“You're not planning on getting back with Luke, then?” she asks, sitting down on the sofa. “It's definitely over?”
I pull out my phone and show Lara the Instagram photo of Luke and the girl. Like before, I'm more struck by Sophie's betrayal than Luke's new love—the fact she’s made a miraculous recovery since last night hasn't escaped me, either.
“We've been over for a long time,” I admit. “I know you kept telling me he was wrong for me, but it took me a while to realise.” I look down, picking a piece of lint off my jeans. “I wouldn't go back even if he came crawling to beg.” I tell her about the night at Sophie's and the cruel things he said in the car. She reaches out, squeezing my hand, sympathy shaping her features.
“It sounds trite, but these things happen for a reason. I know the two of you share a lot of history, but he treated you like shit. The number of times I've had to pull Alex away to stop him hitting Luke...” Lara trails off, glancing over at the bedroom door.
I swallow, thinking of the ways I let Luke walk all over me. After all this time together, maybe I should be sad it's over. But the truth is I'm more consumed with relief than anything else.
Get a degree, get a job and get the hell out of here, I remind myself. That's my goal, and I can't afford to let anybody get in the way. Not Luke and his wandering eye, not Sophie and her fake illness, and certainly not Callum Ferguson with his strong, hard chest and gorgeous smile.
If only my heart believed that.
11
When I get into the office on Monday morning Callum's nowhere to be seen. I slide into my chair to check my emails, and the first one I see is from the HR department. An emergency meeting has been called for all the new interns, and attendance is mandatory.
Something has riled Diana Joseph, and I'm pretty sure it's our drunken Friday night. Groaning, I put my computer to sleep and head down to the conference room, stopping on the way to grab myself a coffee from the canteen.
Charlie Simpson is already in the conference room when I arrive, his pale blonde hair hanging over his eyes, his skin tinged with grey. I slide into the seat next to him, offering one of the biscuits I grabbed from the tin, and he smiles wanly, taking the proffered cookie.
“You look as excited as I feel,” I comment. “You okay?”
He shakes his head. “I've never had a forty-eight hour hangover before and I never want one again. I can't even remember what happened on Friday night.” He turns and grabs my hand suddenly. “Did I do anything stupid?”
I frown when I remember the twerking, not to mention the round of body shots he insisted on taking off Ellie's bare abdomen. When I talked to her last night she was equally as sheepish, but I think she might have a little crush on him.
“Um,” I roll my lips together, waggling my eyebrows. “Define stupid.”
He drops his head into his hands, muttering incoherently. I reach out and rub his shoulder in an attempt to be consoling, but he shrugs me off.
“You shouldn't sit next to me, you'll be guilty by association.”
“You didn't do anything wrong. Okay, so you dirty danced and told every woman in the room you loved them, but you did it with style.”
He shakes his head. “Not helping.”
The room fills up as the rest of the interns arrive, coffees in hand. Caro Hawes sweeps in holding a cup from Cafe Nero, then wrinkles her nose when she sees Charlie and me.
I wrinkle right back.
“Charlie Simpson? Miranda Vesey?” One of the HR administration assistants pops her head around the door. “Can you come with me, please?” The tone of her voice makes it clear it isn't a question. Charlie stands up reluctantly, grabs his half-empty coffee cup and walks over to the door.
“Wish me luck,” he says, under his breath.
“Good luck.”
He walks out, closely followed by Miranda, who looks as if she's going to faint. I can't say I blame her; she spent most of Friday night pebble dashing the bar floor with vomit, and half the partners saw her doing it.
After they've left, the room is silent for a moment, as we all stare at the door wondering what is happening. I feel sick myself when I think they might be asking Charlie to leave; I'm not sure I can face working in this place without him.
“You should be there, too, you know.” Caro sits down next to me. She looks angry. “You drank as much champagne as they did.”
I don't bother telling her I can obviously hold it better than they can, because I feel guilty as hell. The three of us egged each other on, matched each other drink for drink. It's only my metabolism—and the fact I started drinking at the tender age of fifteen—that's prevented me from being taken out with Charlie and Miranda.
“I didn't do anything.” So fuck off. The final words remain unspoken, but I'm pretty sure Caro gets the message. She flicks her hair over her shoulder and glares at me anyway.
“You won't get away with it. I know your type. If Miranda is sacked I'll make sure you pay for it. I should never have trusted you to look after her.”