Page 28 of Behind Frenemy Lines

“I appreciate it, Arthur,” I said. It was a good thing I’d made up a fake boyfriend, after all.

Of course, what he’d done would have been inappropriate whether I was coupled up, or as forever alone as I actually was. But it wasn’t my job to teach Arthur unwelcome truths. My job was to keep my head down, not rock the boat, and survive. I’d learned that much from my childhood.

I was lucky Arthur was being conciliatory. If he hadn’t felt inclined to accept he was in the wrong—if he’d decided to take offence at how I’d behaved—he could have blown up my career. He could still do it, if he was so minded.

Just two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have said Arthur would do something like that. But now—after years of anticipating what Arthur was thinking, jumping in to meet his demands before he’d even expressed them—I could no longer predict what he might do.

Arthur said, “I don’t want this to affect our relationship. Iwasn’t thinking straight in Hong Kong, but I was being honest when I said you’re important to me. I want to put this behind us, if you feel able to do that.”

There was nothing I wanted more.

“I’d like that,” I said. “And I appreciate the apology.”

Arthur looked relieved. “Good. Great.”

He couldn’t have been more relieved than I was. This was why I’d invested so many years—almost the whole of my adult life—in working for Arthur. At the end of the day, despite his idiosyncrasies, hewastrying.

Everyone made mistakes. Surely what mattered was whether they were willing to acknowledge them and try to do better?

I thought he’d leave, now we’d cleared the air. But Arthur lingered, putting my pen down on Charles’s desk.

“So, this person you’re seeing,” he said. “When did it start? You haven’t mentioned a boyfriend, other than—” He caught himself before saying Tom’s name. “I mean, is it quite new?”

“Er, yes,” I said. “It’s new.”

“How’d you meet?”

I gave him an incredulous look. Arthur’s smile wavered.

“I’d rather not talk about that,” I said, repressing the impulse to apologise. He had forfeited the right to talk about our personal lives for at least the next twelve months or so.

Besides, the more we discussed my mythical boyfriend, the greater the likelihood that Arthur was going to figure out he was a figment of my imagination. I didn’t want him finding out I’d lied to him, when we’d just made things up.

“Right,” said Arthur. “Sorry.”

Awkwardness hung between us, so thick I could practically touch it. Arthur looked woeful, but he also didn’t look like he was going anywhere.

I could feel the expectation, hovering in the air, that I should say it was all right, downplay how he’d broken my trust, soothe his feelings. I was used to managing Arthur’s feelings—it was abig part of managing him, which was a good 40 percent of my job—but for once, I didn’t feel like playing my role.

Before either of us could decide to break the silence, the door opened and Charles came in. He had his laptop tucked under one arm and a plate of cookies in his other hand.

“You like salted caramel, right?” he said, without precursor.

I blinked. “Yeah?”

Charles placed the plate of cookies on my desk. “Leftovers from the meeting. Do you want some? I’ve got to go back up to fourteenth floor later, I’ll return the plate then.”

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.” Was this because I’d mentioned salted caramel in passing when we’d had drinks at the Cittie of Yorke?

I hadn’t spoken to Charles since getting back from Hong Kong, apart from exchanging perfunctory greetings when I got in. I still felt a little sore about getting stuck with the bill at the pub. But it was sweet of Charles to remember the salted caramel thing.

“These are the famous Swithin Watkins meeting room cookies, right?” I said. “They look great. Don’t you want them?”

“I’ve had one, thanks,” said Charles. “They’re pretty good, you should try them.”

He looked up and spotted Arthur, apparently for the first time. “Oh, hi. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” He hesitated.

There was no way for Charles to get to his desk unless he squeezed past Arthur. But Arthur was leaning against the filing cabinets as though he’d been hit with a freezing ray, staring at the cookies on my desk.

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