Page 18 of A Lot to Unpack
And just like that my ick alarm sounds, blaring in my ears, telling me to run. Why should I settle? His fake accent makes me cringe, no doubt about it, but more than that I hate that he lied to me, that he actively deceived me for hours. Oh my God, that explains why the waiter was so rude to him; he could tell he was faking it!
‘You know, I think I’m just going to get an early night,’ I reply, backing away.
‘Liberty, come on, don’t be daft,’ he calls after me.
Daft! Oh, he’s so ruddy, bloody English. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.
‘No,merci,’ I reply, subtly sarcastic, to let him know that he’s blown it.
As the lift arrives, I step inside, alone, and press the button to close the doors. Just before they do, I notice Henry sigh heavily. He knows he’s messed up and he’s clearly feeling really sorry for himself.
I know, I could have still gone to his room, it’s just one night in Paris and I’ll probably never see him again regardless, but it is what it is, and when you get the dreaded ick, there’s nothing you can do about it.
I told you, I refuse to settle, and I’d rather spend the night alone than be with Henry, who would probably have been groaning fencing terms to try and keep up the French act. Criiinge, no way, I’m not having it.
He’s clearly taking thepiste.
8
I’m on a nice, relaxing trip away in Yorkshire with my family.
Well, no, if I’m being totally honest with you, ‘nice’ and ‘relaxing’ are not words I would use to describe my current situation, but ‘trip’ and ‘Yorkshire’ are accurate, and I am here with my family.
Yesterday we celebrated my gran’s eighty-ninth birthday and my grandad’s twenty-third birthday with a joint party. I know what you’re thinking – how does a thirty-year-old have a grandad who is only twenty-three? Reg, my lovely grandad, was born on 29 February back in 1936, and thinks it’s cute (and it absolutely is) to only count the years when his actual birthday comes around, each leap year – meaning he’s twenty-three. He is, however, eighty-nine years old too, which I think is far more impressive, but still, with no technical 29 February this year, he gets to be twenty-three for a little while longer, so he decided he would have a joint birthday party with my gran on her birthday – so long as we didn’t mention him turning eighty-nine too. I would love to be so wilfully delusional when I’m that age. Just straight up refusing to age, that’s my grandad. My gran, Elsie,doesn’t mind people knowing her age – probably because she looks so good for it.
Gran and Grandad moved to the Yorkshire coast to enjoy their retirement in the sleepy coastal town of Marram Bay, but soon decided it wasn’t sleepy enough, so they moved to Hope Island, a tidal island that cuts itself off from the rest of the country twice a day, only a mile from the shore. I was amazed when I first learned about it, the way it seemingly detaches itself from the rest of England, but trust me, you feel less into it once you realise you’re trapped on a tiny island with your family.
So I’m here, with my grandparents, my mum and dad, my Auntie Eleanor, Uncle Clive (her husband), and then there’s cousin Hannah and her hubby-to-be, Samuel, and as far as I can tell they still aren’t speaking to me. I would say it had been awkward but, to be honest, with them and my auntie hardly speaking to me, it’s been relatively peaceful.
I know what you’re thinking: how’s a working girl (so to speak) like me able to take a trip away with her family in the middle of the week? I’ll tell you why. Because Paige still has me waiting in the wings, still not giving me anything to do, and it’s so weird. It’s like she hasn’t found a use for me yet – but then why does she want me? It’s not that I didn’t have an interesting time in Paris, but in the end there was nothing for me to do there.
Paige didn’t have to hire me. I’m assuming that I’ll be replacing someone who hasn’t left yet, and maybe there’s just no work for me yet, because that’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s hard to complain, not when I’m getting paid regardless.
I grab my phone from my bag and fire up the WorkM8 app, the one they have us all socialise on. Oh, and I have a message!
MrLoveByte
So, NewGirl, when am I going to see you around the office?
I’m so intrigued by him. There’s something so… I don’t know, exciting, about messaging anonymously with someone. I mean, Paige did say I could only look, that I shouldn’t talk to anyone yet – and MrLoveByte, whoever he is, knows that.
My finger hovers over the keys. I know I shouldn’t reply, but…
My cheeks flush red as a call comes through from Paige. She can’t have known I was thinking about fraternising with colleagues, can she?
‘Hello?’ I answer brightly, trying not to sound guilty.
‘Hello, Liberty, how’s it going?’ she asks.
‘Great, thanks, having a lovely time in Yorkshire with my family,’ I reply – well, if I’m lying anyway…
‘You’re in Yorkshire?’ She sounds surprised.
‘Erm, yeah, you said I could?—’
‘Right, yes, of course,’ she replies. ‘When are you back?’
‘Tomorrow,’ I tell her.
