Awkward in Trouble (Awkward #4) Page 2

  “He wants what’s best for me,” she sniffs. “I know you think he’s awful, Em, and I don’t blame you, but you didn’t see him. He was devastated. He blames himself, says he’s screwed up my career. He wants me to have the same opportunities I would have had if this hadn’t happened.”

  I contemplate this for a while, saying nothing. It’s a pretty grand gesture for Jack to make. He’s hurting himself by sending someone as good as Megan into the opposition’s hands. Maybe he’s not as cruel as I thought. At the very least I might be able to tolerate being in the same room as him, which is not something I could avoid if I want to keep my job. And I really love my job.

  It’s after midnight when I finally feel that Megan has calmed down enough for me to leave her. I promise to check on her first thing tomorrow, and then I wearily descend the stairs from her apartment and hail a cab to take me home. I pay the sitter, pull on my old comfy sleep shirt, and climb into bed beside Alyssa. I pull her tiny warm body against mine and breath in her sweet scent – a mix of talcum powder, fabric softener and pure innocence. As always, it calms me, cementing me in this moment and overriding all the stress of my day. I kiss her cheek before closing my eyes, and then I drift off to sleep.

  2

  “Coffee,” Oliver announces the following morning as he sets a Starbucks-emblazoned paper cup on my desk.

  “You are a saint,” I reach for it and scald my tongue with the first sip. “Who’s bright idea was it to have the party right in the middle of the week, anyway?”

  “You left in a hurry. Did you take the party elsewhere?”

  I shake my head. “I wish. I had to leave for another reason. Girlfriend in need.”

  “Ah,” he waves his own coffee in the air. “My ex-wife had that problem often. Although in her case, it was a little more literal.” He heads out the door to his own office, and I smile despite myself.

  I check my emails, and I am surprised to see one from Greg Daniels, sent at six this morning.

  Emma,

  Further to our conversation last night, I propose we meet tomorrow (Friday) at 10.00 am. Please advise if this is acceptable to you.

  Regards

  Greg Daniels

  CEO

  Nanosec Technologies

  Tomorrow? I thought we had agreed to meet next week. I quickly check my diary. I’m supposed to be an at internal sales meeting at 11, but I know Jack won’t mind if I miss it.

  Dear Greg,

  10.00 am is perfect, thank you for setting aside the time to see me.

  Regards,

  Emma Johnson

  Key Accounts Executive

  Focus Media International

  I hit send and check the rest of my emails, replying to each and making notes on those that I need to give more thought to. I wait a few minutes, but nothing new comes through, and so I pencil the meeting in my diary and pick up the telephone to make two calls. The first is to let Jack know that I won’t be at the meeting tomorrow. The second is to check on Megs.

  “Hey.” Her voice is hoarse from crying.

  “Hey,” I reply, as brightly as I can manage, “how are you feeling?”

  “Like crap.”

  “I’m sorry.” It seems like such an insignificant thing to say.

  “It gets worse,” she sighs, “Jack’s wife called me.”

  “Susan? What did she say?”

  “She wants to meet me.”

  “Oh God, Megs. What did you tell her?”

  “That I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she sighs again, and my heart hurts for her. Megan is one of the happiest people I know. Usually.

  “Have you spoken to Jack about it?”

  “I can’t. I’m terrified to call him in case she’s around or sees the call register.”

  “Why don’t you call the office?”

  “No, I’m paranoid now. She could have spies anywhere. What if she’s spoken to Chloe? Chloe hates me anyway, and even if Susan hasn’t got her clutches in there, Chloe would think it’s weird me calling, particularly after being fired. She’d probably tell the whole office.”

  “You’re right,” I admit. That’s exactly what Chloe would do.

  “Maybe you could...?” Megan lets the question hang, and I shake my head, even though she can’t see me.

  “No, Megs! I can’t. Please, I don’t want to get in the middle of this.”

  “I know it’s difficult for you, but I just really need to ask his advice on how to handle it.” Megan knows exactly how to push my buttons and play on my sympathy.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I concede, knowing I’m going to regret it.

