“Thank you.” I smile before making my escape, but only to go and face my brooding man.
“What’s that?” His eyes are fixed on the bag.
“Backup pills.” I hiss in his face. “Now that we know I’m not pregnant, I want to stay that way.”
His shoulders slump and his head drops. I’m battling consuming guilt at his reaction to my news, but I have to ignore it. Sidestepping him, I start walking away, my legs a little shaky, my heart pounding relentlessly in my chest.
“You’re not coming home, are you?” he calls after me.
I squeeze the bulge back in my throat and march on. His words carry an air of finality, and, more worryingly, he’s not demanding that I stay with him. If I remove this baby from my life, it’s becoming quite obvious that I’ll be removing Jesse, too. I walk against the breeze, my face wet with tears.
Chapter Nine
The empty feeling was inevitable. The hollow, desolate, miserable feeling was inevitable. But the overwhelming guilt that has swamped me was not so expected. I fought off twinges here and there, but now I’m consumed by it. And I’m furious for feeling like this. The lack of urgency to chase my scan appointment is also screwing with my mind.
It’s Friday. It’s day number four without Jesse. My week has been a steady torture, and I know it’s never going to get better. My heart is slowly splitting, each day widening the crack, until I know I’ll probably cease functioning. I’m close already. What hurts the most, though, is the lack of contact, leaving me wondering if Jesse is drowning in vodka, which also means he’s probably drowning in women.
I jump up from my desk and run to the toilets, throwing up immediately, but I don’t think this is morning sickness. This is grief.
“Ava, you really should go home. You’ve not been right all week.” Sally’s concerned voice comes through the cubicle door. I heave myself up on a sigh and flush the chain before exiting to splash my face and wash my hands.
“Stupid bug hanging around,” I mutter, glancing at Sal and admiring her gray pencil skirt and black blouse. The dowdy A-line skirts and high-necked shirts are a distant memory. I haven’t asked, but with this consistent new attire, I assume dating is going well. “Are you still seeing that Internet bloke?” I ask. I would refer to him by name, but I have no idea what he’s called.
“Mick?” She giggles. “Yes, I am.”
“And it’s going well?” I turn and lean against the sink, watching as she starts brushing down her skirt, then proceeds to smooth her high ponytail.
“Yes!” she squeals, making me jump. “He really is perfect, Ava.”
I smile. “What does he do?”
“Oh, some professional nonsense. I don’t pretend to understand.”
I laugh. “Good.” I was just about to say be yourself, but I think it’s too late for that. I hear my phone shouting from my new desk. “Excuse me, Sal.” I leave her in the mirror, reapplying her red lipstick.
Approaching my new L-shaped desk, I ignore the deep-seated disappointment because I’m not hearing “Angel,” but I can’t ignore my exasperation when I see the caller is Ruth Quinn, my tiresome but infectiously enthusiastic client.
“Hi, Ruth.”
“Ava, you sound terrible.”
I know, and I probably look terrible, too. “I’m fine, Ruth.” That’s because I’ve just emptied my stomach again.
“Oh good. Can we arrange a meeting?”
“Is there a problem?” I ask, hoping to God there isn’t. I’m trying to keep this project as smooth as possible because even though Ruth seems pleasant enough, I predict a tricky customer if things don’t go her way.
“No problem. I just want to clarify a few details.”
“We can do that over the phone,” I prompt.
“I would prefer to see you,” she informs me, and I sag in my chair. Of course she would. “Today,” she adds.
I sag farther on an audible groan. I am not ending my shitty week with Ruth Quinn. I practically started it with Ruth on Tuesday, and I’ve had a midweek interlude on Wednesday. Anyway, it’s three in the afternoon. Does she think she’s my only client?
“Ruth, I really can’t do today.”
“You can’t?” She sounds irritated.
“Monday?” Why did I say that? I’ll be starting my week with Ruth Quinn again.
“Monday. Yes. Eleven okay?”
“Great.” I flick through my diary and pencil her in.
“Lovely.” She’s back to chirpy Ruth. “Have you anything nice planned for the weekend?”