“Sure. Of course. We’re good.” Tony scuttles away as though he’s worried Josh might materialise from behind a glass screen and do him an injury.
Great. Now the whole office will think I’m a nut job. I’m furious with Josh for putting me in this position. Which doesn’t sit well with the feelings that come up when I remember what happened as a result of his outburst in the club.
I gather up my work laptop and head towards the conference room for the regular Monday morning Work In Progress meeting, hoping against hope nobody else noticed the Friday night drama. No such luck.
I’ve already spotted theMean Girls. Three associates who look like they’re in their late twenties, are always dressed to within an inch of a Kardashian and have taken an instant dislike to me. It’s such a cliché. Pick on the new girl. The one with red hair. Fun. As if I didn’t live through all that crap in primary school. Then again in high school. Now, after what feels like a brief respite at university, I’m back swimming with the sharks.
The trouble is our boss, Jonathan, has unintentionally made it worse for me. He’s spent weeks talking me up so I sounded like the second coming of Frank Lloyd Wright. In heels. And now I have my work cut out for me trying to fit in.
“So, Greer, who was that delicious-looking man who dragged you off the dance floor on Friday night?” Mean One says, with a sly look towards the boss, who is fortunately deep in conversation with his assistant as he waits for everyone to file in and get settled. Mean One, otherwise known as Zoe, always gets to these meetings early to make sure she snags prime position next to Jonathan.
I can feel my cheeks burning, no doubt clashing delightfully with my hair. If Josh was here, I’d knee him in the balls for putting me in this position.
“Oh, um. Just a friend.”
“Is that right? Because he looked like more than a friend.” This is from Mean Two, as Mean One and Three snigger behind their perfectly manicured hands.
“No. Just a friend.” I aim for a tone of breezy unconcern as I use a tip from Granny, who used to saytell ’em nothing, take ’em nowhere, which I finally understand. The less information they have the better.
“What a shame. I guess you’ll have to try harder.” Mean One jumps in. “Maybe a bit of a makeover would help? I can give you some pointers on where to shop.”
If there aren’t flames licking up my face and singeing my eyebrows, I’ll be surprised. I look down at my short, neat, unpolished nails, my understated, professional outfit and my midrise heels. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to blend in today. Maybe I should’ve gone hard, as Will would say, and dressed to kill. Over the years, I’ve learnt there are two ways to deal with bullies. Meet them head on, blow for blow, or avoid confrontation at all costs.
Being the newbie, and with my personal inclination for flight rather than fight, I wanted to avoid confrontation. I was hoping that with a bit of time, I would be able to win these women over. Or at least neutralise their dislike. But The Means have thrown down the gauntlet. I won’t make the same mistake again.
Before I have a chance to respond, our boss steps in. “Perhaps Greer has more important things on her mind than the colour of her next manicure, Zoe. Now, can we get down to business?”
I know he was trying to help, but I wish he hadn’t. Mean One—I mean Zoe—gives me a death stare before turning to simper at Jonathan, who appears completely impervious.
By the end of the meeting, I have a stack of new work to do, and the compliments Jonathan has thrown me have painted a big red target on my back, if there wasn’t one already. Unfortunately for The Means, I don’t really care what they think. I’m here to do a job and I intend to do it well. If the rest of the staff don’t want to be my friend, I’m okay with it. As long as they respect my talent and my work ethic.
No sooner have I sat down at my desk than my phone rings. We got council approval on the plans late last week. Dave is officially starting demolition today, and I asked him to keep me in the loop. I’m so glad I’ve got someone I can trust on this, even though Jonathan has given me permission to keep overseeing it to completion. He’s aware I turned down offers of a lot more money to work at his firm because of their focus on sustainability and energy efficiency, so I think he’s happy to cut me a little slack.
“Hey, Dave. How’s it going?” I can hear banging and crashing in the background.
“Good, good, good, Gee. I wanted to let you know we’ve got the trumpets out and the walls are coming down.” Dave is a character. He’s always making random references to strange facts in the hope he’ll confuse people, which he often does, but I love it.
“I assume you’re referring to the Battle of Jericho?” I check.
“Haha. Yep. You got it, sweetheart. When we gonna see you down here?”
“I could maybe swing by late tomorrow afternoon if that would work?”
“Sure. We should be done with all the major external demo by then, thanks to that handy tree. And in more good news, no sign of asbestos, so there should be no holdups.”
I hang up from Dave and give a quiet little squeal under my breath. I can’t wait to get down there and see the hole in the ground where this house will take shape. For most people, that’s all it will look like. For me, that empty space will be full of walls and windows and furniture. I see my plans in my mind’s eye, kind of like holograms, or virtual reality without the headsets.
I shoot off a text to Josh suggesting he meet me there at four thirty tomorrow if he can spare the time. He bounces one straight back, agreeing, and I confirm with Dave.
Josh and I haven’t spoken since he left my place on Saturday morning, not more than five minutes before Will turned up, except for the text he sent on Saturday evening, checking if I was okay. And letting me know he wouldn’t be at dinner on Sunday night. Eye roll. Like I didn’t see that one coming. But since he was with Tyrone, I can’t really complain. If ever there was a kid in need of some guidance, it’s Ty. And Josh is the right guy to give it to him.
I spent all weekend bouncing between anger at his behaviour and post-orgasmic bliss. And fixating on what he said about how we couldn’t and shouldn’t. Another thing Granny used to say iscoulda, woulda, shoulda. And maybe he coulda woulda shoulda kept his hands to himself. But he didn’t. And if he thinks I’m letting it go and putting what happened on Friday night behind us, well, he’s got another thing coming. Because if Friday night showed me anything, it’s that what’s between me and Josh is more than garden-variety lust. Which is something you don’t walk away from.
Chapter Twenty-One
Josh
Iarriveatwhat’sleft of my house at four thirty on Tuesday afternoon. Bloody hell. It looks like I paid a small fortune for what amounts to a hole in the ground. But I have complete faith in Greer’s vision.
