Chapter 12

      The following week is just as horrible as I’d imagined it would be. I’m sent for coffee on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and not one of my English colleagues speaks up or offers to go on my behalf, though I did think I caught a very subtle flash of sympathy from Tony. This lunchtime, I was sent on a sandwich run while the men were actually fleshing out key components of the media campaign. It was almost the final straw. I was going to stand up for myself and say something – part of me is still reeling that I didn’t – but throwing away the seven years of hard work it took to get here seemed too big a trade-off. Harry was right: I’ve got my place, but I need to work on getting a better one. I’ll bide my time and be smart about it.

      When I’m tucked away in my room away from the others, I call Bridget for a catch-up.

      She answers on the third ring. ‘Hello, you.’

      ‘Hello,’ I say, exhaling loudly for effect.

      ‘Oh no. Are things still terrible?’

      ‘Yes! When I speak it’s like nobody at all has heard me. Honestly, I’m not exaggerating. It’s bizarre. There are moments where I sit there wondering if I’ve actually spoken at all, or if I just thought the words in my head. I honestly think I could strip naked in the centre of the boardroom and nobody would notice.’

      ‘Oh, honey. Please don’t strip naked in the boardroom. Have you spoken to any of the UK team about it?’

      ‘I tried to after the first couple of days. It just sounded so petty and whiney when I said it aloud. I asked Tony if he’d heard my idea today, and he just paused for a moment until I reminded him what it was, then he said, “Oh yeah, I think so” but that was it. Nobody is interested in what I have to say. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were interested enough to say, “Your ideas are rubbish”, but they don’t even do that. I might as well be invisible.’ My voice falters on the last word as emotion hits me from nowhere. Even my own body is choosing to ignore me. I’m not even emotional, I’m angry.

      ‘Oh, Sam,’ she says. ‘Keep at it, hon.’

      ‘I know. I’ve just never felt so small and insignificant before.’ Or at least not in a very long time. I suck up a lungful of air. ‘At least I’m in a wonderful place and I can go to the beach at the weekends.’

      ‘Definitely. How was Cape Cod?’

      ‘Amazing.’ I fill her in on my escapades and Harry and Barney and Ethan.

      ‘So, let me get this straight; Ethan is the arse from Boston? And he was there?’

      ‘Yes, and yes. What are the odds of that? He has now apologised, at least. He was having a bad day apparently.’

      ‘Well, we all have those but jeez. At least you can put it behind you now.’

      ‘Yes,’ I agree. Except I can’t. Not the incident as such, but Ethan. Over the past few days, I’ve caught myself randomly thinking of him. When I’m walking to the office, eating lunch, even brushing my teeth, for goodness’ sake, I see his face and hear his voice. He’s got under my skin and I don’t know why. I’ve encountered rude people before, but something about the dark look in his eyes that day, the tense muscles in his face, were different to how he was on Saturday night at the bar. Even when he was being all cocky in the bike place, the vacant, disengaged look I saw at the harbour was nowhere to be seen. I can’t shake the feeling that he was having more than just a bad day.

      ‘I’m going back to Provincetown at the weekend for a cookout – a barbecue, as far as I can tell – with Harry and Barney.’

      ‘Ooh, lovely. Don’t forget your real friends here in miserable and grey London, will you?’

      I giggle. ‘As much as I love the sunshine and gorgeous beaches of Massachusetts, you can’t beat a bit of drizzle and a bitch-fest with you lot.’

      ‘My sentiments exactly. Anyway, I have to go. I need to be in bed before midnight at least one day this week.’

      ‘Oops. I’d forgotten about the time difference,’ I say, feeling bad for calling so late.

      ‘It’s fine, I’ll catch a few mid-morning zeds when I’m at my desk tomorrow.’

      ‘I hope you’re joking, I can never tell.’

      ‘Unfortunately, the truth is in the eyebags,’ she cackles.

      ‘Okay, give the others my love.’ We exchange goodbyes, and I hang up feeling a little lighter. Just one more day of work to survive before I’m back in my happy place.

      ***

      The ferry journey to Provincetown passes pleasantly. It’s a great way to blow away the office cobwebs on a Friday afternoon. I shall definitely be making it a thing. I while away the time switching between reading and looking out across the ocean, watching the city fade away until it’s clouded by the rugged little islands that surround it and the deep blue of the water and sky all around.

      I get a warm welcome back at the hotel as the lady on reception recognises me, and once I’ve dumped my bags, I head to the main street to find Barney and Harry, who are just packing away their body paints.

      ‘Knocking off early?’ I say.

      ‘I need to go and see my meat guy for the cookout tomorrow.’

      ‘Your meat guy?’ I ask.

      ‘He means the butcher,’ Barney says. ‘Everyone has to be “a guy”.’

      ‘Oh, okay,’ I say, trying to sound upbeat at the discovery of my being at a loose end.

      ‘You should come,’ Barney says. ‘We’re going to cocktail afterwards.’ He does a little wiggly finger dance, whilst I amuse myself, imagining the Collins Dictionary entry for his new use of cocktail:

       Cocktail (verb)

       Kok-teyl

       to sip mixed alcoholic drinks in the company of friends.

      Unless to cocktail is like the US version of peacocking or something. I hope it isn’t. I hate drawing attention to myself, and besides, I don’t have my good shoes. ‘That sounds great. Are you sure you don’t mind me tagging along?’

      ‘We invited you. Of course not.’

      I relax a little. ‘Okay, but this time, cocktails are on me.’

      Harry winks. ‘I knew we liked you.’

      ***

      ‘So, have you climbed a rung of the ladder yet?’ Harry leans on the wooden table, sipping a blue cocktail which he says is called ‘The Harry’. It tastes like a Blue Lagoon to me, with perhaps a hint of something cherry-flavoured if I’m being optimistic. Barney has gone to back to their apartment to put the meat in the fridge and said he’ll catch us up.

      I shake my head. ‘I almost gave a big Jerry-Maguire-cum-Erin-Brockovich speech, but I didn’t think it would get me anywhere.’

      ‘Good. It wouldn’t have. What you need to do is show, not tell.’ Harry’s tongue is blue. It’s hard to take serious advice from him when he looks like he’s eaten a Smurf.

      ‘How do I do that then?’

      ‘Well, you’ve said their campaign ideas are unoriginal and that you’ve