AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I love him.
I’m completely in love with Callum Ferguson. At twenty-three years old, that should be enough. It’s not the nineteenth century, nobody should tell me who I can be in love with. What possible right do Richards and Morgan have to comment on our relationship? As long as it doesn’t affect work, then it shouldn’t be any of their business.
But it did affect work, the aggravating voice whispers again. You two were caught kissing in the corridor; you’re telling me that wasn’t their concern?
I try to forget about that kiss in his office, and all of the flirty, funny messages we sent each other across the network, but they lie in my mind like a list of misdemeanours. If Richards and Morgan want to get rid of me, all they have to do is call up the IT department.
But then they’d have to get rid of Callum, too.
The need to take action arrives from nowhere, but it’s a welcome change to the paralysis. It pulls me up from my bed, forces me to check in the mirror and attempt to make myself look suitable for the outside world. I run down the stairs and grab my bag, making my way to Plaistow station. The rush-hour crowds are pouring out of the entrance, and I have to fight through them, like the one fish in the sea swimming against the tide. Arms brush against me, briefcases hit my legs and bruise my skin, but I ignore the pain, pressing my Oyster card against the reader before rushing through the barrier.
The westbound platform is relatively deserted. Nobody travels out of Plaistow in the evening, only back in. It’s a place to sleep, not somewhere to commute to. A semi-suburban town full of people living part-time lives.
People like me.
The District Line train arrives five minutes later, and I grab a seat between two builders. Their ragged trousers are flecked with paint, their hair grey with plaster dust. They edge away from me as I sit, trying not to cover me with dirt. My phone is still firmly gripped in my right hand, and I occasionally touch the screen with my thumb, lighting it up, hoping that there’ll be a message from Callum on there.
There’s nothing. Only a photograph of Edinburgh on the wallpaper, and a grid of useless apps staring back at me. Once the train goes underground I stop checking, knowing the signal doesn’t reach that far down. It’s one of the few places in London resistant to 4G, and usually I like the silence it brings.
Getting off at Victoria, I walk the last mile to Callum’s house, past the smart restaurants and fashionable wine bars. More than ever, I feel like I’m playing with the big boys, about to lose badly.
There’s no sign of Callum’s car in his road. Still, I head for his door and bang on it, my heart hammering from a mixture of adrenaline and desperation.
I knock again to no response, and the disappointment is enough to weaken the muscles in my legs. I sit down heavily on the stone step, resting my elbows on my thighs.
Where is he?
It’s gone seven. The sun is free falling like a pebble into an ocean, leaving a trail of pink and red mist in the dark blue sky. As the shadows descend, so does the cold air, and I pull my thin cardigan closely around me to stave off the evening chill.
“Amy?” A voice makes me lift my head. Jonathan’s standing at the end of Callum’s path, holding a set of keys in his hand. He twirls them around with his fingers.
I stand. “Do you know where Callum is?”
He clears his throat noisily. “Um, I just took him to the airport.”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Dizziness overcomes me, and I reach out for the wall of the house to steady myself, but instead of bracing me up, I collapse, my head knocking the corner of the brick.
“Amy, are you alright?” Jonathan leaps forward to catch me, dropping Callum’s keys as he holds me up by my waist. I lean into him with all my body weight, and he staggers, before regaining his equilibrium.
“Amy?” he says again, this time placing a finger beneath my chin to bring my face up. I see concern in the depths of his eyes.
“He’s at the airport?” I whisper. “Why?”
“He’s on a plane to Edinburgh,” Jonathan slides his gaze away. “It should be in the air by now.”
“When’s he coming back? Tomorrow? I could meet him at the airport.” I calculate how long tomorrow’s meeting will take. If it finishes in an hour I could easily get to Heathrow for the afternoon.
“Amy,” Jonathan’s voice is gentle. “He’s not coming back.”
The words don’t sink in straight away. Instead they dance around confusingly.
“What?”
“He’s been transferred to the Edinburgh office. There’s a project that needs immediate help, so he had to leave straight away.”
“But he didn’t tell me.”
“No, he didn’t.”
