“Thanks,” the man mutters, stowing the photo back in one of the bags. It’s only then I notice that his eyes are red and puffy. He seems determined to keep his head ducked so no one will notice.
A pang spreads through me at the thought of this man going home for dinner tonight and telling his family that he no longer has a job. I want to reassure him that his daughter will still think of him as her hero. That the job market is strong and he’ll land on his feet. That Turpi is going to be in a tenuous financial position in the coming years, so it’s actually better he’s getting out now with some severance.
But there’s no time for that. The elevator doors open, and the man skirts out, rushing out of the building as if determined to be rid of this place as quickly as possible.
On my commute home, wedged shoulder to shoulder on the crowded tube, I try not to picture where that man is right now, or if he’s stopping by his local pub for a pint before facing his wife and kids. If he’s stashing the bags away so his wife won’t see them. So he’ll have more time to come up with a plan before telling her what’s happened.
None of this would be happening if Turpi had agreed to invest in clean energy. They’d be needing more people for that, not fewer. I tried to prevent this.
But beneath my defensive posture, I know I didn’t try that hard. I gave one little clean energy pitch in a meeting, and then, when it wasn’t popular, I gave the higher-ups what they’d asked for, instead. I let my values be steamrolled for self-gain.
I wonder what Rory would say about it. He wouldn’t approve of so many employees being let go. But he’d still have a way of making me feel better about myself, making me believe I’d find a way to make up the damage.
Back at Marlow House, it’s the creaky, quiet type of night when I’d like to have Jules around. But she and Nina are off in the Cotswolds, visiting wedding venues, so I soothe myself withMarried at First Sight. The newlyweds are off on tropical honeymoons with cerulean ocean views that make me miss Michigan and the raw beauty of the water.
As I watch the couples Jet-ski on TV, I picture zipping across the tame lake behind my parents’ house, racing Rory to the dock on a bet that loser buys ice cream. The unpolluted breeze makes iteasier to breathe, and the fresh water sprays playfully in our faces, redeeming the youthful parts of me I’d left for dead.
Stop that,I chide myself.That’s not a productive thought. That’s the opposite of productive.
But the vision sticks anyway, latching on like a memory. I’m homesick for what I used to have—and also for what I’ll never have.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jules bursts onto the scene again when she’s back from the Cotswolds.
Me and Nina are having a spontaneous hen do tomorrow!she texts me that Friday night.Pub crawl starting at King’s Head at midday.Leotardsrequired.
Upon Googling “What is a hen do?”I find out it’s the British term for a bachelorette party. Even if I not so secretly wish I were the one having a hen do, I’m not going to be the bitter single woman who refuses to celebrate her friends just because she’s moping about how she’s going to wind up alone while everyone else is basking in marital bliss.
Noon seems aggressively early to start drinking, but when I walk into the King’s Head the next day at quarter past, the party is already in full swing, streamers dangling from the antique light fixtures and helium balloons tied to pint-glass anchors at the bar.
Jules and Nina are surrounded by a gaggle of women. Jules is in a bright magenta leotard, with a plunging neckline and spaghetti straps. No matter that it’s the middle of winter, she’s boasting bare legs with over-the-knee boots. Glitter eyeshadow covers most of her face, and massive hoop earrings reach nearly to hear shoulders. She’s wearing her most voluminous false eyelashes, and her flaming hair is teased at the roots so it adds an extra few inches to her already tall frame.
Nina is wearing a svelte, long-sleeved bodysuit that makes her look like a professional ballerina. They’re both wearing matching tiaras that say “Future Mrs.”
Their friends are all in various-colored, various-shaped leotards, and everyone is wearing “Team Brides” sashes (the “s” looks to have been added on in permanent marker).
“Babes!” Jules exclaims, spotting me. Her expression swiftly drops from delight to disapproval as she looks at my casual jeans and T-shirt outfit. “Where’s the leotard?” she demands.
“I’ve never owned a leotard in my life,” I say. “I thought you were joking.”
“You should know I’d neverjokeabout leotards,” Jules says reprovingly. “You’re lucky I’ve got a few spares back at my flat. Do come along now.”
And so she drags me out of the pub and up to her flat. “Take your pick,” she says, laying out the options flat on the crisply made bed (something tells me that Nina is the bed maker in their relationship).
I’m tempted to refuse altogether, but it is her day after all, so I oblige and choose the most conservative of the choices, not that that’s saying much. It’s basically a scoop-necked black swimsuit, ruched in the stomach to make it slightly more forgiving. I changeback in my flat, pairing it with the thickest tights I have, plus a cardigan.
“Oh c’mon, it’s poor form to wear a bloody jumper with a leotard,” Jules vetoes when I emerge from my bedroom. She looks as horrified as if I’ve dared to pair beer with green juice.
As I reluctantly shed the cardigan, Jules waves lipstick and mascara wands over my face before I can stop her. Rummaging through my closet, she pulls out my highest heeled boots and jams them onto my feet, paying no mind to the fact that they’re way too fancy for a grimy pub.
“’At’ll do,” she says proudly, like she’s my fairy godmother. “Now c’mon, time to get Scotch mist.Pissed,”she clarifies in cockney. “Comes from how the mist in the ’ighlands fogs your vision like drinks do. Though to be fair, I never see more clearly than when I’m sloshed, do I?” She grins happily, as if this is a very fortunate character trait.
Back at the King’s Head, I keep my knee-length parka zipped up for as long as I can, adorning it with a sash that one of the women hands me. But by the time we’re at the Bull’s Head for our second stop on the pub crawl, I’m too warm to keep it on any longer. The bar is filling up with soccer fans who are crowding in front of the large-screen TVs, and I’m sweating through the layers of down. Slinging the jacket over a barstool, I let the leotard free.
“Bloody ’ell,” Jules says, looking over at me. “Who invited the supermodel, hey?”
“As if,” I say, but there’s a certain thrill from the costume, like I can swap out my story for someone else’s.
