He backs away as if I'm full of venom. “Don't say anything else.”
But I'm on a roll. An anti-elitist, no-bullshit roll. “When you've had the bailiffs knocking at your door because you can't pay their exorbitant fucking interest, maybe you can lecture me,” I storm. “When you're afraid to go home because some bloody weirdo might be waiting for you, then you can tell me I'm wrong.”
He frowns. “What weirdo?”
I shake my head, but he steps forward, his face marred with concern. “What fucking weirdo? Tell me.”
When I speak, my voice feels raw, as if I've been flayed. “It's just a guy.”
“Tell me.”
He's so reassuring it frightens me, and I'm aware that's a contradiction. But I've never relied on anybody except Alex and Andy, and the fact he's trying to involve himself in my problems is alarming.
“It's nothing.”
“Bullshit,” he says. “What fucking weirdo is waiting for you?”
I don't know whether I want Callum to back off or hold on. “There was some guy hanging around my house last week. He knew my name.”
“Did you call the police?” he asks with clipped words. It's obvious that in his easy, clean-cut world, involving the law would be the only thing to do.
“My mum...” I feel like I'm cracking. “She doesn't always stay on the right side of the law. Where I live we don't call the police.”
Callum leans towards me. “You should.”
I shake my head. “We don't involve the police. We have our own sense of justice. An eye for an eye...”
“Amy, if this guy bothers you again you need to call me.”
“That's what my brother said.”
“Thank God somebody's talking some sense. Promise you'll phone next time.”
I say nothing, looking at him through wide eyes.
“Promise me, Amy.”
I nod. “Okay.” It comes out as a sigh.
“Good. Now get some work done and then we'll go out for lunch.”
“What?”
“I still owe you that drink, remember?”
I sit back, staring at my boss. He's looking at me through pretty green irises, his mouth wearing a half-frown. I'm torn between touching him and drawing away, unsure of myself, unsure of him. When I answer him, it feels as if I'm reliving a nightmare. Painful. Awkward.
“I remember.”
* * *
Callum spends the next hour in a teleconference. His door is closed and I'm thankful for it, because he's confusing me, making me feel emotions I don't want to feel. I don't need to be protected; I don't need to feel safe. I don't need to feel this ache deep inside.
I spend every second of those sixty minutes trying to centre myself, remembering why I'm here. Degree, job and get out of here. Everything else is simply distraction.
I achieve nothing, apart from watching the words on my laptop screen float and dance in front of my eyes, the black letters blurring into a single mass. I hate feeling like this, all open and vulnerable, when I've worked so hard to grow a shell around me, but I feel powerless.
One step forward, two steps back.