Dumped, Actually(17)

Once sat, she regards me with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. Erica Hilton’s green eyes are just as expressive as her voice. She can convey oceans of intent with a simple look. It’s always been quite disconcerting. Marry that with red hair that inexplicably seems to change hue depending on her mood, and she’s a formidable person to be around.

I’ve maintained a very good working relationship with Erica since I started at Actual Life six years ago. That was when she hadn’t been bought out yet, and owned the website outright. Back then it was still growing, and I was only the fourth staff member she’d hired. I got the job thanks to a speculative feature I’d written about why it’s okay for men to enjoy watching romantic comedies. Erica read it, loved my style and tone, and offered me the job straight away.

I’d like to think I contributed to the website’s huge rise in popularity over the first three years. I equally hope I’ve done nothing to hasten the decline it’s undergone in the last two.

The decline seems to have started right around the time that arsehole from ForeTech bought Actual Life to add to his portfolio of online companies. I’ve met Benedict Montifore a grand total of three times, and after each occasion I’ve wanted to hose myself down with holy water.

I’m willing to bet the vital parts of my anatomy that aren’t currently pickled in alcohol that the email Erica mentioned outside will be from him.

I take a sip of the coffee and rub my face, trying my best not to look Erica in her eyes.

‘What’s going on with you, Ollie?’ she asks gently.

‘What do you mean? I’ve had food poisoning.’

She gives me a look of derision. ‘Pull the other one, Mr Sweet, it’s got several bells on.’

‘What do you mean?’

Erica leans forward. ‘What I mean is that you called me two weeks ago to deliver a garbled message about having eaten some bad quinoa – which makes very little sense, by the way – and you sounded incredibly upset, rather than sick. I can tell the difference, you know.’

‘You can?’

‘Yes. Years of being a journalist talking to all sorts of people gives you a good ear for that kind of thing.’ She cocks her head slightly to one side in a questioning manner. ‘What’s really going on with you, Ollie?’

Oh hell. I guess I’d better come clean. I don’t like lying to Erica. I never have before, and it makes me very uncomfortable to do so now. She may only be six years older than me, but I look up to her a great deal as something of a mentor, and I’d hate to break her trust by continuing the charade of my quinoa-related food poisoning.

‘It’s Samantha,’ I tell her in a dull voice.

‘What about her?’ Erica’s eyes go wide. ‘Nothing’s happened to her, has it?’

‘Nothing’s happened to her, don’t worry.’ My lip wobbles a bit.

Traitorous lip! Why must you wobble in the presence of our boss?! Why can you not stay firm and rigid? Damn you, bottom lip! Damn you, and all that you stand for!

‘What happened, Ollie?’ Erica presses, as gently as possible.

‘She . . . she dumped me. I asked her to marry me on her birthday, and she dumped me.’ I hate how pathetic I sound, but I can’t help it. Erica is the first person – other than a suicidal bloke in flip-flops – I’ve talked to about this face to face, and it’s incredibly hard.

‘Oh, Ollie. That’s terrible,’ Erica sympathises.

‘Yeah. You could say that. I’m sorry I took so much time off.’

She waves a hand. ‘Don’t worry about it. When Chris left me, I could barely function for a month. Actual Life nearly never got going because of his awful timing. What happened with Samantha? You seemed so happy.’

I go on to tell Erica all about the hideous day at Thorn Manor, including the oompah band. I then fill her in about the following two weeks, and my run-in with Wimsy. I finish my sorry little tale by confessing that I have no idea how to get over the heartbreak. Not this time around.

Though I have to admit that I feel a tiny bit better at the end of it. Spilling my guts to someone I’ve always trusted is quite therapeutic. I say this to Erica.

‘That’s great. Glad I can be of a little help.’ She sits back and puffs out her cheeks. ‘Christ, though . . . that all sounds horrible, Ollie. I’m so sorry.’

God bless her, she didn’t even laugh at the oompah band.

‘Thanks. It’s been a miserable time for me.’

‘I bet.’ Erica thinks for a moment. ‘Well, what I’m certainly not going to do is tell you that there are plenty more fish in the sea, or that there’s another girl out there for you somewhere. People tried to tell me the same thing after Chris left, and I could have clawed their eyeballs out.’

I give her a brief smile. ‘Thanks. I don’t think it would do me much good at the moment.’

‘No, I’m sure it wouldn’t.’

‘I have to think of something to get me over this, though,’ I tell her. ‘I feel like I’m in a slow-motion car crash at the moment. If I wallow in self-pity for much longer, I’ll start to rot from the inside out.’ I chew on a fingernail. ‘Quite how I do that, I have no idea.’

‘Hmmm,’ Erica says thoughtfully, drumming her nails on the desk. She then narrows her eyes a little, and smiles. ‘Why don’t you write about it?’