Page 11 of Every Silent Lie
“You’ve been saying that for the past two years.” Truth is, I would have walked out on this job last year when I admitted to myself it was going to be next to impossible to work with Thomas’s son and wife, who show zero respect for me and my purpose here. And given how expensive it is to live in London as a newly single woman, my fat salary is a basic necessity. So even though I despise many attributes of this job, they need me, and I need them.
“From now on, I promise,” he calls.
“That goes for Barbara and Anthony too,” I snap, exasperated. “And I don’t want to see any personal spend on their business credit cards either.”
As I near my office door, Debbie comes out from behind her desk, and I skid to a stop, my eyes on her legs. “What the hell are you wearing?” I ask, squinting.
“These are my advent calendar tights.”
“They’re hideous.”
“But of course you’d love them,” she sings, completely unaffected by my curtness, something I quietly appreciate. I actually like Debbie. “I can’t wait for you to see my elf ones.”
“You’re a fifty-year-old woman.”
“Forty-nine, actually.”
“Oh, well then, this”—I wave a hand up and down her legs—“is perfectly acceptable.” I push my way into my office and grab my coat and bag, leaving over an hour earlier than usual.
“Where are you going?” Debbie calls, alarmed.
“I have somewhere I need to be.” I keep my eyes forward as I navigate the Christmas-infested corridor. “You make me need a drink, Thomas,” I mutter under my breath.
Standing on the threshold of the bar at The Royal Constantine, I scan the tables. It’s not something I usually do, and I hardly want to admit why I do it this evening. It’s quiet. One man in the corner reading a paper. Not him.
Setting my coat and bag on the second stool in, I take the end one, smiling when two martinis slide toward me. “Good day?” the barman asks, making my drink pause at my lips.
“I’ve been coming here for two years, and I don’t know your name. You don’t know mine. You have never asked me if I’ve had a good day.”
“I know your name.”
“You do?”
“Camryn. I heard you telling the guy who was here on Friday.”
“Then I suppose you should tell me yours.”
“Julio.”
“Nice to meet you, Julio.”
“He was here.”
My glass is now resting on my lips, the alcohol within licking distance. “Excuse me?”
“The man. Dec. He was here again last night.” Julio starts chipping away at a block of ice.
“A coincidence?” I ask, my mind racing.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“What’s your gut telling you?”
He smirks, attention on the block of ice. “It’s telling me not.”
“Why?”
“Because he was looking for you.”
