LITMIR.BIZ

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to you firing her husband.’

      Lawrence held her gaze, his voice as smooth as his perfectly styled hair. ‘Who said I was firing Roger?’

      A chill of foreboding crept into her shoulders, tightening the muscles around the base of her neck. God, her head hurt. ‘Well, you did … didn’t you? Someone has to be accountable and all that. I assumed we were talking about Roger?’

      Lawrence gave her an insincere smile. ‘You know, Charlie, when you assume, you make an “ass” out of “u” and “me”.’

      She tried to see past the latest cliché and comprehend his meaning. Her fingers fiddled with the button on her jacket. ‘Wh … what are you saying?’

      He opened his hands, another perfected ‘trust me, I’m about to fleece you’ gesture. ‘This pains me more than it does you, Charlie …’

      She doubted that.

      ‘… but I have to let you go. You’re an amazing designer, but this client is too influential to ignore.’

      Ringing in her ears delayed the meaning of his words filtering through to her brain. For a moment, she just sat there, stunned. ‘But … but why? It wasn’t me who messed up. There was nothing wrong with my designs or my surveyor’s measurements. This was down to poor workmanship, nothing else.’ The walls seemed to be closing in on her. Her dream job was slipping from her clasp.

      ‘You took your eye off the ball.’

      She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, trying to keep her composure. ‘I was juggling three jobs, Lawrence. I couldn’t be there every second to babysit. And I shouldn’t have to.’

      He gave a half-hearted nod. ‘But at the end of the day, it’s your responsibility to ensure the job is delivered on time and to brief. It’s your client, your job, your head on the block when it goes tits-up.’ Removing a ruler from his drawer, he measured the gaps between his trophies, adjusting any that didn’t meet his exacting standards. Standards she’d been drawn to, feeling they matched her own desire for perfection. ‘I’m sorry, love, but it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there.’

      She stood up, no longer able to contain her frustration. ‘So, Roger gets away with yet another piss-poor job? No matter what he costs the firm, you let him off … again.’ The urge to topple over his trophies was overwhelming, but her brain alerted her to the fact that trashing the boss’s office would not strengthen her defence.

      Lawrence shrugged. ‘Don’t be a sore loser, honey. Victory goes to the player who makes the next-to-last mistake. You know that.’

      What on earth was he on about? ‘Sorry, I don’t follow?’

      He pointed at her with the ruler. ‘You vandalised the shower screen.’

      ‘Hardly vandalised …’

      ‘The entire ceiling needs replastering. That was you, right, not Roger?’ He asked the question in such a way that it was obvious he already knew the answer.

      Technically, it was true: she had slammed the shower-screen door so hard it had shattered, but only because Roger had drilled through a water pipe and then tried to cover it up with gaffer tape. When she’d peeled away the protective covering, water had spurted from the wall, soaking her jacket and skirt. Squealing from the shock of cold water hitting her midriff, she’d slipped backwards, her legs had parted company and the small slit in the back of her skirt had ripped all the way up to her bottom. She’d had to negotiate the Tube journey home with her jacket tied around her middle, trying not to flash her knickers to the other commuters. Talk about humiliating.

      Lawrence sighed. ‘Look, take some time off. Lie low for a while. Maybe we can look at rehiring you in a few months’ time. But for now, I have to let you go. The company can’t afford to fight this.’ He dropped the ruler in the drawer, closing it with an ‘I’m done’ thud.

      Tears threatened to surface. ‘So that’s it? You’re firing me?’ Her voice caught. ‘This is so unfair.’

      Lawrence opened his office door. ‘Life is unfair, honey.’

      She had no recollection of driving home. Her head thumped with a rhythm that made it hard to form coherent thoughts. She’d been fired? Sacked? Thrown under the bus so Lawrence could protect his family? It wasn’t fair. This wasn’t her fault … well, not entirely. Surely Dodgy Roger should be held accountable too? Why should he be allowed to get away with such ineptitude whilst she lost her career, something she’d fought for and worked so hard for all these years, giving up spending time with her friends, her family, just so she could achieve her dream of becoming a designer? What had it all been for?

      By the time she’d parked up in the underground car park and made her way to the lift, indignation had switched to fury. She jabbed at the lift button. Lawrence couldn’t do this to her. It amounted to unfair dismissal. Ethan would agree with her, he’d support her. Together they would raise a grievance, challenge her dismissal …

      So it was something of a shock to walk into the plush apartment in Kingston upon Thames that she shared with her boyfriend of four years to discover him packing a suitcase.

      Confusion was the first emotion to hit. Why was Ethan at home on a Thursday? It wasn’t even lunchtime. Did he have a business trip planned? But then why wasn’t it logged on their shared calendar? Their iPads were synchronized for real-time updates, so even if it was a last-minute booking, she’d know about it.

      The look on Ethan’s face gave further cause for alarm. ‘What are you doing home?’ His tone was surprisingly accusatory.

      Part of her wondered if she’d caught him having an affair. Was she about to discover a woman hiding in the wardrobe? No, that wasn’t possible … mostly because the wardrobes were disturbingly empty.

      Ethan was holding a suit-carrier bag. He threw it onto the bed, as if ridding himself of an incriminating weapon. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

      She hadn’t been expecting him either.

      Her brain was still trying to compute what her eyes were telling her. Clothes lying on the bed. Wardrobe doors open. Empty hanging rails. Two large suitcases sitting on the floor, their wheels denting the thick pile beneath. If Ethan didn’t move them soon, they’d permanently mark the carpet. Her brain was deflecting again.

      ‘I’ve been fired.’ Saying the words aloud made the reality of her situation even more painful. She’d lost her job. No, not lost. It had been stolen. She’d been unfairly cut loose, the sacrificial lamb, tossed onto the scrapheap as though she didn’t matter. But if she expected Ethan to be as upset as she was, she was woefully disappointed. He looked annoyed. Although, somehow, she sensed this wasn’t due to injustice on her behalf. ‘Fired?… Why?’

      Ignoring his question, she focused on what was happening in the bedroom that she’d shared with her partner for nearly two years, a room with subtle lighting, a king-sized bed and designer fitted wardrobes … which were currently empty.

      She looked at Ethan. He wasn’t dressed in his usual work suit with Tom Ford shirt and tie, he was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. His dark-blond hair had been cut since this morning – another appointment not recorded on their calendar.

      The pounding in her head increased. ‘Why are you packing? What’s going on here?’

      He stepped forward as if about to speak, but something flickered across his face. Irritation? Guilt? Panic?

      She waited, but no explanation was forthcoming. ‘Ethan …?’

      He drew his shoulders back, showing off the full extent of his six-foot height. Even in heels, she didn’t reach his chin. He swallowed awkwardly. ‘Okay, there’s no easy way to say this.’

      She took off her suit jacket, suddenly feeling hot. He still hadn’t spoken. ‘Ethan?’

      He folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’ve accepted a job in Paris.’

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