I make it to the lobby, through revolving doors that feel like they’re trying to trip me, and around the corner to where a row of black cabs wait like patient beetles.
Then, I run.
My sensible heels click against pavement, probably destroying the leather— definitely destroying my ankles—but I don’t care. I need to move, to put distance between me and that boardroom, between me and the truth that’s burning a shameful hole in my stomach.
Two blocks. Three, and then a small park appears. I try the gate, breathing a sigh of relief when it opens beneath my hand. I close it, wrapping my coat tighter around me as I find a brown bench hidden behind the hedge.
I sink down on it with a sigh, fighting tears as I pull my cell from my briefcase.
I’m supposed to text Oliver, but I have no idea what to say?—
I got the job…but only because you rigged it without telling me
How could you embarrass me like this, Olly? How could you go behind my back that way? When you know how much I hate lies?
Do you really think I’m THAT inadequate?
How can I ever trust you again?
I turn the phone off instead.
And sit.
And shiver.
And do my best not to sniffle.
After a while, a mother pushing a stroller passes by on her way to the gate, shooting me a very British look of concern—worry mixed with a strong desire not to get involved.
But I can’t blame her.
I probably look like I’m on the verge of a breakdown. I feel like I am, but I don’t know what’s making me more upset. Losing the satisfaction of a job well done…
Or losing my trust in Olly.
“Congratulations, darling Darling, you did it,” I whisper to the empty park, mimicking his posh, lying voice.
The words taste sour in my mouth.
I close my eyes, and for the first time since I landed in London, I admit the truth…
I don’t belong here.
And I never will.
Chapter Eighteen
OLIVER
Edward and I wedge ourselves into the corner table at Café Bohème, the kind of place that thinks mismatched chairs with peeling paint are a design choice rather than evidence of financial distress.
The café is practically drowning in Christmas—fir boughs strangle the light fixtures, the top of the bar is lined with leering nutcrackers, and a mechanical elf in the corner giggles every time a server hustles by on their way to the kitchen.
It’s over the top in a way that would normally make even a holiday fan like myself twitch a bit, but this year…
Well, this year, I don’t mind it.
But Idomind that the table rocks every time Edward or I so much as breathe, threatening to send our flat whites sloshing over their rims. I also mind the sauced Father Christmas murdering “Love is All Around” on the bagpipes outside, each wheeze of the bellows perfectly timed to make conversation impossible.
