Page 82 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
He grumbles down the phone. “Well, your career might be too, if you keep on with this sort of thing. What will your boss think?”
“Miranda only cares about watertight contracts and billable hours. She isn’t going to sack me because I went ice-skating with a drummer.”
Dad’s voice hardens. “You really think the partners at that flashy city firm will ignore this? One front-page photo with a toy-boy drummer and they’ll strike your name off the partner list before you can draft your next contract.”
The picture flashes through my head—my name scrubbed from the list, all because of Teddy—and I nearly laugh. Absurd. They’d care more about a stray comma than us holding hands on the ice.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “They don’t give a toss, Dad. My target numbers are sky high, every file I touch is spotless, and the partnership vote’s locked in for the week before Christmas. I’mexactlywhere I need to be.”
Dad exhales, all disappointment and threat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I hang up before he can. His disapproval lingers in the silence, but I refuse to let it stick. I shove off the covers and pad across the carpet. Treasure gleams inside the Harrods bags—glass baubles, tartan ribbons, a ridiculous pug in felt antlers. My mouth tugs up at the sight. I can’t wait to show Haley my tree dressed in this lot.
I tug a dressing gown over my lacy pyjamas and head for the kitchen. After jabbing the coffee machine awake, I crank a Stellar Riot playlist loud enough to shake off my father’s voice.
I’ve only placed three ornaments when the phone rings again.
“Sam? Thought you’d be face-down by now.”
“Wish. Hey—have you seen the papers?”
“No, but Dad has. Already been on at me.” I spear a candy-cane ornament onto a branch. “Teddy warned me it’d happen. I’m choosing ignorance.”
“I feel bad. If I hadn’t slipped you his address—”
“I’d still be pining, and you’d be on my naughty list.” I grin at my cracked reflection in a bauble. “Zero regrets, love. When’s your next stretch off?”
“One more zombie shift, then three glorious nights of actual darkness.”
“Perfect. What about wine o’clock at Vintage and Vine on Tuesday, yeah?”
“Text me a time. Sleep now?”
“Go. I’m fine.”
I’m debating where to place a hand-painted glass globe when the next call comes—Jenna.
“Tell me you haven’t googledyourself yet?”
“Resisting,” I say. “Coffee in one hand, Christmas bauble in the other. No thumbs spare for doom-scrolling.”
“Good girl. I’ve already done a sweep.” Her voice softens. “Headline noise, the usual lazy cougar cracks. Some cheap side-by-sides with his exes. But no new reporting. I’ve muted three phrases and set an alert on my phone, so if anything real shifts, I’ll see it, not you.”
The knot under my collarbone eases a notch. Instagram was the worst, and I’m still standing.Maybe I can survive this too.I slide the globe onto a branch and steady it with a fingertip until it stops trembling—until I do. I’d told myself I wasn’t worried, but my body says otherwise.
“Cougar?” I say, grabbing at a tartan bow, annoyance flaring. “What the fuck? I’m thirty-five, not drawing a pension.”
“Tabloids don’t do maths,” Jenna says, kind but matter-of-fact. “And hey—your job isn’t to fact-check clickbait. Your job is to keep your head clear; mine’s the headlines. I’ll text you a green dot if it’s quiet, amber if you should skim my summary, red if you need to call me. Otherwise, forget them. Deal?”
“Teddy already made me swear.” The lawyer in me wants to red-pen every lie and draft a defamation memo, but fine—I’ll do as they say. Both of them know more about this than I do. “And, Jen—thanks for running interference.”
“Any time for you. Now—how’s our prove-it list?” I can hear her smile down the line.
“He’s smashing it. Number five tonight—he’s cooking me dinner.”
“I’m happy he’s showing up. And the other thing?” she asks, gentler now.
“Still un-consummated, thank you very much.”
