Page 19 of Escape

Mel

The phone buzzes onthe coffee table, the sound cutting through the quiet of the flat. I glance at the screen, squinting slightly against the glare—Lucy HR. For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail, but something tells me this isn’t a call I can avoid.

I pick up the phone, swiping to answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mel,” Lucy’s warm voice comes through, professional but kind. “It’s Lucy from HR. How are you doing?”

I shift on the sofa, tucking my legs under me. “I’m fine, thanks. How about you?”

“I’m good, thanks,” she says lightly. “I just wanted to check in, see how you’re holding up.”

I pause, my fingers curling around the edge of the cushion. “I’m doing alright,” I say, forcing a brightness into my voice. “Keeping busy, you know?”

Lucy hums softly, the kind of noise that says she’s heard that line a hundred times before. “That’s good to hear. I know it’s been a tough time, so I just wanted to remind you that GHHI has resources available if you need them. We’ve got a partnership with a therapy service, and I’d be happy to email you the details if you’re interested.”

I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. Therapy. The thought causes nervous butterflies in my stomach, but Lucy’s tone is so gentle, so non-judgmental, that I can’t brush her off completely.

“That’s... thoughtful of you,” I say carefully. “You can send it over if you’d like.”

“I’ll do that,” she says lightening slightly, like she’s relieved. “No pressure, of course. It’s just there if you need it.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Thanks.”

There’s a pause, and then Lucy continues, her tone shifting to something more formal. “I also wanted to let you know about a meeting we’re organising for the end of the month. It’s a review of the incident, part of our crisis management process. The crisis management team will be there, along with Will, Jon, and yourself. We’ll go over everything that happened, look at what went well, and see if there’s anything we could have done differently.”

The mention of the incident makes my stomach twist, but I keep my voice steady. “Right. That makes sense.”

“We’ll send you the details closer to the date,” she says.

“Got it,” I reply, gripping the cushion a little tighter. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“And just so you’re aware, Will and Jon are doing alright and we are supporting Arif’s family.”

The knot in my stomach tightens further, guilt prickling at the edges of my mind. “That’s good to hear,” I say quietly.

There’s another pause, a heavy silence falling between us.

“Alright,” Lucy says finally. “If you need anything or if you just want to talk, don’t hesitate to reach out, okay?”

“Okay,” I say quietly.

“Take care, Mel,” she says gently, and the line clicks off.

I set the phone down, staring at it for a long moment before sinking back into the cushions. I nervously tug fluff from my jumper, the weight of the conversation settling. Therapy, the incident, the meeting. It’s all swirling in my head, a mess of guilt and unease I don’t know how to untangle.

I reach for my tea, but it’s gone cold. With a sigh, I set the mug aside and pull the blanket tighter around me, wishing, not for the first time, that I could switch off my mind as easily as hanging up a call.

The kitchen is filled with the smoky aroma of spices, the faint crackle of chicken sizzling in the pan blending with the low hum of the extractor fan. I glance at the recipe card propped up against the salt shaker, my grandma’s spidery handwriting scrawled across it.

“Alright, Grandma,” I mutter under my breath, stirring the pot of rice bubbling on the hob. “Let’s hope I don’t screw this up.”

Cooking isn’t exactly my strong suit, but I needed something to do with my hands, something to keep my brain occupied. Grandma’s jerk chicken felt like the right choice, not too complicated, but enough steps to make me focus. Plus, it tastes amazing if you get it even halfway right.

The front door clicks open, followed by the familiar shuffle of Owen kicking off his shoes.

“Something smells... interesting,” he calls from the hallway, his tone hovering between curiosity and concern.

I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. “It’s called flavour, Owen. Look it up.”

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