This Man Confessed(83)

“Oh, everything’s in order, then?”

“Yes, everything.” I sound short and terse, but I’m trying my best not to be.

“Are you okay, flower?” My boss’s concern is clear, when he should actually be telling me to buck up and answer him properly.

I stop typing and turn to face my cuddly bear of an employer. “I’m sorry. Yes, I’m fine, but I’ve got a heap of things I want to get done before the day’s out.” I mentally applaud myself for blagging my way through that whole little speech.

“Excellent!” He laughs. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll be in my office.” He lifts from the desk and for the first time in four years, it doesn’t creak, but I still wince anyway.

“Ava, I’m sorry to bother you,” Sal says, sounding apprehensive.

“What’s up, Sal?” I look up at our plain-Jane turned office siren, and force a smile, until I see the plaid skirt. It’s back, and I was so busy throwing cautionary looks at everyone when I arrived this morning that I hadn’t noticed. I also hadn’t noticed the lack of polished nails or scoop neck top. Or the face that looks like it’s just been dealt the most dreadful news. She’s been dumped.

“Patrick has asked me to run through all of the invoices due for payment. Here’s a list.” She hands me a printout of clients. “He’d like you all to gently remind your clients so we get the payments on time.”

I frown and cast my eyes over the spreadsheet. “But they’re not due yet. I can’t remind them when they’ve not even forgotten.”

She shrugs. “I’m just the messenger.”

“He’s never asked us to do this before.”

“I’m just the messenger!” she snaps, and I recoil in my chair. Then she bursts into tears. I should be jumping up and soothing her, but I’m just sitting here, watching her wail all over my desk. She’s snorting and sniffling, attracting the attention of everyone, including Patrick, who has ventured from his office to see what the commotion is all about, but he retreats hastily when he spots Sal in tears. Tom and Victoria sit tapping their pens, neither one of them rushing over to comfort Sal, so it’s down to me to sort her out. I stand, taking Sal’s elbow and leading her into the toilets, where I stuff her hands full of tissue and wait silently for her to pull herself together.

After a good five minutes, she finally speaks. “I hate men.”

My heart breaks a little for her. “Things not too good between you and—”

“Don’t say his name!” she blurts out. “I never want to hear it again.”

It’s a good job because I can’t remember it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She rubs away at her cheeks. There is no makeup transferring onto the tissue. She has well and truly returned to boring Sal.

“He’s here, then he’s not. He calls, then he doesn’t. What does that mean?” She looks at me expectantly, like I might know the answer.

“You mean he’s messing you around?”

“I’m on call when he wants, so yes. I sit around waiting for him to ring me, and when he does want to see me, it’s lovely, but all he wants to talk about is me. My friends. My job.” She sniffles a bit more. “When will he want to have sex?”

I cough on a laugh. “You’re worried because he hasn’t tried to get you into bed?”

“Yes!” She collapses against the wall. “I don’t know how much more we can talk.”

“It’s nice that he wants to get to know you, Sal. Too many men are after one thing.” Is she sexually frustrated? Or is she sexually clueless? Has she ever even had sex? I can’t imagine it, and if I go by the deepening red of her cheeks, then I think I might have my answer. Sal’s a virgin? Fucking hell! How old is she, anyway?

Victoria’s head pops around the door, halting my intended interrogation tactics. “Ava, your phone’s ringing off the hook.” She can’t resist a quick inspection of herself in the mirror before she leaves.

“Sal, I’d better get that.” It might be Jesse, and he’ll be beside himself. “Will you be okay?”

She nods, sniffles, and blows her nose before running her teary eyes all over me. “Are you feeling better?” she asks.

“Yes.” I frown, forgetting my recent absences from work. I’m not ready to share my news yet.

“You don’t look it. What’s wrong, anyway?”

I search my brain for a feasible reason for my constant dashing to the toilet and bad moods. “Tummy bug” is the best that I come up with.