It’s interesting, hearing everyone’s stories and seeing the different paths that led them here. It gives me a new perspective on my own life, a bird’s eye view of the choices I’ve made. I realize now how narrow my focus was, how much emphasis I put on my career at the expense of everything else.
I never took a gap year, never spent time faffing about to figure out what I wanted from life. No, I was the driven one, hell-bent on proving myself. But now, in the clarity of this lush, green purgatory, I see the pressure and stress I felt at Ashbury Thornton weren’t entirely Liam’s fault, or anyone else’s. It was my own doing too—my inability to say no, to set boundaries, to prioritize my well-being.
I put forward this facade of hardworking, perfectionist Gemma, until that’s what everyone expected, including myself. I never gave myself permission to make mistakes, to take a bloody break occasionally.
I open my iPad. It’s liberating, being free from the constant barrage of emails and notifications. But there’s also a weird sense of dread that comes with loading up your inbox after a digital detox.
I take a deep breath and dive in. Messages from old coworkers, Robbie, Lizzie, my mom. One from a recruiter. I delete it without reading, my finger hesitating just a moment before making the decision. I hate that I have no way of getting in contact with Jimmy though.
Before I can stop myself, I find myself googling Liam. It’s like picking at a scab—I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. It’s unhealthy, I know. But that raw, bruised part of me needs to have that contact.
Once a day I allow myself this little masochistic ritual. Search for news articles about him—generally all finance-related, then look for pictures, which I immediately hate myself for doing. It’s pathetic, really.
I’m about to close the browser and toss my iPad aside when a new email pops up, the subject line making my heart skip a beat. It’s from Sir Whitmore’s office.
I shift in the hammock, straightening up just enough to block the sun from hitting my iPad. I tap on the email.
Gemma, it reads, and my eyes blow wide in shock thatheis personally messagingme. How did he even get my email?
I do hope your travels are doing wonders for you. You’re only young once. When you get to my age, you realize how important seeing the world is.
I can almost hear his voice, that posh, grandfatherly tone, as I continue reading.
I made some inquiries after our conversation in the office. I heard you left Ashbury Thornton. I’m deeply sorry to hear that, but I have no doubt doors will open for you. There are plenty of companies that would be fortunate to have you.
I swallow hard, trying to push down the lump in my throat.
I had a chat with your ex-boss recently. I don’t know if you were aware, but he had a sailing accident. He went out during a particularly rough storm. Must not have been in the right frame of mind. Perhaps the guy thinks he’s invincible.
The lump in my throat chokes me with a sudden, overwhelming fear. Liam went out in a storm? He would never do that. He’s all about safety.
Don’t worry, he’s fine. Dislocated his shoulder I believe. Was also concussed. I thought perhaps you’d want to know. Anyway, just know you did a lot of good at that company and with certain people. This was your doing.
My doing? What is he talking about?
And then I see it. A link, innocuous and blue. I click, and it opens to an article—a glossy, well-polished piece about how Ashbury Thornton struck a deal with another property developer. They’re taking over TLS’s coffee cart charities as a joint venture.
And there, staring back at me from the screen, is a picture of a grinning Jimmy standing next to a brand-new coffee cart. I let out a sound in relief. He’s okay.
I read the details with a mixture of emotions swirling in my chest. Liam took over Comfort Cups.
It wasn’t bullshit. It wasn’t a lie. Maybe Ollie was whispering poison in my ear. Maybe I made a terrible mistake about part of it.
Did I ruin Liam’s deal? No, I’m not that important in the grand scheme of things. Those men—they do what they want. Sir Whitmore, especially. He was just waiting for an excuse to pull the plug, and he would’ve found one, with or without me.
I smile despite the tear running down my cheek. Liam screwed me over, but he didn’t screw over the Jimmys of the world and that is more important.
Maybe he’s not a complete bastard after all. Just mostly a bastard.
It’s the most confusing feeling in the world.
I say goodbye to the other people on my tour, feeling a bit like a kid on the last day of summer camp. It’s time to part ways, to exchange goodbyes and promise to keep in touch, even though we all know deep down that we probably won’t.
As I wait for the bus to the coast, all I can think about is sinking my toes into the sand, maybe with a cocktail in hand. I grab a coffee and decide to check my emails, mostly to send some pictures to Lizzie—proof that I’m still alive.
And then I see it. My pulse spikes, my heart slamming into my throat like it’s trying to escape my body. There’s a new email, one with an attachment called “Liam’s diary.”
What the actual . . . ?