  “Thanks, Em. I really appreciate it.”

  “I’ll chat to you later.” I hang up and get back to work, wondering how on earth I am going to keep my promise to Megan as well as my own job.

  Determined to research Greg Daniels as thoroughly as possible before our meeting tomorrow, I open a new browser window. It takes me less than a minute to sign into my Facebook account and another twenty seconds to find Greg’s profile. It’s set to private, so I can’t see much, but I zoom in on his profile picture. He’s on a mountain bike, covered in mud, and he’s giving the cameraman two thumbs up. I click on the photos tab and a handful of images come up. A group of people in a white-water raft, one toppling out of the side as a wave of water hits the prow. A photo of Greg skydiving, his cheeks oddly distorted by the updraft. More cycling pictures, one where he is surrounded by a group of smiling women each wearing a matching pink shirt. I zoom in on the photo to read the words emblazoned on their shirt pockets: Dirty Angels. What the hell?

  The more I look, the more I realize that I have nothing in common with Greg Daniels. He’s a super-fit, super-competitive, overachiever. I prefer my achievers moderately adequate, and my idea of exercise is leaping over discarded Lego while cleaning the house.

  Green tea, I think wryly. I bet he drinks green tea and snacks on Goji berries. In an act of defiance, I take a huge gulp of my coffee. It’s ice cold.

  I’m so absorbed in my stalking that I almost miss it when my phone pings. It’s a text from Megan: Did you speak to him? I gaze dejectedly out of the window, then I push back my chair and head out of the door, taking a sharp left turn.

  “Come in,” Jack barks when I knock on his office door. I push it open and stand uncertainly in the doorway. Jack is at his desk, bent over a stack of paperwork and scribbling furiously, but he glances up when I enter and peers at me over his reading glasses.

  “What is it?” He asks suspiciously. Usually, I just buzz him from my office like I had earlier.

  “Um...” I take a few steps into the office, closer to his desk, “Jack, I was wondering if I could ask you a question. It’s about Megan.”

  “I thought I made this clear to you last night, Emma,” Jack interrupts furiously. “Megan is no longer employed by the Focus Group, and I have no wish to discuss this matter any further.”

  “It’s not that – I mean, I’m not here to try and get her job back or anything.” I wave my hands helplessly in the air. “She asked me to come,” I say eventually. “Your wife called her.”

  Jack gets up without a word and closes the door. He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Susan called her?”

  “Yes. She wants Megan to meet with her, and Megan obviously doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t want to cause any more trouble.”

  “How is she holding up?” His voice has lost all trace of irritation. Now, he sounds weary and concerned.

  “She’s your wife, you’d know better than I.”

  “Not Susan. Megan. How is Megan doing?”

  The question is so unexpected it throws me for a loop. “She’s okay,” I reply. “She just wants to speak to you. I think she’d want that even if Susan wasn’t hounding her for a meeting, though,” I say pointedly, my message crystal clear. Jack smiles, and it’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Tell her to go ahead and meet Susan,” he says,
to my utter surprise. “I know my wife,” he explains, “she won’t leave Megan alone until she gets what she wants.”

  “What should Megan tell her?”

  “The truth,” he says simply, “I don’t expect Megan to lie for me, Emma.”

  I nod and let myself out of his office, mulling over his unexpected thoughtfulness. This is the second time that I have been witness to Jack’s feelings, and I’m starting to think that Megan is not the only one who was so affected by their relationship. It doesn’t make me feel any better to suspect that Jack may care far more deeply for Megan than he’s letting on.

  I text Megan to let her know what happened, omitting my suspicions about Jack’s feelings, which would only add fuel to the fire, and then I get back to work.

  After a busy day, I weave my way through traffic. My parents’ house is only a few blocks away from my own, a sweet little two-story house with a grey roof and a blue front door.

  When Alyssa was born, Max and I had stayed in an apartment in the city, but after the divorce, I’d moved out to the suburbs. It was well worth the extra half hour of traveling every day to see Alyssa playing outdoors, and I’d wanted to be closer to my support base. My mom and dad are a huge help; they fetch Alyssa from preschool, take her to the park, play with her in the garden, and do all sorts of fun things that I don’t always have the time to do. My mom invariably almost always cooks dinner for the both of us, although sometimes I take mine to go.

