Page 20 of I Knew You Were Trouble

‘Sorry?’ I ask, confused.

‘I want you to take the day.’

‘Oh, I don’t need to?—’

‘Kate, when was the last time you took a mental health day? Oh, I know –never. Take Monday off. Stay in Amsterdam an extra day… go to a spa… lie on the sofa all day… Do whatever you like, but you’re not to come into the office.’

‘You’re sidelining me,’ I say, somewhat stung.

‘I’m looking out for you.’

I sit back against the chair. ‘So, I have no choice.’

‘Nope. If I clap eyes on you before Tuesday, you’ll owe me a week’s pay.’

‘A week? So, pulling out the big guns.’

She raises her brows at me, and I snigger softly. This conversation took a sharp and sudden turn from where I thought it would go – but for the better.

‘All right, you win,’ I say, standing. ‘I shall see you onTuesday.’

‘And not before nine.’

‘Any other conditions you’d like to put on this mandate?’ I ask, laughing.

‘Only one,’ she says with a grin. ‘Have a brilliant time in Amsterdam.’

‘Will do.’

I leave Mina’s office, now in a hurry to catch the Tube to St Pancras where I’m meeting Margot.

* * *

‘You jammy cow,’ says Margot when I tell her Mina’s mandate. She leans across the table, punctuating her words with a light slap on my arm.

‘Oi. And what makes me jammy exactly? That I’m on my way to break another woman’s heart or that my fiancé is a lying arsehole?’

‘You know what I mean. And it’sex-fiancé.’

‘I wish I did. And I’m not sure it’s right to call him my ex when I haven’t broken things off yet.’

‘Semantics,’ she says dismissively. I shake my head at her, but she misses it, her gaze lifting to the departures board overhead.

‘We should go,’ she announces, springing into action. She downs the rest of her pre-travel champers, then barrels through the crowd, her roller case in tow, as I rush after her.

We find our carriage and climb aboard, and I trail behind her to our seats. I’ve sprung for Standard Premier, which includes dinner and drinks. Although Margot has already sussed out our proximity to the Café Métropole car and plans to buy us a bottle of champers – whether I like it or not.

In her mind, I’m supposed to be celebrating –still, as if this is some sort of month-long festival. The Fuck Me, My Fiancé’s a Prick Festival. Imagine the throngs who’d attend if it were real – probably half of them engaged to Jon.

After the train departs St Pancras and Margot pops out of her seat to procure the promised bottle, I retrieve my phone from my handbag and navigate to my messages – specifically the thread with Willem. I send a quick update:

On our way.

My pulse quickens as the dancing dots appear – wildly out of order considering who’s making those dots dance. Jon may be a cheating bastard, but a quickened pulse at another man’s hands (so to speak) feels like a betrayal. Oh, the irony.

Willem’s message finally appears:

Thank you again for coming. I really appreciate it.

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