Page 2 of Every Silent Lie

“Camryn,” he breathes. “Sorry. Look, I know you’re not a fan of Christmas?—”

“Not particularly.”

“And I don’t know why that is—religion, whatever—but I need you to be at the Inter City Reception next Friday. You’ll have the answers to every question I might be asked about us floating TF Shipping.”

“Where?” I ask, picking up my feet, keen to get through the grotto ahead. Thomas chases my heels as I march down the corridor through the throngs of people sipping champagne and the endless Christmas creatures—snowmen, elves, Mrs. Clause—all grinning at me. There is nothing to celebrate about December. There’s nothing to celebrate about anything.

“The Dorchester.”

“Time?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll come for an hour so make the most of me.” I hit the call button for the elevator and step in the second the doors slide open, wrapping my cream silk scarf around my neck.

“Great.” Thomas smiles, and I force one in return. I like the guy, I’ll admit. He’s a bit of a loose cannon, a child that needs keeping in line, but he’s a good guy. His wife and son, however, I can hardly stand. And I know the feeling is mutual since I came in here and started questioning every financial decision being made and penny being spent. “Have a good weekend, Cam . . . ryn.”

The doors meet, and I exhale a long breath, not quite breathing easy again, but certainly better than I was. I have to close my eyes for a moment, not only to avoid the woman I don’t recognise in the mirror before me, but to concentrate on swallowing the constant ball of anxiety in my throat. It’s Friday, which means I’ve two days ahead of no work days, just work in an apartment that’s not a home, just a place to sleep, shower, and keep my things.

I avoid it at all costs.

Which is why I’m not going home now.

As soon as I hear the doors slide open, granting my freedom, I open my eyes and hurry across the foyer, pushing out through the revolving door into the frigid evening air. I look down at the bottom half of my legs. Bare. I shiver, tying the belt of my camel trench coat and glancing down the street.

Once upon a time, Christmas lights would only grace the main shopping streets and tourist areas of London. Now, they seem to be everywhere—on every corner, in every window. Flashing lights at every turn, making me squint as I walk. I’d usually avoid Regent Street like the plague, but it’s my quickest route to where I need to be, and I really need to be there now.

Ducking and swerving through the crowds, I hurry across the road, dipping between the stationary cars, then up one of the side streets, leaving the masses of people behind when I step into The Royal Constantine Hotel. It’s one of my preferred hideaways.

My heels click on the lobby’s marble floor as I walk through. It’s all standard and familiar. A nod from the concierge, a smile from the guy behind reception, and when I make it into the bar, the barman immediately gets to making two dirty martinis.

My escape.

Peace. Anonymity. No one disturbs the woman at the end of the bar with two drinks before her and a coat draped over the next stool. In the office, I’m fair game. In a coffee house, bustling chaos assaults my ears. Yes, I could block it out, slip in my AirPods.

But I can’t get a dirty martini in a coffee house.

With my coat in position over the back of the second stool from the end of the bar, I take the last stool, setting some papers from my bag on the bar and checking my phone. There are no notifications—no texts, WhatsApp messages, or missed calls. Just work emails.

I stare down at the papers. Inhale. Debate if I should read them for the tenth time. No, I should just sign them. Except the barman places the drinks in front of me, distracting me from torturing myself for that tenth time. “Thank you.” I slide one glass over to the spare seat beside me and raise the other to my lips, sipping and swallowing, closing my eyes.

“Good?”

“Always.” This particular barman at The Royal Constantine does the best dirty martinis of all the barmen in all the hotels that I hide in. I nod my approval and set the glass down, scissoring the stem with my fingers. “It’s busy tonight,” I muse, glancing around at the tables. Six people. It’s a record.

The barman chuckles. “Tab?”

“Please.” Another sip. “It’s Friday.” And I have plenty of time to kill.

“I’ll leave you in peace. Just tap the bar when you need another.”

“It’s like you know me.” I get back to the papers, to torturing myself, chewing the corner of my lip as I scan the first page. Then I push them away, not up for dealing with my personal affairs, and get my laptop, opening up my work email account. I start archiving the bullshit I’ve been copied in on from various staff members and Thomas, shit I don’t need to know. It takes me down to a satisfying fifty emails to work through this weekend, and I’m finished my first martini by the time I’ve closed my laptop. I set the empty down and tap the bar, and the barman—as they all do—casts a brief look to the untouched one next to me waiting to be drank. I ignore him, and he starts working on my second drink.

“Oh, and it’s busier,” he muses, getting rid of my dirty empty and sliding the fresh one into my hand.

With the glass to my lips, I look over my shoulder, seeing a man in a navy trench coat heading to a table in the corner. He drops his briefcase on one of the velvet chairs and shrugs off his coat, throwing it on another chair. His tall, lean frame is carrying a beautiful mid-grey suit. His dark hair has flecks of silver on his temples, only noticeable because of the nearby spotlight shining on him briefly before he moves out of the light into the shadows and drops heavily into a seat, taking his mobile to his ear and raking a hand through his hair. Then his eyes meet mine, his head tilting. Refined, classic, a square jaw and heavy brow that makes him look as if he’s permanently in deep thought. Handsome. I hum under my breath and turn back toward the bar, resuming avoiding reading the paperwork, working my way through my second martini.

By the third, the much-needed, warm sense of disconnection comes over me, and I feel my strung muscles finally loosen and stop aching.