  “It’s me!” I call as I enter through the kitchen door. My mother is standing over the stove, waiting for the kettle to boil. “Hi, mom.” I kiss her cheek.

  “Do you want some tea?” she asks.

  “No, I’m good, thanks. I grabbed a coffee on the way home.”

  “How was your day?”

  “Long.” I grin. “Where’s Ally?”

  “They’re in there.” She points in the direction of the sitting room, where I find Alyssa and my dad playing dominoes.

  “Mom!” Alyssa leaps up at the sight of me, knocking half the dominoes across the table.

  “Hey, baby!” I scoop her up and twirl her in the air, kissing her neck until she squirms in my arms. “Did you eat?” I ask her, as I bend down to kiss my dad on the cheek.

  “I did. Grandma made broccoli.” She sticks out her tongue in disgust.

  “Broccoli is good for you.” I tap her on the nose and set her back down.

  “I drawed a picture of us,” she says coyly, trying to distract me.

  “Drew,” I correct automatically. “Oh wow!” I take it from her and can’t stop the warmth that suffuses my cheeks as I look down at it. She’s holding my hand under a wax-yellow sun. My parents stand beside us, their dark hair such a contrast to mine and Alyssa’s. My mom meets my eyes over the drawing.

  “We spent all afternoon on that,” she says.

  “It’s beautiful. Definitely one for the pinboard.”

  “Your supper’s in the warmer.”

  “I’m not staying, I’ve got a big meeting in the morning.”

  “Give me a second, I’ll decant it for you.” She disappears back into the kitchen.

  “You okay, pumpkin?” my dad asks. “You look tired?”

  “Long day,” I reply. “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

  Mom comes back holding a plastic container, and I accept it gratefully before giving her a hug and my dad a farewell kiss on the cheek. I grab Alyssa’s bag and head for the door. “We’ll see you guys tomorrow!” I call over my shoulder. Alyssa trails along happily behind me.

  An hour later Alyssa is bathed and ready for bed, and I manage to put my feet up for the first time today.

  “You didn’t eat all your broccoli,” my daughter reprimands, glaring over my shoulder at the plate on the coffee table.

  “Don’t tell Grandma.” I smile, and she narrows her eyes, sensing weakness.

  “Can I have ice-cream before I go to bed?”

  I pull her over the sofa and onto my lap. “Tell you what. Why don’t we both have ice-cream before we go to bed?”

  “Don’t tell Grandma?” she asks, her dimples prominent as she smiles slyly.

  “Don’t tell Grandma,” I agree, kissing her nose.

  Twenty minutes later, I read her a bedtime story and tuck her into bed. She clutches ‘Raffy’ tightly to her chest and closes her eyes, utterly content, and my heart swells at how far she’s come. After the divorce, it took months before she would sleep in her own room. Raffy is a stuffed toy giraffe that I bought for her as a baby. He is worn and faded, but she cannot bear to be separated from him, even now. I smile as I remember the time one of his legs fell off, and how I had to sew it back on while frantically trying to console her. When she’d finally calmed down, she had examined my stitchery, narrowed her eyes and announced that grandma would’ve done a better job. She hadn’t asked my mother, though, and my uneven stitches remained.

  At about nine o’clock my phone pings beside me. I frown as I reach for it. Who would be messaging me so late? A second later my question is answered. It’s my ex-husband, Max.

  Can I pick Alyssa up tomorrow night? I have tickets to see Cinderella at the Play Theatre.

  I quickly type my reply: I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let’s stick to the arrangement. You can collect her on Saturday morning.

  I see him typing almost immediately. I got great seats. The tickets cost me a fortune.

  I heave a sigh and feel the familiar fatigue settle over me. Why did you buy them in the first place? You know you are only permitted day visits with A?

  There’s a short pause, and then a new message comes through. I didn’t think it would be a big deal. She’s my daughter too, Emma.

