Page 113 of Every Silent Lie

I don’t tell her I can handle scumbags like Phillip, as it would be demeaning. So instead, I smile and nod, making my way back to my office.

But I don’t make it anywhere near because a crowd has built up, the noise horrendous. Still no Thomas. “Is he in?” I ask Crystal.

“Not yet,” she replies, distracted, as Debbie emerges from the pack, a stupid grin on her face.

She does a little twirl. “They’re fabulous!” she sings. “Where on earth did you find them?”

“Find what?” I ask, passing her and pushing my way through the mob.

“Oh come on, I told you who you were buying for.” She follows me, shutting the door behind us.

“Secret Santa got them for you, Debbie.”

“Fine.” She holds up a gift bag. “You’ve not claimed your present from under the tree.”

“I don’t do gifts.”

“You bought mine,” she points out.

“I didn’t have much choice, Debbie. You fixed it so I had to buy for you, and you’re one of the only people around here that I wouldn’t want to upset.”

Her ample bosom swells. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Shut up and hand me the bag.”

She chuckles and slides it open, then helps herself to a chair, getting comfortable.

“What are you doing?”

“Watching you open your gift.”

“Oh no.” I stand and round my desk, helping Debbie up. “I draw the line there.”

“God, you’re such a Scrooge,” she mutters, shrugging me off and continuing to the door without my assistance. “I’m going to show off my fancy tights.”

“You might need to hand out some sunglasses,” I call as the wood comes between us. Sighing, I eye the bag dangling from my fingers and take the plunge, pulling out something heavy wrapped in tissue paper.

My first gift of any kind in three years. How pitiful.

I unwrap it and stare down at the jar in my hand. And I don’t feel anything. Not amusement, not insult. Nothing. Swinging the door open, I call Debbie, stopping her muscling her way through the crowd still blocking the corridor. I hold up the jar of Humbugs, and she pouts. “The budget was twenty quid, right?”

“Right.”

“I want to file a complaint.”

“To be fair, they’re quite fancy Humbugs.”

“Who drew me?”

“Thomas.” She doesn’t hesitate, and I laugh. What a joke. I spend my working life trying to control his spending habits, and he couldn’t even meet the poxy twenty-pound budget? “Next year, please spare me the inevitable dig.” I slam my door and glance at the clock. Not at the time, but the date.

December eighteenth. I take a breath and swallow hard. For the first time, I know I won’t spend the day in desolate loneliness, where no one else around me feels the same agony and grief. Dec’s the only thing that might get me through tomorrow.

* * *

By lunchtime, the noise has finally died down outside my office. I’ve watched my phone between emails, waiting for it to ring, beep, vibrate. Give me anything from Dec.

Nothing.