Page 10 of Touch of Class

“I can if you need me to.”

“So that’s a no,” she muttered, then pushed up from her desk. If she wasn’t going to vent, she needed coffee. Heading back into the waiting room, she set a pot to brew on their trusty old machine before replying, “No, just checking schedules.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. See you tomorrow.” Then to end the exchange she added, “Have to get ready for a session.”

It wasn’t a lie. She may not have anything logistical to prepare, but mentally, and perhaps emotionally, she needed to center herself. While it would’ve been nice to talk to Brooke as part of that process, it wasn’t worth interrupting her domestic bliss.

Besides, what would she even say? “A woman I used to know swept me onto a mattress she plans to use for a business that manages to sound simultaneously comical and tawdry”?

It didn’t even make sense to her. How could she make someone else understand?

Gillian stood there, jaw clenched, as the coffee filled the pot. She should’ve been used to turmoil. Life had become illogical in so many ways over the last few years, but at least everything had kept functioning at work. Even when Brooke had taken a teaching job and started dating Tegan, the overall dynamic had shifted but stayed intact. Things were hard, but there was a plan. It made sense. This … Daphne, the bedlam, the cuddling, sharing her cherished office space with something called a “snuggery”.

She scoffed at the concept rather than trying to fathom the execution of something so ludicrous.

Pouring her cup of coffee, she added only a dash of the oat milk her colleagues had decided on without her consent. Taking a tentative sip, she anchored her senses to the warmth spreading through her. This was concrete, familiar, real.

Opening her eyes slowly, she tethered herself to details she’d chosen with deliberation, the layout of the room, the reception desk she shared with colleagues she’d hand-picked and nurtured, the furniture with sleek lines and deep cushions to convey a special blend of comfort and competence. Not everything was out of her control.

As for the rest of it, she needed to compartmentalize. The facts of the situation were exactly how she’d relayed them back in Daphne’s presence. Anything more was moot for the moment, and maybe for all eternity.

Other people’s realities could intersect hers without changing any of the core characteristics she clung to. She had a job she loved, friends she adored, a life she’d cultivated with intentionality. She had to stow the urge to make meaning about anything outside that sphere, because she couldn’t yet, and not because of some inadequacy on her part.

She couldn’t make any of this make sense, because it simply didn’t.

Sighing, she glanced through the window in the closed waiting room door to the open one across the hall.

No, none of that made any sense.

Daphne never had.

Four

“She’s so maddening, you know?” Daphne asked from her perch atop the kitchen counter.

“I don’t,” Hugh said, his back to her as he faced the stove. “I’ve known you for roughly twenty years, and I can’t recall you ever mentioning anyone named Gillian.”

“And why would I? I hadn’t thought of her in over a decade. She means nothing to me, or at least she didn’t, until she busted into my office with her smug attitude couched as professionalism. It’s possible to be a professional and not frigid. You do it all the time.”

“Thank you for noticing, but from the sound of things your interaction was hardly business casual. You literally knocked the woman over, then dropped a bomb on her.”

“I didn’t drop a bomb. My job is not a bomb.”

“Of course not.” He took a few slices of bacon from the pan, and breaking one in half, handed a piece to her. She was being pacified, and she knew it, but in this case, she didn’t mind. Hugh could pacify someone with comfort and care, not condescension.

“And another thing.” She picked up again, waving the bacon around as if conducting a symphony. “She always manages to be vaguely condescending without being rude enough to call her out. At one point she offered to help me ‘process’ or ‘make meaning’ or something, as if I can’t do that on my own.”

He turned back to the stove, either to resume his work or hide whatever expression the news sparked.

“Are you smiling?”

“I wouldn’t dare.” He upped his British accent in faux formality.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Never.” He kept the same tone as he dropped bits of chicken into the bacon grease. “She sounds like an absolute horror.”