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No. Please tell me I didn’t press B instead of N. I feel sick as I realize how close together they are on my laptop keyboard and how harassed I was the day I sent the submission
Gritting my teeth, I open it up and read the email address again and my sanity starts to waver as I see BTV.tv in the ‘to’ box. I’m toast. Not only did I send it to the wrong email address but I sent it to a competitor.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why didn’t I check it? I’m close to hyperventilating when my phone starts to ring again.
“Michael,” I say, my hands shaking as I accept the call.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.” I take a deep breath. “I sent it to the wrong address.”
“For fuck’s sake!” he thunders. “Why the hell didn’t you check?”
“I don’t know…” My voice wavers.
“Why didn’t you call to make sure it arrived?”
I was so sure it had gone off properly. I remember feeling a sense of relief and maybe even victory. And if I’m being honest, I was distracted. By meeting my dad. By coming here this weekend.
By Liam.
“I don’t know what I was thinking.” I’m hyperventilating now. I never do this. I always double check everything. “I, um, need to tell you something else.”
There’s silence for a moment. Then he finally speaks. “What is it?” he says, his voice low.
“I sent it to BTV.”
“What?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, mortified by my own incompetence. “I know. I’m an idiot. I thought I typed the right address.” They’re our competitors. They shouldn’t even know that the Network is planning to reorganize its weather offering. “It might not even get to them, right?” I say, hoping I’m right.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I need to think. You’re in deep shit, Sophie.” He sounds almost jubilant about that fact. “I need to call our legal team. That submission was confidential. It had all the plans for the hubs.”
“I know,” I say, trying to keep it together. “I should be the one to talk to legal.”
“Yes, but you’re not here, are you?” It’s almost a taunt.
“No.”
“And it can’t wait, Sophie. Not when there’s intellectual property involved. We need to talk to Donald and legal and then call New York.”
“Can it wait until Monday?” I ask vainly.
“What, so you can finish partying before we sort out the mess you made?” He gives a laugh that has no mirth behind it. “No, it can’t. I need to talk to people now. Just go and… do whatever. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again because I have no idea what else to do. I’m going to throw up, I think.
“Be in first thing on Monday. Donald will want to see you.”
I know he will. He’ll want me to explain. And I don’t know if I can.
I just wish I had a time machine.
Michael doesn’t bother saying goodbye. I say his name but there’s no response and that’s when I know there’s a dead connection. I stare at the black screen. I’ve messed up so badly and there’s nothing I can do.
That’s when I run to the bathroom to vomit up my dinner.
* * *
