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Out of either desperation or a masochistic need to remind myself how screwed I am, I start stopping randoms and checking if they’ve heard, which not only makes me terrible at a party but is also probably making things worse, because it means the ones whodon’tknow, and there’s a couple though not many, now know there’s somethingtoknow and so there’s a good chance they’ll find out later.
I spot Liam, the Croydon lad what’d been there when I fell through the Nexa by MERLYN 8mm Sliding Door Shower enclosure and breathlessly, and slightly incoherently, ask where he heard what he heard.
To my immense frustration, he shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “It’s just going around,” he says. “But don’t worry. Everybody thinks you’re cool.”
If my chief concern waswill the Croydon and Leeds branches think I’m cool, that would be very helpful. But it’s not. I pinball off Liam and—across an artfully dingy party-space lit only by fairy lights—I catch sight of Brian. He’s wandering over to the buffet table and I hoy after him.
“Brian.” I’m trying not to sound angry and fortunately I’m panicked enough that I mostly just sound terrified. “What did you say and who did you say it to?”
“Well, I had a lovely talk with Jill from Leeds about this new powder she’s got for her feet and—”
That was on me. Should’ve been more specific. “About the amnesia.”
He beams. “Don’t worry, Sam. I remembered not to say a word to Jonathan.”
Ah. Right. Should have been more specific about that too. “Or to anybody else?” I ask in my most hopeful voice.
“Oh, I’ve been very discreet,” he reassures me. “I’ve only mentioned it to one or two people, and I’ve told them they’re not to say anything to Mr Forest.”
So it’s over then. I mean, I knew it was over. But now it’s over in this axe-coming-down kind of way. Because either somebody will forget and tell Jonathan. Or they’ll decide that the boss has the right to know he’s been played and tell Jonathan. And if it’s the second, I’m not sure I’d blame them. I should have come clean weeks ago. I’d just been scared of losing everything all over again. And now I’m going to lose it anyway. Him. I’m going to lose him.
I’m sweating that cold dread sweat through my suit as I search for Jonathan. At this stage I don’t think getting to him first is going to make a blind bit of difference, but what else can I do?
So here I am, running around that beautifully decorated, surprisingly Christmassy, increasingly claustrophobic and disorientingbasement in Shoreditch like I’m in some kind of festive nightmare with all my work colleagues doing guest spots.
After I don’t know how long, I come out into one of the little side rooms and at last I see Jonathan. He’s talking to Tall Earnest Pam. And if there is anybody who would decide, for perfectly earnest reasons, that Jonathan Forest has a right to know that I don’t have amnesia, it’ll be Tall Earnest Pam.
And she’s looking really earnest.
I don’t quite go into slow motion, but I do become very, very aware of everything that’s happening around me. The DJ is playing Slade and from across the dancefloor I watch Jonathan’s expression go from that polite engagement bosses get talking to staff to a kind of say-that-again uncertainty. Then Pam says whatever it is she was saying again, and he looks—not how I’d expected. I’d been expecting angry. I’d been expecting him to flip his lid like he did back when I told him he didn’t take criticism well. But he just looks…nothing.
Over the speakers, Noddy Holder is yellingIiiiiiiiiiiiits Chriiiiiiiiiiiistmaaaaaaaasat everyone and on the other side of the room Jonathan Forest turns away from Tall Earnest Pam, and he looks right at me. Looks right at me but doesn’t see me or doesn’t seem to.
And suddenly I’m feeling very detached like. As if I’m not really here. As if he’s not really here. I can’t say for sure but I think I reach out to him.
But he’s already walking away.
Though I know Jonathan Forest can throw a hell of a strop when he wants to, I also know that there’s nothing he takes more seriously than his work, so there’s no way he’s gone far. I gamble on him not having made it further than the pavement outside thevenue, and sure enough there he is. He’s got his hands stuffed into his pockets and he’s staring up into the sky like he’s trying to count the stars.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Sam,” he says, not looking at me. “It worked.”
There is no possible answer I can give to that.
“You wanted to keep your job, and you kept it. At least until you left on your own terms. You wanted to save your branch and your team, and you saved them. And, of course, most importantly you wanted to take His Royal Dickishness down a peg or two.”
I don’t know what’s worse: that he thinks that, or he’s sort of right. “I didn’t mean—”
“You did.”
“I di—”
“Please, Sam, don’t.”
Turns out, I’m not very used to Jonathan Forest sayingplease. Turns out I like it less than I thought I might. There’s so much that I want—that I need—to say to him. But trying after he’s just told me not to would be selfish. And I’ve done enough of that. Unfortunately, what this means in practice is we stand there in silence outside an overpriced party venue in Shoreditch.
At last, Jonathan says, “The local branch call me the Prince of Pricksylvania.”
“I know,” I admit.