  Always Emma when he’s taking me to task. I fight the urge to scream at how quickly the conversation took a turn for the worse. Instead, I hit the call button.

  Max answers almost immediately. “Hi, Em.”

  I keep my voice calm. “Hey. Listen, I’m sorry about the tickets, but the judge did say we should stick to the agreement.”

  “Yeah, Emma, I hear you, but it’s just one damn night.”

  “Max, please, let’s not get into an argument.”

  “Who’s arguing?” he counters, and I’m relieved to hear that he sounds sober. “I have really great tickets. For Cinderella,” he emphasizes as if I don’t know who that is. As if I didn’t buy Alyssa the whole dress-up outfit for Christmas last year. “Ally will love it, what’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that I don’t want you having her overnight. And I don’t need to explain why, you know my reasons. They’re the same reasons the judge decided on no overnight visitation to begin with.”

  Max is silent for a long moment and I cringe, expecting his temper to flare, as it always does. Surprisingly, when he replies, he sounds calm and amiable. “Okay, point taken. How about this. How about I fetch her at six, take her to watch the show, and then drop her straight back home after? The show is two hours plus an interval, so we won’t be later than nine.”

  I consider this for a moment. Alyssa would love it – she’s crazy about Disney princesses, and despite everything that happened between Max and I, she adores her father. And he has been trying, he spends as much time with her as he can and in the year since the divorce, I have never known him to be anything but sober when he’s with her.

  “I won’t even get her an ice-cream on our way back,” Max coaxes. “Straight home.”

  I cave. “Okay, that sounds fair. I’ll let her know in the morning. You’ll fetch her from my folks, then? At six?”

  “Perfect,” he says, and I can hear the delight in his voice. The knot in my stomach eases ever so slightly. Max has his faults, but he’s a good dad.

  “Great, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” he confirms. “And Em, thank you.”

  I hang up the phone and stretch my arms. It’s getting late, and I have a busy day tomorrow. I pack Alyssa’s bag, carefully folding her Cinderella d
ress, and feeling grateful that I opted for one size up last Christmas. It still fits perfectly. I pack her lunch for school, stowing it in the refrigerator before I switch off the lights, and pad down the hall to my room.

  Sleep eludes me. I just can’t relax. A part of me is furious that I agreed to Max going against the court order, and the other part of me is berating that part for being such a cynical bitch. I try to read to distract myself, but the words blur, running into one as my eyes droop. I give up, slamming the book down on my bedside table and reaching for the switch on my nightlight. My gaze falls on the frames on my bedside table.

  In the first, Alyssa is laughing outright at the camera. It’s not the best photo of her, her hair is a tangled mess and she has paint on her clothes, but I love it. The second photograph is of me with my parents. I’m riding my dad’s shoulders and my mom is smiling up at me. It was taken only a few months after they adopted me, and mom says it’s her favorite because it was taken the first time they heard me laugh. I avoid looking at the third photograph. The silver-framed image shows a pretty blonde woman on the beach, shielding her eyes from the sun, her curls blowing in the breeze. I can’t face it tonight. Instead, I switch off the light without looking at it, and whisper softly, Goodnight Mom.

  3

  “Mr. Daniels will see you now,” the platinum blonde at reception announces. She eyes me with cold indifference as I get to my feet.

  I glance at my wristwatch as I make my way to the large double doors at the end of the hall. It’s 10.00 am, on the dot. At least Greg Daniels is punctual. As I reach the doors, they open from the inside, and Greg smiles down at me, his blue eyes warm.

  “Miss Johnson, welcome. Tracey, two coffees, please.” He steps aside and gestures me in. I have been in this office plenty of times before, when the previous CEO was in residence, and I am struck by the changes in decor. Gone are the Persian rugs and the dark mahogany furniture. Instead, the walls are painted a dove-grey, and an enormous white shag-pile rug covers most of the floor. Greg’s desk is enormous, but he directs me to a plush white leather sofa instead. I perch primly on one end, and he takes a seat beside me, lounging gracefully, his arm resting along the back.