Page 23 of Power Move

Of course, anyone who ever asked received a firm yes. And that day, I got my yes.

9.SICKNESS

Davey

“Daph, do you—”

I stopped, looking around. My sister wasn’t here. Most of the office was at lunch, but Daphne never took her lunch or ate at her desk. Her husband never got a break, so she preferred to work on through it and leave right at five to hit the gym and see him. She was nothing if not predictable.

At the small table in the corner was her laptop—still open—and two massive cartons I recognized from the basement cafe. I heard her retching in the bathroom and grew concerned. I knew she had an appointment this afternoon—an important one. Was she not okay?

“Daphne?” I asked.

The sink turned on, then stopped, and a person emerged—it was not Daphne.

“Oh, fuck!” Eva startled, then settled.

“What are you doing in there?” I asked, sounding much angrier than concerned. I projected the wrong emotions already.

I put two and two together. She was vomiting. She’d just consumed two massive pastries.

“Are you… did you just… you don’t have to do that to yourself, Eva. You really deserve better than living in a world where?—”

“I wasn’t purging! Jesus Christ!” Eva said. “Ilikemy body, thanks. I just… it didn’t sit well.”

She looked down, then muttered, “Bloody hell!” Disappearing again, she slammed the door behind her.

“Go away, okay?” She called through the door.

“What? Why?”

“I have sick on my jumper!”

“Eva, did you lose your mind?” I chuckled. “You sound like my mother.”

My mother was a Scot raised in posh boarding schools in the South of England.

“I’m sorry. I’m overwhelmed. I don’t want to come out. I’ve got puke on me and?—”

She started sobbing irrationally.

“Can I help in any way?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.”

I waited her out. She emerged once more in a work-inappropriate ensemble. Her cute little tennis skirt and low-cut tank top would have been fine at the gym. It violated every bit of our dress code—and probably that of many stodgy pros at the tennis club.

“I am sorry,” Eva cried. “I am out of clothes.”

“What is going on?” I repeated. “And where is my sister?”

“She’s getting tests run. I borrowed her office.”

“And you’re ill. So, what, you’re spreading norovirus?”

I was a germaphobe. Any of my staff knew even a sniffle necessitated a mask or work from home. Childhood asthma left me phobic of germy confines. For all I knew, Eva was averysexy Typhoid Mary.

“It’s not catching.” Eva grabbed a tissue and blew her nose.