It is not the first time he has said this to me. But, so far, I have not said it back.
‘Right,’ he whispers softly, eventually. ‘Well, that couldn’t be any clearer, could it?’
35.
Rachel
August 2003
Ingrid takes me out for cocktails, demands to know why I’ve been so morose of late.
After I tell her what happened with Lawrence, she looks me dead in the eye and says, ‘I’ve been wanting to say this to you for a while, babe.’
For maybe the first time in my life, I find I do not want to hear the truth from Ingrid. Already I am flinching from the fear of what she might say.
‘Lawrence is a love-bomber.’
‘A what?’
‘You know: he’ll shower you with attention and affection until you let your guard down. And then he’ll be off. Nowhere to be seen. Speck of dust on the horizon. Classic.’
‘Classic what?’ I say doubtfully, thinking unexpectedly of my mother. I wonder if maybe she was a love-bomber, when she first met my dad.
Ingrid eyes me over the top of her negroni. ‘Just be careful,’ is all she says.
Last night, I went to see my father. He asked after Lawrence, so I ended up telling him, as well, what had happened between us.
I’d expected Dad might express some paternal wariness about Lawrence expecting too much, too soon. But instead, he surprised me by saying, ‘You need to move on from Josh, sweetheart. You chose to leave him so you could have a future.’
‘Right,’ I said uncertainly, even as I was thinking,But you loved Josh, Dad.
He spread his hands, wise old Dad, dispensing sage advice in his dressing gown from his fireside armchair. ‘So, it would be illogical to let Josh stop that from happening. Wouldn’t it?’
Two weeks pass. Lawrence doesn’t call, or text. His office is empty whenever I walk past it at work, and he hasn’t responded to any of my tentative emails to him either.
One night, though, I am working late when I notice his office light is on. It has been dark and deserted all day, so I guess he’s just returned from meetings off-site somewhere.
I take a breath, then leave my cubicle and go to knock on his door.
He looks up. He is sitting behind his desk, tie loose, tapping on the upgraded Nokia work gave him last month.
Through the glass, our eyes meet.
He doesn’t smile. But he does beckon me in.
‘What’s this?’ he says with a sigh, when I set a bottle bag on his desk. I’ve had it with me for a couple of days, waiting for the right moment to give it to him.
‘Single-vineyard shiraz. I’m reliably informed it’s a good one.’
It cost more than I’ve spent on a bottle of wine in my entire life. Not that it’s about the money. But I do want him to know how sorry I am.
He folds his arms, settles back in his chair, doesn’t go near the bag. ‘Yeah? What’s the occasion?’
‘The occasion of me wanting to make it up to you. I am sorry, Lawrence.’
Silence spills through the room. Neither of us moves.
Eventually, he says, ‘Do you have your HR hat on right now, HR?’
