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I realise he can see my red-rimmed eyes, and the shadows that bruise the delicate skin below. “I didn't sleep well,” I tell him. It's an understatement. In spite of the adrenaline and bravado that fuelled my late-night argument, I still managed to sob deep into the night. Even now I feel achingly empty—as though I haven't eaten for weeks and weeks.
Slowly, he peels the lid from his coffee. Steam rises up like a smoke signal. “I know how that feels.” Taking a sip, he brings his eyes to meet mine again. “I thought you could come to this afternoon's meeting. You might find it interesting.”
His offer feels like an olive branch, and I eagerly grasp hold of it. “Really?” The last few days of filing have taken their toll. I don't want to see another metal cabinet ever again.
“Really.” He nods his head slowly. “But I recommend you dose yourself up on caffeine first. Project meetings can be deadly, especially in the afternoon.” He fakes a yawn then smiles, and it's infectious. In spite of my shitty evening and hideous night, there's the tiniest pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel. The fact my boss isn’t scowling feels like a major achievement.
And I haven't insulted him once today.
I shake my coffee cup at him. “Triple espresso. These eyes won't be able to shut even if they try.”
I'm still grinning as I check my emails; replying to some, deleting others. Then a message from Charlie pops up on my screen.
Simpson, C: How's my favourite filing lady doing?
Cartwright, A: Piss off.
Simpson, C: Ooh, tetchy. Anyway, entertain me; what excitements do you have today? Photocopying? Hotel booking...oh, maybe you'll be able to snag him a table in a restaurant.
Cartwright, A: Actually, funny boy, I'm going to meet with some potential clients.
It's a big deal, I could tell that just from Callum's expression. He's pitching to them, hoping to score a million-pound project. No wonder he's losing sleep.
Simpson, C: Bloody hell, how did you manage that? Wait...you didn't, did you?
Cartwright, A: Didn't what?
Simpson, C: You didn't... make him an offer he couldn't refuse?
Cartwright, A: For your information, my very nice boss invited me to a very important meeting because I'm a very good worker.
Simpson, C: Uh oh.
I sigh, still tapping at the keyboard.
Cartwright, A: What?
Simpson, C: It's happened.
Cartwright, A: Stop talking in riddles, it's annoying. You're annoying.
Simpson, C: I think you've got Stockholm syndrome.
This time I groan.
Cartwright, A: I'm going now. I have work to do.
Simpson, C: Wait! If he offers you the blue kool aid, don't drink it.
Cartwright, A: Goodbye, Charlie.
7
I'm nervous before I take a step inside the conference room. While Callum walks in, carrying his laptop in one hand, with a large, bound file beneath the other, I linger outside. Reaching out, I hold on to the oak doorframe, my fingers curling around the warm wood. Callum stands with his back to me, his broad torso bent over the large table as he goes through a pile of paper.
“Are you coming in?” Looking over his shoulder, he raises an eyebrow. “I won't bite.”
It takes effort to release my grasp. Even more to make my tone light and airy. “Of course. What can I do to help?”
