Page 27 of Tears of Glass

He turns and walks away, his hands jammed in the trousers of his suit. My chest almost caves as I watch him.

He still didn’t say sorry.

For a long moment I stand in the street, wondering what to do. Angela is going to think I’m off my head the way things are going. I am off my head.

I don’t know what to do.

Do I go in and apologise? Do I consider a project where Elijah Fairclough is the backer, even if it could mean television and high exposure? This could be the start of everything.

My gaze falls on Elijah’s retreating form. That was everything. And it’s walking away again.

With a hard swallow, I hold my head as high as I can possibly manage and walk back into the bar. Angela is still there, sipping her wine, her eyes on the screen of an iPad. “Sorry,” I say when I get back to the table.

She eyes me, then slides my glass over. “You look like you could do with this.”

I nod and smile gratefully, swigging the wine down in nearly one go. “You could say that.”

“He’s a fine-looking man, isn’t he?” she states the obvious with no shame.

“Yeah, I guess.”

I slide into a seat and hope that maybe this meeting might finally start.

“And you two, you were lovers?”

I almost choke as I start to sip on my second glass of wine.

“Temporarily. Now he’s getting married and I’m talking to you about television.”

Her mouth opens to speak, but I’d rather we moved this on, so I hold my hand up. “Can we just talk about the project?”

She nods and holds her glass up to clink with mine. The gentle chime of glass tinkles between us. “Sounds good.”

We both take a sip of our drinks and I try to settle the butterflies thrashing about in my stomach like they are trapped under a net.

“So, Fart Off,” she says, and I immediately begin to giggle.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude the other week when I said that.”

She grins and shakes her head. “No. It’s fine. I like you. If we wanted someone boring and predictable we’d go poaching over at the BBC.

I shrug. One thing they are guaranteed with me is unpredictable.

***

IT’S LATE WHEN I SLIP out of the black cab. And slip I do, my stupid stilettos no longer functioning under two shared bottles of wine. Angela is nice, she’s got a cheeky edge which speaks to my dangerous edge.

“You okay, love?” The cabbie turns and looks at me on the floor.

“Yep, yep I think so.” I wave at him. “Just go. My front door is right there.”

The cabbie’s face creases with concern, but I give him another little wave with my fingers. “I’m fine, seriously. I’m just going to tell my shoes to work and then I’ll be.’ I point to the upstairs window. I can’t be arsed to finish my sentence.

“Okay, miss.” He leans over and shuts the door and I watch as he shifts back into the quiet evening traffic. Although it’s London, so it’s never truly quiet. With a groan, I slip off my shoes. Maybe I should leave them out here. They are clearly faulty.

My phone beeps from inside my bag and I pop it onto my lap, rooting through it. It’s only a clutch, how hard can a phone be to find? Once the contents are spilled on the pavement next to me, I grab my phone and peer at the screen.

It’s Angela. Hope you get home safe. My head hurts already. Next time we will have coffee during the day.