange-flavoured sports drink in a squeezy bottle in his hand.

‘Thanks.’ I accept it, ignoring his pity as I drink.