Page 24 of Every Silent Lie
We talked for an hour. He walked me through the rest of his day—the ten million was accepted, the competition chased away—and I listened, his deep, smooth voice sinking past me and warming me deeply. The tug inside is getting stronger, as is my conflict. Getting close means getting close. Sharing.
Exposing myself, being vulnerable.
I hate it, but I also hate the constant constriction in my throat—of having no purpose—the dizziness, the regret, the heaviness.
The unbearable pain of self-inflicted solitude.
And the fact that his call brought light into the cold silence of my apartment. My life.
Don’t grow dependent, Camryn.
How long can we talk, be together, and not get deeper? More personal? And will I withdraw when we do? Or is it okay to start feeling a modicum of joy? Have I done my time feeling so broken? They’re all hard-hitting questions that I have no answers to. Will I ever?
Today’s banal workday included waiting to hear back from Finance, which eventually happened at six o’clock. The company accountant requested a call tomorrow. I punch out a reply on my way to the elevator, slightly concerned by his request but too gripped by anticipation too see Dec to really pay much attention to it. “Camryn!”
I look back, seeing Debbie hurrying my way, today’s tights a rare shade of emerald-green. She reaches up and pulls the reindeer antlers off her head, smiling awkwardly. She’s obviously forgotten about the tinsel wrapped around her wrists and ankles. “You’re late this evening,” I say.
“I’ve been wrapping gifts for . . . never mind.” She comes to a stop, a little out of breath, and realises she’s forgot about her bracelets and anklets, quickly ripping them off. Her scraps of tinsel are the least of my problems. “The draw for Secret Santa was today.” The caution in her voice is borderline pitiful. I know what’s happened here. They’ve drawn straws over who’s going to tell me who I need to buy for.
“And you excluded me from the draw, right?”
“Not right. You see, the new girl, Lacy, she wasn’t told that you don’t . . . well, take part, so you were included and emails have gone out to everyone. You’ve got me.” She smiles, toothy and wide. Nervous. “But it’s fine because I’ll pretend I don’t know who my gift is from.”
“What’s the budget?” The doors open, and I step inside.
“Twenty quid.”
“I’ll give you twenty quid. You can buy yourself something.”
“Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
“Dead.”
“Right.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “Thomas asked me to make sure you’ve not forgotten the event tomorrow evening.”
“I haven’t forgotten since the last time he asked you to remind me.”
Her lips press into a straight line. “Dress code is glam.”
My hand shoots up, stopping the doors from meeting in the middle. “Glam as in glamorous?”
She nods.
“Of course it is.” I let the doors close and drop my head back, mentally searching through the endless unopened boxes for something I can wear. I see in my mind’s eye many things I can’t face, so actually searching them? No. I’ll have to buy something.
My phone rings as I’m heading across the road to The Royal Constantine, and I stop just shy of the kerbside, my stomach dropping. “Hello.”
“Mrs. Moore, it’s D?—”
“It’s Ms.”
“Ms. Moore, it’s Deirdre from Long Acres.”
“How can I help you?”
“It’s your mother.”
A horrible sick feeling rises. “What about her?”
