‘You’re leaving? Right now?’
‘Yep,’ Rosie said, flying high on adrenaline as she scraped up her belongings – feeling almost drunk with the thrill of refusing to eat the bullshit sandwich she’d been served by her boss.
Ellie whistled. ‘I’ve always liked you, Rosie, but now I think you might be my hero. I’m going to miss you, but you go for it. Get out there. Keep in touch though, yeah?’
‘For sure,’ Rosie said, stepping around her own, already empty, desk to give Ellie a tight hug goodbye.
‘I’m off, then. Have a nice life, everyone,’ she said to the room at large. ‘I absolutely intend to.’
Chapter 9
By the time Rosie got home, the thick red mist of her rage had lifted.
As she riffled through her handbag for her keys, she discovered the almost empty Hobnob packet she’d picked up from her desk had split. The few biscuits left inside had disintegrated into a coarse, sweet-smelling powder that now coated everything from her iPhone to her cache of emergency tampons.
She opened the front door of the building and the intoxicated, fizzy feeling that had seized her as she erupted at Martin finally gave way to cold, creeping dread.
What had she justdone?
Yes, Martin was completely detestable, and yes – her job was pretty rubbish. But throwing the mother of all tantrums in her boss’s office, however justified, had added ‘unemployment’ to her growing list of problems.
The scant contents of Rosie’s savings account, which housed the last vestiges of the money Grandpa George had left her, would see her through a few weeks at most – and she still wouldn’t have solved the conundrum of having double rent to pay, or a new home to find, if she didn’t sort herself out with a flatmate soon.
She closed her eyes and shook her head, almost tempted to laugh as she remembered her foolish hope that the small sum of money she’d put aside might represent the beginning of her wedding fund. Sighing, she put her key into the flat door, turned it and pushed.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, nudging the bottom of the door with her foot this time to see if she could shift it.
It refused to budge even a millimetre.What the hell?
For a second, Rosie wondered whether she was using the wrong key. But that couldn’t be it; it had slid into the lock the same way it always did, and she’d encountered no resistance when she tried to move it.
She stepped back and looked at the door, as though staring at it might reveal the reason for its intransigence. Surprisingly, within a few moments, it did.
Rosie’s stomach dropped as her eyes caught on the keyhole for the deadlock she and James had almost never used. It was old and prone to sticking, and in the early days of living together they’d had more than one hairy moment of thinking they might need a locksmith to get them back inside the flat. They’d given up on using it after a few weeks, and it had been so long since they’d bothered with it that Rosie no longer carried the key.
James must have been here, she realised – probably to collect more of his things while she was at work. He’d obviously been so keen to shut the door on their life together that he’d double-locked it for good measure – and in typical James fashion, it hadn’t occurred to him that this might present a problem for Rosie.
She felt an angry sob begin working its way up her throat. Chief among the array of things she was feeling right now, she realised, was exhaustion.
Rosie wastired– ground down by the various disappointments and disasters of the past few days. She turned, put her back against the front door of the flat and sank down into a sitting position. Cradling her head in her hands, she decided to allow herself a few minutes of pure, unrestrained misery before – yet again – she would have to pick herself up and work out what to do.
Tears flowed freely down her face, and – too late – she understood that letting herself melt down might have been a mistake. Her chest burned and her throat ached with the effort of trying to regain control. Her nose was running, and when she swiped the sleeve of her jumper across her cheek, it came away grey – stained with mascara.
Then came the unmistakable sound of the old wooden door to the building pushing open; the tread of large feet on the thin corridor carpet.
A. Thomas was level with her in seconds, and he pulled up sharp as he noticed her. He stood, suddenly motionless, one foot still slightly aloft – as if he were playing a game of musical statues and someone had paused the party tune.
Rosie looked up at him.
From this vantage point, he was taller and broader than ever. His expression was wary, with a healthy dose of alarm.
Seeming to decide that he couldn’t simply keep walking, he set both feet on the floor and put down the shopping bag he was holding.
After a beat of silence that felt like it lasted six months, he said: ‘What can I do? Can I help you somehow?’
Rosie felt her mouth drop open in astonishment. Not only was the man talking, he’d come out with something she’d never have predicted. Most men, she thought, would have asked the obvious but fundamentally stupid question, ‘Are you OK?’ when confronted with a sobbing woman they didn’t really know. This guy had skipped straight to offering practical assistance.
