A few minutes later I receive a text. By that point I’ve already hailed a cab, hoping against hope that the morning rush hour hasn’t started yet.
You’re going to be late. You know that, right?
He’s a smug bastard, but at least he’s not as stupid as me. How difficult is it to remember that you actually need clean underwear and clothes if you’re staying at somebody’s house?
The taxi pulls up at some temporary traffic lights, and the cacophony of a road drill joins the growling of the engine to make my ears hurt. “Busy out there today,” the driver remarks. “You going anywhere nice?”
I look down at my wrinkled skirt and blouse. “I need to pick something up.”
Another message from Callum arrives after we get past the road works. It’s already eight-thirty and I’m nowhere near home. This time it’s a photograph—a large Styrofoam cup with steam rising up from the rim. From the background I can tell he’s at his desk, and I try to ignore the jealous hunger that rumbles from the pit of my empty stomach.
I send him back a rolling-eyes emoji and switch my phone off, determined to have the last word. All thoughts of revenge are forgotten, as I squeeze my hour-long morning routine into thirty minutes. A perfunctory shower is followed by a spray of dry shampoo and a layer of makeup. By the time I finally walk into the office building I feel as though I’ve already done a full day’s work.
Maybe that’s why I don’t notice the silence. Or the fact there’s somebody sitting at my desk, until I’m practically sat on their lap.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there.” I jump back, my forehead crinkling with confusion. Diana Joseph from HR looks up at me with cool-blue eyes, and closes the top drawer of my desk.
Immediately I’m on edge. Why would she be going through my desk? It’s not as if there’s anything valuable in there—and nothing private—but the nonchalant invasion of my personal space seems so out of character.
“Amethyst,” she says calmly, standing up and pushing the chair beneath the desk. “You need to come with me.”
I glance at my watch. “I’m due in a meeting in twenty minutes.”
“I’ve cancelled it. Just put your things down and we can go somewhere quiet.”
Small beads of perspiration start to form on my upper lip. “What’s this about?”
The smile she gives me is anything but friendly. “Not here, let’s go to my office.”
Five minutes later she’s closing the door behind us and offering me a seat. Her office is much like her—well organised and pristine, with no stray
pieces of paper or half-eaten chocolate bars marring the surface of her desk. To the left of her computer screen is a picture frame, showing a man who must be her husband, and her two perfectly-turned out children. It looks more like a Calvin Klein advert than a family photo.
“I need to talk to you about something serious,” she says as soon as she’s seated on her leather swivel chair. “This isn’t a disciplinary hearing, although I do need to warn you that disciplinary action could follow. Anything we discuss today could be used as part of that action.”
Her words sound eerily similar to the Miranda rights I’m used to hearing in American cop shows. There’s no smile on her face now, no softness in her expression, just a piercing directness that tells me I’m in a lot of trouble.
My mind flies to all the things that have happened over the past months. The reprimands for drunken behaviour, the way Charlie and I spilled the cocaine on the pavement outside the pub. Then I wrack my brains to think of anything I’ve done wrong recently.
It comes up blank until I think of Callum. If anything had happened, he would have called me, wouldn’t he? Warned me that we’d been discovered and I was about to walk into this.
Of course he would have called… and it would have gone straight to voicemail because I turned my phone off after his last message.
Shit.
A wave of nausea appears from nowhere, scratching at my throat, making my nose sting. I’m only half a breath away from throwing up when Diana opens a blue file in front of her.
“I had an interesting email this morning, making some accusations against you and a colleague. Is there anything you want to share with me?” She lifts a printed email from the folder.
“No.”
“It would be better for you to come clean. Confess everything. I can explain to the disciplinary hearing that you cooperated.”
I swallow hard, though my mouth and throat are so dry that it makes me cough. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done wrong.”
“Do you remember signing this when you joined us?” Diana pushes another sheet of paper towards me. I recognise it immediately; it’s the Code of Conduct she had all us interns sign on our first day at Richards and Morgan.
I take it from her, skimming it quickly. My signature is at the bottom in loopy blue ink. “Yes, I remember.” My voice is low, cautious.