Page 19 of Every Silent Lie

“Why do we need to talk?”

Why do we need to talk? Yesterday, I tried to talk him out of thousands of pounds on unmerited bonuses—not that I was successful. TF Shipping needs to be attractive to an investment bank. We should have achieved the necessary profit margins within the last forty-eight months. There needs to be full business operational transparency, and I’m still finding odd transactions that have nothing to do with the business but are claimed as such. If Thomas wants to issue an initial IPO where an investment bank underwrites his process and determines share prices, then promotes stock for potential investors, he needs to have a clear reason for floating, and credible share price growth. His operating costs need to reduce, and profits need to increase. And yet . . . We’ve been over this a thousand times, Thomas. “You know what? I’ve nothing new to say. I’ll review last month’s figures.” I hang up, frustrated, and email Finance for this month’s numbers, answering my phone when it rings and placing it in the crook of my neck so I can keep typing. “Debbie.”

“Thomas wanted me to remind you about Friday.”

“I just spoke to Thomas. He never mentioned Friday. What’s Friday?”

“The Dorchester at seven.”

I inwardly groan. “Right, yeah. I said yes to that, didn’t I?”

“And I have someone called Dec Ellis on the line for you.”

My typing fingers still on the keys, my email unfinished. “Ellis?” He’s not told me his surname. “Dec Ellis?”

“Shall I put him through?”

My stomach flips. “Um . . . yeah, sure, put him through.” I wriggle my foot back into my heel under my desk and stand, picking up my phone and walking up and down. Nervous. Alive. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says, soft and low. I close my eyes and breathe through the shudder rippling down my spine. He really has the most incredible voice—deep but silky. “Lunch?”

“Lunch?”

“Are you free for lunch?”

“You want to have lunch?”

“No, I want to see you.”

I stop pacing as a rush of warmth fills me. “I don’t take lunches.” Never. Not in the history of my employment have I taken a lunchbreak.

“Take one today.”

I don’t realise I’m biting down on my lip until I feel a sharp stab. Why am I doing that? Biting down on my lip, trying to stop myself smiling? Because I don’t think I should smile? Am almost afraid to? For so long, I’ve stumbled through my days, hollow, lost, desperately sad, and now I don’t know how else to be. But around Dec, the weight of my past seems to lift a little.

And that’s something to smile about.

I breathe in deep, release my lip from my teeth, and allow myself the privilege of smiling, albeit small. “Okay.”

An audible rush of breath travels down the line. Relief. “Where works for you?” he asks. “I’m at the top end of The Strand.”

“I’m on the other side of Piccadilly Circus.”

“Meet in the middle?”

“Now?”

“I’m on my way.” He hangs up, and I pull my phone away, looking at the receiver. He’s on his way. A surge of energy hits me, and I become a bit of a flustered—very unusual—mess, dropping my phone clumsily on my desk, getting all caught up in the cord as I do. “Fuck it,” I say, trying to unravel myself. How the hell did it end up round my thighs? The door knocks. “Don’t come in,” I yell, just as the door opens.

Thomas stops dead in his tracks, taking me in, a state of a woman tangled in a bloody phone cord. “All right?”

“Fine.” I lift a foot in turn and step out of my trap as gracefully as I can before claiming my bag and unhooking my coat off the wall. “I’m going for lunch.”

“Huh?”

“Lunch. I’m going for lunch.” I pass a very concerned-looking Thomas.

“You don’t eat lunch. In fact, I’ve never seen anything but coffee pass your lips.”