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I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing my forehead. My brain is starting to hurt. “What are they saying?”
“That you’ve been having a massive affair with Callum Ferguson. Someone said you were caught shagging in the toilets.”
“We didn’t have sex in the toilets.”
“Caro said she saw you practically humping him outside the bathroom,” he says, almost cheerfully. “Were you?”
“Caro Hawes?” I echo, recalling the bathroom door banging just as I was kissing Callum. Then I remember the grainy photo that Diana showed me, of the two of us in the corridor.
“Did she say anything else?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“Somebody reported us to HR and sent them a photo.”
“And you think it was Caro?” he asks.
“If she saw us outside the bathroom then yes.” Now I feel even worse. Not only were we caught, but the one person who hates my guts happened to be the person who spotted us.
“So you are having an affair?” he asks.
I sigh. Callum and I hadn’t discussed what we were going to tell the office. It was as though we were in this little bubble, floating mindlessly above everybody else, oblivious to the fact our world was about to crash land.
“I’m in love with him,” I whisper. A car comes speeding down the road—a souped-up Ford Focus—and the sound temporarily drowns out Charlie’s response.
“What?” I ask as soon as the engine quietens.
“I said, ‘oh fuck’.”
“Well, that’s helpful,” I reply.
“What are you going to do? Caro reckons you’re going to lose your job. Do you think they’ll sack you?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “It’s possible, I suppose.” The tears start to flow again, but this time I don’t try to blink them away. They weave a hot trail down my cheeks, dripping from my jaw and onto the step.
“Shit,” he breathes. “Listen, if you need anything, anything at all, you call me. And in the meantime I’ll put a hit out on Caro.”
“I think you’ll find that’s illegal.”
“I know,” he says, grimly. “But I’ll risk it anyway.”
* * *
When I let myself into the house, Mum’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, a cigarette balanced between her forefinger and thumb as she scrolls through her phone. She looks up and crushes her cigarette into the glass ashtray.
“You’re home early,” she says. I glance at the clock; it’s just after 1:00 p.m. Early is an understatement.
“I got sent home,” I tell her. “I was sick in the toilet.”
Why don’t I tell her the truth? Fear, maybe? An unwillingness to see the disappointment in her face?
“You poor thing.” She stands up and puts a cool palm against my forehead. “Ooh, you do feel hot. Have you got a temperature?”
“I’ll be fine.” I pull back, wrinkling my nose at the smell of smoke wafting from her. It does nothing to stem my nausea. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” she asks. “I’ve got a shift in half an hour but I could call in sick.”
“I’m just going to sleep it off anyway,” I lie. “You go ahead.”
