“I won’t be able to sleep, anyway,” I mutter. Nevertheless, I pick up our glasses and carry them out to the kitchen. Lara throws the empty wine bottle into the recycling bin, and goes to grab her coat. After another long hug, she and Ellie take a cab home, leaving me alone in the house that seems more of a prison than anything else.
Being me is a life sentence.
Like a glutton for punishment, I send him another text message before walking up the stairs. It’s short, but surely he can’t ignore the plaintive tone.
Call me. Please.
I don’t expect a reply and I don’t get one. Instead I ready myself for bed, brushing my teeth and scrubbing off my makeup while refusing to look in the mirror that hangs over the basin for fear of hating the person I see staring back. By the time I crawl into bed my skin feels red-raw from a combination of astringent cleanser and salty tears, and I’m completely wide-awake.
At some point in the night the tears disappear, leaving my eyes painfully dry. I stare into the darkness, seeing the shapes of the furniture form in the shadow of the gloom. The only light comes from the shafts of moonlight that fight their way through the gaps in the curtain.
The clock on my phone counts the hours until morning. When there’s only two left to go, fatigue wins out, pushing me into a series of half-lucid dreams that all end up in the same way—I am alone. Callum leaves, Callum dies, I see him sailing away while I wail with my arms flung open. He’s always out of reach.
I wake at seven with a start. There’s a blissful moment of half-awareness before all the facts come crashing back into my consciousness.
By the time I make it into the office, I’m running on autopilot. I don’t remember showering, or getting dressed, or whether I’ve put on any makeup. When I sit at the table in the directors’ conference room, staring at a glass of water that has been placed in front of me, I don’t care whether I have a job or not.
The door opens and Jonathan walks in. He takes one look at me and his expression softens. Breathing in deeply, he grabs the chair next to mine and sits down.
“How are you?” he whispers. When I shrug, he carries on. “I’m here to support you. If you want to stop at any time, or to ask any questions, just give me a nod. I’m not going to let them walk all over you.”
I couldn’t care less what they do, and my lack of response is probably all the answer he needs. He reaches out and squeezes my hand.
A minute later Diana Joseph walks in, followed by two men who I’ve seen before but never spoken to. They’re senior partners with offices on the top floor; the ones with views across the river that turn the rest of us green with envy.
“Amy, this is Sam Haken and Dominic Shaw,” Diana says, taking a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Sam, Dominic, this is Amethyst Cartwright, one of our interns.”
For two men who are usually wining and dining, they look surprisingly chipper. Sam reaches across the table and shakes my hand, while Dominic flashes me a toothy smile. “Amy, it’s good to meet you.”
Still mute, all I can do is nod back.
Dominic continues, “We wanted to come and talk to you today to see how you are doing. Once we’ve had a chat, we’d like you to meet with Lucy Minor, the head of our legal department.”
“What about?” Jonathan asks.
“Maybe we should start from the beginning,” Sam says. “First of all, we’d like to offer you a sincere apology.”
I do a double take, my eyes wide. “An apology?”
There’s another squeeze from Jonathan, as though he’s telling me to be cool.
Dominic clears his throat loudly, pushing up the sleeves of his jacket to reveal tanned arms. “We pride ourselves on our intern program, Amy. Not only do we believe that providing training to young people is important, but it also allows us to build our reputation in the City. We want to be the go-to company for graduate applications.”
“That’s why we were so concerned when we heard what happened to you,” Sam says, a lock of his grey hair flopping over his forehead. “I was aghast to hear that any employee of Richards and Morgan could be subject to such treatment.”
“What treatment…” My words are cut off by Jonathan. This time he grabs my thigh. It isn’t a sexual move, nowhere near it, just the act of a man who clearly wants me to shut up.
Sam continues as if I haven’t said anything at all. “We take harassment very seriously, Amy, especially sexual harassment.”
I frown, turning to look at Jonathan. His expression is as bland as he can possibly make it, and when our eyes meet he gives absolutely nothing away. Deliberately, I lift his hand from my thigh and drop it away.
“I haven’t harassed anybody,” I say, my voice much stronger than I feel. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Dominic says, laughing lightly. “Mr Ferguson came to see us and admitted everything. He told us he’s been harassing you for months.”
My jaw drops, and it’s as though everybody in the room disappears. Confusion turns my brain into cotton wool, my thoughts failing to penetrate the fuzziness.
I push my chair back and stand up. “What?”