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I’d been mortified. But it was Stuart’s betrayal that hurt the most.
With Robert and Lachlan escorting me, I’d promptly packed up my personal belongings from the office.
Caroline had said she was so sorry and that she didn’t know what Stuart was thinking but Lachlan asked her to be quiet. Behind his back, she mimed ‘call me’.
I hastily threw everything into my bag, then Robert had walked me to the train station. He finally spoke, after I collected my ticket, that he too was so sorry.
“I wish I knew why he did it,” he’d mumbled as my train pulled up to the platform. “All I know is he’s an idiot.”
“I think you’ll find I was the idiot in all this.” I’d blinked away tears as I’d spoke. “I thought it was something more.”
How I got from Oban Railway Station to my flat was a blur.
Michelle called just as I was walking in the door, asking questions about Stuart and our ‘relationship’. I freely admitted the spreadsheet was my creation and that I’d slept with a client. She asked me to come into the office on Friday morning, for a formal meeting about my behaviour. I was also instructed not to talk to anyone from the distillery.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. She’d been with the firm when my ex cheated on me with a colleague. She’d seen the fallout of that, and now she’s witnessed my stupidity in falling for Stuart, a client.
Gah! Stuart.
His texts had arrived soon after Michelle’s call.
Stuart:I’ll see you in a day. Catch up as soon as I’m back
Stuart:I’m in the flat. We need to talk.
Stuart:Hen, where are you? Please pick up. I’m calling now.
I’d lost it.
Fuck Michelle’s instructions: I’d called back immediately but got Stuart’s voicemail. I’d screamed like a banshee, telling him exactly what I thought of him. How he had lied, that he promised not to hurt me and now had. I told him exactly what he could do with a whisky bottle next time he saw one and hung up. Then, in a fit of rage, I roared and threw my phone at the wall. It shattered into pieces.
I swept the bits up and dumped the remains into the bin.
In less than 48 hours, I now practically lived on the couch in pyjamas, my flatmates ordering food via their phones. Delivery folk were my daily companions. I knew two of them by first name as well as their back story; Daniel had two kids and was putting himself through night school and Kellie was an Aussie studying at the local university and working three jobs, to pay rent on her crappy flat.
Burns Night now felt like someone else’s dream. The Clan Lamont sash taunted me every time I opened my wardrobe.
I swiped at a tear. The sting of Stuart’s actions hadn’t diminished; the hurt was still an open, festering wound. I swigged the wine straight from the bottle and yelled at the ceiling.
“Oh, bravo Mr CEO boss man! For your wizard level bastardry!”
My flatmates attempted an intervention last night, with booze, board games and a movie marathon but nothing had worked. If only Caroline was here to have a drink and just be here.
So, here I was, rotten drunk and facing work tomorrow. Andrew Reedman and Michelle versus the Spreadsheet of Scottish Sexual Conquests. I snorted, my head swimming and then let out a whine.
I. Was. Fucked.
I slammed my wine glass on the coffee table, corn chip crumbs fluttering off my boobs to the carpet and scrambled for my laptop.
Home. If I was getting sacked, I’d be as well booking my flight home right now.
In under three minutes, I found a flight on sale and stabbed the cursor over the ‘Book It’ button.
I’d be home by May. Maybe travel a bit before arriving back in Ballydoon and see some of the world, instead of endless reports of financial records.
I closed my eyes and breathed deep, picturing Oban’s harbour, the cry of gulls overhead, the green grass, and the toot of the ferry to Kerrera and Mull. Of all the places on the planet, Oban was the one place I craved, other than home.
And I couldn’t go there. I’d stuffed up; slept with the client and got caught.
