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“I’m sorry,” I managed.
He looked me up and down. “You need a change of clothes. I’ve a spare jacket in my office, it’ll dwarf you, but at least you’ll be warm.”
My eyes crashed into his, a world of pain swimming around my head. “It’s ok, thanks, I have a whole suitcase-full under my desk.”
“I see.” The look in his eyes told me he did, as well. He saw, alright. “What are you leaving behind?”
“The man I thought I’d grow old with.”
“And you’re sure this is really where you want to be?”
“No point in moping, right?” I choked on my words even as I said them, and James reached out to place a hand on my shoulder. A firm grip, not too presumptive, just there.
“Get yourself warm and dry before you catch your death. If you’d like an ear I’ll be in my office. I know how to listen.”
“I’m sure you’ve got more important things to be doing.” My laugh came out jagged and hollow.
“No,” he said.
“I’m sorry you had to witness my meltdown. How embarrassing.”
“You shouldn’t be. I’ve been dragged through the depths myself, Lydia. My offer was sincere, I don’t judge and I certainly don’t gossip.” His dark eyes didn’t waiver, not for a moment. They stared straight into mine, an ocean of calm amidst the storm, and there beyond them, was something else. A knowing.
“Thank you. I’ll be ok.”
“I’m sure you will.”
And then he was gone, leaving me to drown in my own mortification. At least there were no more tears.
***
I had absolutely no intention of spilling the sorry, desolate guts of my relationship to James Clarke. The extent of our working relationship was limited to the occasional shared meeting. I’m surprised he even knew my name.
I changed into fresh clothes and fired up my computer. No new emails, no reports to file. I’d finished up my outstanding project schedules the previous afternoon, so typically there was nothing pressing to do until regular working hours kicked in. The urge to check my text messages rose up, a morbid fascination to revisit the horror. It nipped at my ankles, begging for attention. That’s the only reason I decided to take a coffee up to Mr Clarke. That, and to apologise for my kitchen breakdown.
“Black, no sugar, right?” I said, handing it over.
“I’m impressed you noticed.”
“I’m an attention-to-detail kinda girl.” I hovered awkwardly, scouting around his office at the certificates and accreditations on his walls.
“Frank insisted I put them up. Apparently it looks the part when clients visit.”
“You should be proud of them.”
He shrugged. “Most of them aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. Sit down, Lydia, take a breath.”
The chair across from his was comfortable. I sank back into the leather, all too conscious of my lack of sleep the night before. “I’m sorry about the spectacle in the kitchen.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“It was unprofessional.”
“Professionalism has nothing to do with it. Do you want to tell me what happened?” His tone was even, and calm. He emanated calm.
I considered lying, playing it down to make it sound like a stupid row, but I doubted he would have believed me if I tried. “My boyfriend had a thing with a colleague a few months ago. A Barbie-doll wannabe with a fake tan. I’d be none the wiser if he hadn’t got her pregnant.”
James didn’t flinch, or rush to console me. “Does he regret it?”
