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Cartwright, A: How are you?
I hit return and stare at the screen until the little tick appears, confirming it’s been received.
The wait for a reply is excruciating. The program tells me that Ferguson, C is typing, and knowing he’s going to communicate sends my heart into a tailspin.
I only realise I’m holding my breath when my chest starts to protest, a burning sensation causing me to blow the air out. I sit, stare, and wait for my laptop to ping, knowing that any minute he’s going to respond.
But he doesn’t. Instead the ‘typing’ icon disappears, followed quickly by the green icon next to his name. Within a minute he’s offline, and it doesn’t take a genius to realise he’s deliberately turned off messenger.
The bastard’s ignoring me again.
I pick up my coffee cup, wanting to throw it in anger, but then I think better of it. As much as I’d love to see the mug fly across the room and make a satisfying dent in the wall, the last thing I need is another chat with Diana Joseph. Instead I let out a furious shout, my yell cutting through the background noise, causing everybody to turn and stare at me.
My cheeks flush, and I gesture at my laptop, as if to tell them I’m having an IT problem. Curiosity sated, they turn back to their work, leaving me staring at the blank computer screen.
I’m completely and utterly enraged. If Callum was here now I’d happily smash my fist into his gorgeous face. How dare he just walk away and ignore me as if everything that happened meant nothing to him? My hands flex with the need to hit something, but there’s nothing here to punch.
I do the next best thing—I write him an email. My fingers hit the keyboard with angry jabs, each word an attempt to hurt him as he’s hurt me. I want him to know exactly how I feel and precisely what I think of him. I want him to understand the pain I’m going through.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Arsehole
You’re a coward, do you know that? I’ve been calling you for five days, sending you messages and emails and still you haven’t got the guts to answer. I don’t care if you think ‘it’s better this way’ or that you told Jonathan you’re doing this for my own good, because if you’d bothered to ask me what I wanted, you’d know that I didn’t want this.
Do you remember saying you loved me and you’d never let me go? Yet at the first sign of trouble you’ve run away to Scotland and left me facing everything on my own.
You can’t go around playing with people's emotions like this. You can’t simply decide what’s best for me without consulting me first. You can’t send me a message through your friend like a fourteen-year-old schoolboy and expect me to do what you say.
I LOVE YOU, you arsehole. I love you and I care for you and I want to be with you. I want to be with you more than I want this job. More than I want my degree. As far as I’m concerned, the whole of Richards and Morgan can go and take a running jump.
You told me that I made you breathe again. Well, I’m the one who’s suffocating now. I’m scared and I’m alone and I can’t believe you’ve left me without a word. What kind of man does that to the woman he’s supposed to love? What sort of person ignores her when she calls him in tears?
The type of man I’ve fallen in love with, I suppose.
Before you say it, I know sending this through the IT network could put my job in danger, and maybe I’m hoping that it will. Because if I can’t have you, I don’t want this job either, so I hope IT read it and report me to every single director. Right now, I couldn’t care less.
I know you’re not going to reply, and I can promise that I’m not going to email you again. Somewhere deep inside me, I still have a shred of dignity left.
Did I tell you you’re an arsehole?
Amy.
I hit send before I can persuade myself out of it, then lean heavily back in my chair, weariness overtaking my body. My anger slowly dissipates until I feel nothing but numb, not even regretful at the tone of my message.
Later that afternoon, when I come back from a meeting, I get a reply. It’s short, sour and it’s everything I need to know. It breaks my heart with seven letters.
Goodbye.
30
“Your lipstick’s smudged.” Ellie reaches out with a tissue, wiping red from the corner of my mouth. Chucking the balled-up paper into the bin, she reaches out to hug me, her yoga-toned arms wrapping around mine.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
