sniggers and sly glances as people discuss my disappointment. But as they don’t know about Adam and me, then hopefully I will be spared that particular humiliation. Can you imagine what it would be like—everyone pitying me because my boyfriend has left me for anolder woman? I mean, I always thought men left their partners for younger women.
I am just about to slip furtively back down the stairs (this time I have eight flights to the first floor—at least it will help in building leg muscle), when Jacintha Bridges (Director of Human Resources) steps out of her office, the lovely diamond engagement ring on her finger glittering ominously.
“Emma,” she says, smiling pleasantly. “I thought I might see you today.”
Did she? I’ve always wondered if she’s psychic.
“I, er, just came to ask Tracey something,” I mumble, desperate to escape any kind of confrontation. “I’ll come back Monday. Have a nice weekend.”
“Do you have a minute? I’d like to speak with you.”
Oh, God, why did I come up here? Jacintha, a very astute woman, is bound to guess about me and Adam!
5:45 P . M .
Actually, Jacintha is very, very nice. It went well, I think. I only nearly burst into tears once. But I managed not to blurt out the whole sorry tale of Adam and me to her.
Apparently, there’s a vacancy coming up in Human Resources next week due to maternity leave. I really think I can make Human Resources my thing, I really do…
It seems that Angie of the Cruella disposition has been waiting for a secretarial job to come up in Advertising for months—she wants to move up from reception. So she’s the obvious candidate to replace me as Adam’s secretary.
This is a great idea.
In fact, I’m already feeling a bit better.
Two days of Angie and Adam will be on his knees!
A much better plan for revenge! (And it obviously won’t include me serving jail time.)
5
Un-Party Time
TO DO
Say “no” when am next offered worm-infested drink.
Remember to unplug telephone when am expecting to have crashing hangover next morning (caused not by excess wine, but by worm-infested drinks—see [1]).
Do not whine incessantly to my friends about traitorous boyfriend or lack of boobs. Instead, shall be wise-woman (as am now sad spinster again) counselor and selflessly help friends with their problems.
8 P . M .
Lovely, fabulous party. Lovely, caring friends. Delicious miniature saumon en croûte pastries (of which I have consumed more than my fair share) and shrimp in lemon batter, lots of champagne and Shiraz (of which I am valiantly striving to drink my fair share).
The only thing that has caused a blot on my landscape (obviously, apart from the whole Adam/Stella/nonpromotion blots on my landscape) is the cake. A traditional English fruitcake, made with all organic ingredients, specially baked by Rufus four months ago, at David and Sylvester’s request(to allow it the appropriate time to mature in a sealed container).
During this four-month time period (quickly counting backwards in time, Rufus baked this cake a month before I took the plunge and moved in with Bastard Adam, but I push this thought ruthlessly aside), Rufus has carefully nurtured this cake. Every two weeks he has removed it from its sealed container and layer of aluminum foil, and he has meticulously poked holes in the top and spooned in brandy. How lovely of Rufus to do this for me, especially since my cheating, bastard boyfriend can’t even remember it’s my birthday.
Although this cake is charmingly decorated with lemon and white frosting, tiny yellow rosebuds and silver bells, it is fairly obvious that a last-minute repair job has taken place.
On the cake are the words, CONGRATULATIONS TO EMMA .
And I know instinctively that it used to say, CONGRATULATIONS TO EMMA AND ADAM . Because everyone thought they’d be celebrating my birthday and my engagement.
Not that Rufus didn’t do a grand job of changing the lettering and rearranging the “Emma” so
I am just about to slip furtively back down the stairs (this time I have eight flights to the first floor—at least it will help in building leg muscle), when Jacintha Bridges (Director of Human Resources) steps out of her office, the lovely diamond engagement ring on her finger glittering ominously.
“Emma,” she says, smiling pleasantly. “I thought I might see you today.”
Did she? I’ve always wondered if she’s psychic.
“I, er, just came to ask Tracey something,” I mumble, desperate to escape any kind of confrontation. “I’ll come back Monday. Have a nice weekend.”
“Do you have a minute? I’d like to speak with you.”
Oh, God, why did I come up here? Jacintha, a very astute woman, is bound to guess about me and Adam!
5:45 P . M .
Actually, Jacintha is very, very nice. It went well, I think. I only nearly burst into tears once. But I managed not to blurt out the whole sorry tale of Adam and me to her.
Apparently, there’s a vacancy coming up in Human Resources next week due to maternity leave. I really think I can make Human Resources my thing, I really do…
It seems that Angie of the Cruella disposition has been waiting for a secretarial job to come up in Advertising for months—she wants to move up from reception. So she’s the obvious candidate to replace me as Adam’s secretary.
This is a great idea.
In fact, I’m already feeling a bit better.
Two days of Angie and Adam will be on his knees!
A much better plan for revenge! (And it obviously won’t include me serving jail time.)
5
Un-Party Time
TO DO
Say “no” when am next offered worm-infested drink.
Remember to unplug telephone when am expecting to have crashing hangover next morning (caused not by excess wine, but by worm-infested drinks—see [1]).
Do not whine incessantly to my friends about traitorous boyfriend or lack of boobs. Instead, shall be wise-woman (as am now sad spinster again) counselor and selflessly help friends with their problems.
8 P . M .
Lovely, fabulous party. Lovely, caring friends. Delicious miniature saumon en croûte pastries (of which I have consumed more than my fair share) and shrimp in lemon batter, lots of champagne and Shiraz (of which I am valiantly striving to drink my fair share).
The only thing that has caused a blot on my landscape (obviously, apart from the whole Adam/Stella/nonpromotion blots on my landscape) is the cake. A traditional English fruitcake, made with all organic ingredients, specially baked by Rufus four months ago, at David and Sylvester’s request(to allow it the appropriate time to mature in a sealed container).
During this four-month time period (quickly counting backwards in time, Rufus baked this cake a month before I took the plunge and moved in with Bastard Adam, but I push this thought ruthlessly aside), Rufus has carefully nurtured this cake. Every two weeks he has removed it from its sealed container and layer of aluminum foil, and he has meticulously poked holes in the top and spooned in brandy. How lovely of Rufus to do this for me, especially since my cheating, bastard boyfriend can’t even remember it’s my birthday.
Although this cake is charmingly decorated with lemon and white frosting, tiny yellow rosebuds and silver bells, it is fairly obvious that a last-minute repair job has taken place.
On the cake are the words, CONGRATULATIONS TO EMMA .
And I know instinctively that it used to say, CONGRATULATIONS TO EMMA AND ADAM . Because everyone thought they’d be celebrating my birthday and my engagement.
Not that Rufus didn’t do a grand job of changing the lettering and rearranging the “Emma” so
Similar Books
