Page 41 of Pride
Instantly, the three dots danced to show he was responding.
Emma, that’s an awfully formal message. You know you can call me Alex. Can I ask why you have to cancel?
I debated making something up to save my bruised ego and protect my pride, which was taking an almighty battering right now.
After umming and ahhing over my reply, I went with honesty.
I no longer work for the Merivale Echo, so I wouldn’t be able to write the article for you. I can recommend someone to speak to if you’re still interested in pursuing the story.
It was starting to rain, so I huddled in the doorway of an old furniture shop that’d closed down years ago and failed to reopen. Posters discoloured by the sun were still stuck in the window, advertising a sale with seventy five percent off. I felt about as empty as this shop as I shivered in the cold. Then my phone chimed with a new message.
That happened quickly. Where do you work now?
Again, I thought about making up some bullshit story about leaving for a better opportunity. But what was the point? He’d find out the truth soon enough.
I had a few issues with the management, and I quit. I’ll take the time in between jobs to rethink my career plan.
His response came instantly.
That doesn’t surprise me. Your boss is an ass, and you have integrity. I’d still like to keep our appointment, though. Maybe I could help with your career plan?
I really didn’t want to meet anyone today, especially Alex Kingston.
The rain was coming stronger now, lashing down as I took refuge under a useless canopy that provided no shelter. My hair was wet and plastered to my head. Not a good look. I knew my mascara was probably running down my face, making me look like a panda, and a crazy one at that. And that was before I’d factored in my spiralling mental health and impending breakdown. I was not in a fit state to see anyone.
I appreciate the offer. Thank you. But I won’t be able to attend.
I thought my reply was pretty clear. That he’d leave it at that and move on.
But he didn’t.
Where are you?
I wasn’t about to tell him that I was sheltering from the rain in a filthy doorway, trying to work out how many coffee shops I’d need to visit in order to jump from one to another to stay warm and out of the wind and rain for the next five or six hours.
But he wasn’t giving up.
Tell me where you are, and I’ll come and get you.
I had to shut this down.
Honestly, I’m fine. Good luck with the article.
But it wasn’t enough.
Stay where you are. I’m on my way.
I huffed in frustration and put my phone back into my bag. Then I started walking, keeping my head down so the rain wouldn’t get in my eyes. I kept a steady pace, striding down the street, dodging the people coming towards me as they walked past with purpose. They had somewhere to be. I didn’t.
After about ten minutes of walking, I remembered the nearest coffee shop was down a side street ahead of me, and I turned down that street, ready to head inside and find some solace in my day from hell. But when I approached the building, I saw it was empty. I don’t know why I rattled the door, but it was locked. The sign on the door said closed, and inside, it looked as if they’d closed down for good. I cupped my hands against the dirty glass to peer inside. The tables had no chairs, the counter was bare, and there were piles of letters and leaflets on the other side of the door. No one had been here for a long time.
“Fuck. Why is everything closed down?” I muttered to myself, banging my fist on the glass to nobody in particular. But I knew why they were closed. There was a cost of living crisis going on, and businesses were suffering. We all were. Empty shops in a town like this wasn’t uncommon these days. If S.K.A.M. were here, he’d make a poem out of this. Then probably gouge my eyes out for working for Mr Gold and enabling the patriarchy for so long.
Just then, I heard tyres screech and turned to see a black Bentley pull into the little street I was on and come to a halt beside me.
I stood still, frozen to the spot as I stared at the car. And when the driver’s door opened and Alex Kingston got out, my jaw dropped to the floor.
“What the fuck, Emma,” he said, charging over to me as he took his suit jacket off. “You’re fucking soaked. Here. Put this on.” He draped his jacket on my shoulders and put his arm around me, rubbing the top of my arm like he was trying to warm me up. “You’re shivering. Come on. Get in the car.”
