Before I’ve even buttoned my shirt, he races to the door, slams it shut and leans on it. His nakedness would be comical in any other circumstance.
“I need you to listen. I didn’t go looking for this. They came to me. And it’s an executive role. I’d be in charge of the creative directors in all the offices in the Asia-Pacific region. Shares in the company. It’s a huge step up.”
Some of the wind goes out of my sails. It does sound like a big opportunity. But there’s more to life than winning in business. Surely Josh has seen enough of his father’s arseholery to know that.
“What happened to wanting to put down roots? To starting your own agency? You were the one who said those things. Does that all go up in smoke as soon as someone waves something shiny and new in front of you?”
“No. Of course not. But I can’t ignore an opportunity like this. And it would make things easier …”
“What things easier?”
“Us. This. These things.” His hand waves between us and his eyes pinch tight.
It takes me a moment to be able to pin down a single word in my surging thoughts.
“Us? You’re going to move to Melbourne to get away fromus? You’re blamingme?”
“Yes. No. Not blaming. I don’t know. But it would be easier if I didn’t have to see you all the time. Wouldn’t it be easier for you not to have to see me every time you turned around?”
“You know what? Fuck you. Because that’s all on you, Josh. Don’t try pinning it on me.”
“I know. I know it’s all on me. But it can’t be any other way and it fucking hurts like hell every time I see you. So yes, I’d rather be far, far away and save my sanity. And let you get on with your life too.”
“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare make out like you’re doing this for my sake. I’m here. Ready to have the tough conversations. To put the effort in. It’s you who’s scared. You’re a coward, Josh. And I deserve better.”
His face falls as if I’ve slapped him. He’s still pressed against the door, but I’m stronger than I look, and with a good shove, I’m out in the hallway, picking up my bag and racing to my car before he even has a chance to come after me, since he’s still naked.
I don’t remember the drive home. Somehow, I find myself in my flat, too angry to even cry. I’m furious with Josh. I’m furious with myself too. Because there’s no denying I’ve been spinning fairy tales in my head that eventually Josh would figure his shit out, and like in a romance novel, we’d live happily ever after in the house I built for myself as much as—more than—for him. As if wanting it badly enough would make it happen.
Well, it all ends now. I will not waste another second of my time on a man who can’t be honest with himself, let alone me. Josh and me? We’re done.
I down several glasses of merlot, then sit at my computer and email Dave. His wife works with him and is a great project manager. I pass all the remaining tasks over to them—including moving those damn kitchen lights—and tell Dave to bill Josh whatever it takes to get it done.
Then I send Josh an email, telling him I can no longer manage his renovations due to work commitments. I know once the family finds out, they’ll have questions. Honestly, I don’t even care anymore.
Finishing the bottle of wine, I eat a bag of salt and vinegar chips for dinner and put myself into my cold and miserable bed. Ignoring the multiple calls and texts from Josh.
I get to work early the next morning. No point lying in bed fretting. I might as well be at work trying to repair my tattered reputation. I have a career to save, and it appears a career is all I have going for me right now.
I’m pissed at Josh all over again for hijacking the time I could’ve spent crafting my approach to Jonathan about what happened yesterday. Because if Zoe thinks I’m going to let her get away with it, she’s sadly mistaken. I have all my notes and planning on my computer, some of which are ideas of my own that I was doodling with before this project was even pitched. First thing this morning, I’ll be seeing Jonathan and laying it all out.
The only other people in the office when I arrive are Jonathan and Craig, the IT guy. They’re deep in conversation in Jonathan’s office. I grab my laptop, which holds evidence of all my workings, and make my way towards his office, passing Craig on his way out.
“I was hoping to have a chat with you about yesterday’s meeting,” I start, perching myself on the edge of a visitor’s chair.
“I was hoping you might,” Jonathan answers. I can barely hear him over the pounding of my heart.
“The thing is …” My voice wobbles. I clear my throat and start again. “The ideas Zoe presented yesterday? They were mine.” Mic drop. This is taking every last drop of my courage. But I won’t back down.
He spends a few seconds searching my face, his expression serious.
Finally, he lets out a sigh-snort, which I take to mean frustration, though I’m not sure where it’s directed.
“I know.”
I can’t tell what he’s thinking or who he’s angry at. Past experience tells me it’s not always the perpetrator who gets blamed in these situations. Oh, dear God. I’m a whistle blower. And we all know what happens to them.
“You know?”
