I look over at Harold. He’s a slimy pig again, sitting there with his collar unbuttoned and gray chest hair poking through. Looking at me so smugly, like he’s certain that we’ll be shagging within the hour.
The self-disgust starts to swell and suffocate. How could I have been so reckless?
The room is still spinning. It’s impossible to tell what’s moving and what’s not. The trees on the wall make me think of the woods I grew up in, the way the delicate ice crystals cling to the bare maple branches on a cold winter morning, so pure and innocent and untouched by humans.
It makes me want to cry, but I’m not able to. It’s like everything has been stuffed with shallowness. And all that’s left is the shell of me.
I want to be better than this. I’m not sure if I am, but Rory’s text makes me want to try.
Freeing myself from Harold, I stand up to locate my bag. “I’ve got to head out,” I tell Harold. I’m still drunk, but the sober part is quickly reclaiming space, like it’s realized the urgency.
“What’s the problem, luv?” he asks. “You’re not trying to dash away from me, are you?” He says it lightly but there’s a darkness in his eyes that warns of trouble if I were.
“’Course not,” I lie. “Just late for a friend.”
Harold hugs me goodbye, his hands cupping that place that he now seems to think he owns. I want to slap him. But more than that, I want to slap myself. I don’t do either of those things—I just dash out the door.
In no mood to wait for an Uber, I keep shuffling in the dark the full three miles home, heeled booties clanking desperately againstthe sidewalk. Panting off what just happened feels good, or at least it feels less bad. I don’t stop until I reach the graffiti-streaked telephone boxes of Upper Street, when I finally slow to a walk.
It’s only nine thirty by the time I get back to Marlow House, but it feels like threeAM. I throw up in the toilet and then stay crouching over it for a while, dry heaving and spitting. I’m not sure if it’s from drunkenness or just self-disgust.
What if Rory hadn’t texted me? Where would I be now? Thank God I don’t have to find out.
After chugging two glasses of water, I take a makeshift shower, standing up in the rickety tub and spraying myself down with the nozzle. Though the water pressure is weak, I’m too restless to sit down. Lathering on the bodywash, I try to make myself clean, and stay in there until the hot water runs out.
I reply to Rory’s text as I limp into bed. I have to concentrate very hard on making sure there aren’t typos so he won’t think I’m wasted.
Yes, still on. See you then!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In the morning, I still feel dirty. The kind of dirty that can’t be slept off or washed off or peeled off. The kind that grips you and sticks to you and gives you no escape from your mistakes.
Rain is smacking against the grilled windows, and the events of last night rush back with alarming clarity. Daylight shines an ugly spotlight, making everything look even more wrong and feel even more raw. I just want to bury my face under the pillow and never come out.
As I lie there, the hangover hits. One of those throbbing things that makes me aggravated at the world and everyone who has the audacity to exist in it. Myself, most of all.
I know that it was Harold’s fault more than mine. I know that if something like this happened to one of my friends, I’d be furious with her if she didn’t report him straightaway.
Still, I find myself wondering what would happen if I didn’t say anything. If I just let it be.
The thoughts rise to the surface, amid the sinking sensation. Maybe last night was enough for Harold to want to put in a good word for me to get me promoted. What’s done is done anyway. Even if I make Harold pay for it, I can’t make him un-touch me.
The shame settles in my groin, a limp and self-loathing sensation. Picking up my phone, I’m confronted with two unread texts.
First, there’s Harold, at 1:37AM.Thanks for opening up tonight, Kitten … to be continued. Xx
The double entendre drenches me in sweat all over again. I think about how I just sat there, egging him on.
My hypocrisy makes me want to gag. Here I am, trying so hard to rise up as a woman in business and give little girls someone to look up to in the C-suite . And yet I’m resorting to slimy tactics to help me get there.
The next text is from Rory, about half an hour ago.Heading out now. See you soon!
Weirdly, Rory’s message makes me feel worse than Harold’s. It reminds me of innocence and kindness and all the things I don’t deserve.
We’re due to meet at Gail’s in ten minutes.
I want to bail for multiple reasons. First, because I don’t think I can physically lift myself from this bed, let alone dress myself in actual clothes. Second, because I don’t want to see his chipper smile and be reminded of what a complete moral failure I am. And third, because I still won’t be able to stop wishing he were Alexander instead, and I don’t need any more proof that there’s no happily ever after in store for me.
