Page 79 of Every Silent Lie

“Of course she doesn’t.” Debbie rolls her eyes. “Don’t forget Secret Santa on Monday.” Her eyebrows hitch. “I’m open to giving you ideas, just say the word.”

“I don’t need ideas, because I’m not included in Secret Santa.”

“You joined in for the Christmas jumpers,” she counters, shrill.

“Yes, and look where that got me.” Although, it was the first time I heard Dec laugh, so that made it almost worth it. I dump my bag on my desk. “What does a girl have to do to get a coffee around here?”

“Ask.”

I grit my teeth around my smile. “Can I get a coffee, please?”

“Sure.” Debbie curtsies. “I’d ask if you want sugar, but the whole building knows you need ten.”

“Do you want this job?”

She backs out the room on a bow and closes the door, and I shrug out of my coat and hang it on the hook. Before I’ve even opened my inbox, a text message lands, and my heart skips a beat as I scramble to find my phone.

I don’t know whether to be relieved or sad that it’s not Dec. But I certainly know I feel unspeakable fire in my belly that it is my husband.

I’m moving back into the house. We can’t afford for it to sit empty while you bury your head in the sand, and I can’t sustain a mortgage and rent forever. I’m sure you can’t either.

The only thing I’ve wondered if I can sustain is the unbearable pain. I don’t care about money. I don’t care about the house. I could never step foot in that place again, and it riles me to no end that he can, let alone live there with memories in every room, around every corner. The evenings in the kitchen cooking. The lazy days on the enormous couch vegging. The summers in the garden trying to figure out what were weeds and what were plants.

“Fuck you,” I mutter, going to my inbox and scrolling through the emails. Work. I need to focus on work. Not bastard exes. Not who would try to mug me on a deserted London street. Work.

I open an email from the accountant detailing the directors personal tax bills. One for the end of January and one for the end of July. “Jesus Christ.” I pick up my phone and call him. “I got the personal tax predictions. Do you have a rough idea on the corporation tax bill due in October?” I ask, getting up and walking circles around my desk.

“It isn’t pretty.”

“They never are.”

“Give or take a few million.”

“I’d like to take off a few million, Jeff. Thomas’s wife and son need a crash course in how tax works. They look at big fat bank accounts and rub their hands together. It doesn’t enter their heads that much of it is earmarked for company and personal taxes.”

“I’m not going to bullshit you, Camryn. The coughers have depleted drastically these past few months. It might come as a shock to you?—”

“Nothing comes as a shock to me anymore, Jeff.”

“The directors have been drawing dividends like they’re going out of fashion these past few weeks.”

Past few weeks? “By directors, I’m assuming you mean Barbara and Anthony specifically.”

“Yes. Have you seen the bank statements?”

“For the holding account? No. I run my eye over the current running accounts daily, but the holding accounts statements land the thirtieth of the month, since the activity is minimal.”

“Not so minimal at the moment. The ship is going to sink if you don’t repair the leaks.”

I rest my arse on the edge of the desk. “I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle.”

“Why are you still there, Camryn?”

I blink, frowning. “What?”

“A woman of your calibre. Why haven’t you walked?”

Because I need this job. “I like the challenge,” I quip, and he laughs. “Look, Jeff, the important question is, can TF Shipping afford these tax bills?”