Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
I nod to myself and hop out of the elevator when it stops at my floor, mentally running through the list of things Scarlett has to do this morning. My desk phone is ringing when I get there. “Hello?”.
“Mrs. Harper, it’s Prim from the vet. I’m calling about Boris.”
I lower to my chair, my heart skipping a dozen beats. “How is he?” I ask, tentative but hopeful.
“It seems your little friend has epilepsy.”
“Epilepsy?” I question, utterly stunned. “I thought he had a heart attack.”
“It was suspected, but tests have shown conclusively that Boris had a seizure.”
I don’t know if that’s good or not. “Will he be okay?”
“He’ll be just fine with the right medication.”
I sag in my chair, so relieved. “Thank you.”
“He’s ready to go home when you can collect him.”
“I have somewhere I need to be this afternoon,” I explain, not particularly looking forward to Billy’s hospital appointment. “I’ll be there as soon as I’m done. Probably around four?”
“See you then, Mrs. Harper.” She hangs up, and I let a small smile free. He’s okay. Thank God, he’s okay.
Once I’ve emailed Scarlett, filled her water jug, and made sure her lunch reservation is confirmed, I settle down to start the email to Luke.
A whole hour later, I’m still typing—and deleting—words. I start with a formal “Dear Mr. Williamson” and then delete it and replace it with a not so formal “Good morning.” And after pondering my new greeting for a good ten minutes, I delete that too, and type a very informal “Hey.” Slumping back in my chair, I huff to myself. It’s just an email. He seems like a nice enough, stand-up guy. I’m sure he’ll understand. It only occurs to me now that Luke B Williamson has no line of contact to me at all. He doesn’t know how to find me. He gave me his card. If I don’t contact him, then I won’t have to spill my excuses for delaying paying him back. Speaking of excuses, what will I tell him? That my husband hasn’t worked for two years because he’s dying? That I’m living on the breadline? That I have debt collectors chasing me? If I chose to share my plights, it will be one more person in this world to feel sorry for me.
I sigh and reach for the delete button, hitting it four times, leaving me with a blank screen once again. He already feels sorry for you, Lo. Without your tragic story.
The phone ringing on my desk gives me a perfect excuse to stall some more. “Lo Harper,” I say, glancing up at the clock.
“Lo, there’s someone in reception to see you,” Teresa, the lady from the building’s reception desk, tells me.
I frown. No one ever comes to see me at work. “Who is it, Teresa?”
“Mr. Williamson?”
I go stiff in my chair, my hand gripping the receiver of my phone so tight I might crumple the plastic. “Mr. Williamson?” I breathe, staring at his email address on the monitor of my computer.
“Yes, shall I tell him to take a seat?”
“Yes.” I drop the phone and take a few moments to think. Oh no, has he come for his money? Maybe he’s concluded that I might not contact him like I promised. And, more importantly, how the hell does he know where I work? “Oh, God,” I whisper, slowly rising to my feet. I hold the edge of the desk to try and steady myself, super nervous, my legs jelly-like. How am I going to explain that I’m broke? How am I going to explain that I have no clue when or if I can ever pay him back? He knows where I work. He’s in security. He could have me fired.
“Lo, are you okay?” Scarlett asks as she approaches me from the boardroom, a coffee in her hand, a frown on her face.
I look at her blankly for a few moments, trying to remember what she’s asked me.
“Lo?” She comes to a stop before me, her frown morphing into concern. “Lo, is it Billy? Do you need to go home?”
“No.” I swallow and look at the button that will call the lift. “I have a visitor in reception. Do you mind?” I want her to tell me that she has something for me to do, something that can’t wait, therefore my visitor will have to. Hopefully he’ll get bored and leave, and my need to explain my circumstances will be gone. My humiliation will be avoided.
“No, of course not,” she says. “But are you sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.”
I strain a smile and press the button. “I’m fine.”
“Oh good, for a moment there, I thought . . .” Her perfectly painted lips straighten. “Well, never mind.” Scarlett gets on her way, stopping at her office door and smiling back at me. Sympathy. There it is.