Page 77 of Handle with Care
I stop short of saying to debrief, because that makes me think of Will in briefs, and that thought’s way, way too distracting for this moment.
Lily’s quiet for a long moment, considering me. It’s hard to read her expression. She’s partly backlit from the low evening sun behind her through the window, turning the city into an inky silhouette. “Will’s not coming back.”
I blink. And again, for good measure.
“What do you mean he’s not coming back?” I ask blankly. “Today, you mean?”
She clears her throat.
Foreboding grips me.
“The leadership team has decided to let him go.”
I suck in a deep, visceral breath. Or maybe I gasp. It’s like a fist has squeezed around my middle, and I stare at Lily as if everything’s gone upside down—because it has.
“Will’s… fired?”
She gives a small, tight nod, then proceeds to shuffle papers on her desk. “We’ll see you at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow to continue the installation,” she says crisply, clearly meaning this is not up for discussion. Lily looks down at her papers, unable to meet my gaze.
In shock, I leave the museum like a magnetic pole reversal has taken place. And now, everything’s off-kilter.
Chapter Thirty-One
When I regain something like my bearings again, I try calling Will. I stand on the broad promenade next to the Thames, frozen in place while passersby flow around me, a literal one-man island. The evening sun’s on me, but I don’t feel it at all.
Of course, Will doesn’t answer his phone. Even though I try three times in five minutes. And maybe another three times in the five minutes after that. Because I have to get through to Will and find out what happened in the director’s office after I left. It doesn’t make sense—why would they fire Will but not me?
I need a different strategy. Like getting to Will’s flat. But I don’t exactly have the address, though I saw the street name, and I know it’s in Chelsea. Time for the map app and Transport for London to come through with some trip planning.
Shaking everything off as best I can for the moment, I start walking quickly to London Bridge station, my mind racing. Our meeting was first thing this morning. I can’t imagine what Will’s done all day. He could be out with a migraine. He could be hiding. At any rate, I’m miserable without him, and miserable at imagining what he’s going through.
And he probably blames me. My brain helpfully riffs on the options. He’s upset because he thinks the lost—or stolen—exhibits are my fault. Or he’s upset because I didn’t get fired.
Shit, shit, shit.
When I get to London Bridge, the commuters have thinned out by 7:30 p.m. With the current transport conditions, it’s either the tube and two buses or one tube change and walking. I obviously go for the second option and quickly head to the station.
And by the time I get to Earl’s Court station, my stomach still twists. Once on the street, I call up the app again and try to figure out where Will’s flat is from my limited memory of our commute. He said something about being on the edge of Chelsea or something. Redcliffe something or other road. I hurry along.
It’s 8:30 p.m. by the time I’ve reached Will’s street, and I stand in front of the imposing historic building as the sun sets. Scanning the street, I don’t see his SUV or anything quite like it. And his flat is dark.
Even so, I open the gate, cross the tiles to the front steps, and ring his buzzer. Twice.
And there’s no answer.
“Fuck.” A long sigh escapes me. I go back down the path to the street, studying the windows. The wood shutters are half-closed, the windows dark.
He could be sleeping, if he has a migraine. Or maybe he went out.
Though who the hell knows where someone goes once they’ve been fired. If it were me, I’d probably go to the bar and find comfort with friends. But Will’s more of a homebody than I am. Statistically speaking, he’s probably sitting there in the dark. Ignoring me.
And not interested in answering the door. I try calling again, but nothing.
Of course, if he does have a migraine, I’m probably pissing him off if he wants to rest.
Get the hint, Dylan. He doesn’t want to talk to you.
“Fuck,” I say again, unwilling to take the defeat, even so. I walk around his neighborhood, past the square and a nearby pub, which I peek into in case he’s there. And it’s a very nice pub. For the well-heeled.
