Addicted to Mr Parks (The Parks Series #2)(8)
“Fucking her way to the top,” Nancy scoffed.
“Nancy, one must not use such vile language. But you’re right, wouldn’t have happened in my day,” Pat added.
They kept talking as they all vacated into different toilets. I thought about leaving while they were all engaged behind the doors and pretending I was never there, but I knew I had to confront them because that’s what I did.
“I haven’t the faintest idea why Clarke is fond of her. She takes utter advantage of that poor man. She cares about no one but herself. No wonder she is extremely disliked.”
Margret laughed at Pat’s comment before the sound of a flush. “Maybe she’s sleeping with him too.” They all laughed like a bunch of stuck-up snobs and stepped out of the cubicles. Then it was my time to shine.
Shoving the vodka bottle back into my bag, I pushed to my feet and unlocked the door. As soon as I stepped out, the women looked up into the mirror. Horror filled their eyes when they noticed it was me.
“You think just because I act the way I do—cold, distant—means that I can take what you all say about me? You think because I’m an introvert that nothing ever hurts my feelings? Well, you’re wrong. I have f*cking feelings. I hurt, I cry, and I bleed the same as all you do. Just because I can be a bitch, does that mean I deserve to be hated by everyone?”
Pat shook her head, her pearl earrings wobbling in her ears. “Evey, we didn’t—”
“It’s okay. I can take the hurtful comments everyone throws my way because I’m tough, right?” I was stupidly close to crying, but I sucked it in. “You know, before you pass judgment, maybe you should take a second out of your perfect lives to stop and ask another question—what’s wrong? Instead of judging and looking disgraced. Everybody hurts. Not just the perfect.”
Yes, that ruffled their pretentious feathers a little. A tear even fell from Pat’s eye. I had never said anything like that to anyone, and the thought hounded me. No one knew me except Steph, and that was the way I wanted it to stay.
Leaving them gaping after me, I swiftly took the lift down to the ground floor, having one thing in mind—get me home.
Home? I scoffed. I had no home. I had no friends I could turn to and talk about my problems with. I’d even gave up on my AA sessions because I didn’t need them.
I was right. I didn’t need help. I had to bottle it all up and drink it.
I hurried across the lobby, dodging rushing crowds of suits and dresses, allowing my feelings to fade into fury. My gaze was glued to the exit door, and my sudden goal was to get out into fresh air. I was almost there until my heel unexpectedly snapped. I was sent tumbling to the ground, flat out on my face. My bag flew from my hands, and all its contents scattered across the lobby, including the empty vodka bottle. My reaction time was slow because of being intoxicated, and it gave me no time protect my head from crashing into the marble. The instant pain felt sickening. The ringing inside my ears stunned me. Before I had a chance to open my eyes, I was pulled to my feet by numerous helping hands as gasps echoed around the room. I reached for my head, trying to ease the pain to no avail. Voices and murmurs clustered all around me. I blinked my eyes open, coming back to earth and into contact with the crowd gathered around me.
“You all right, miss?” A man with a black moustache touched my shoulder as a woman passed me back my bag. I glanced up for a second, disorientated, and spotted intense green eyes studying the situation. I half expected him to rush towards me to help, but choosing to ignore my existence, he turned on his heel and strode into the open lift with Joanna, his assistant, following behind. Parks ignoring me prompted my need for another drink and sent the anger I felt before I took a fall roaring back.
“I’m fine,” I snapped at the gaping crowd and scrambled for the exit, hobbling on one shoe.
Chapter Five
Walking into my parents’ flat, shoeless, I instantly got hit by the smell of a distinctive toxic odour I had learned to distinguish as a child. The burning smell of sweet rubber was completely revolting. It turned my stomach, making me gag as I walked into the lounge, expecting to see one of my parents smoking crack from a glass bottle. My gaze darted around the living room, anxiously looking for drug implements, but instead I saw my mother slumped on the kitchen floor, eyes rolling to the back of her wobbling head. I bolted to her side, took hold of her shoulders, and shook her limp body.
“Mum,” I screamed, knowing she was definitely out of it. It was a harrowing scene I had witnessed far too many times in my life. My attempts to shake her back to consciousness failed, and after many years of attempting it, I realised I couldn’t do anything but wait until she came around.
I fell back onto my arse and closed my eyes as I sat in front of the despicable creature that was my mum. I couldn’t help her because she didn’t want help. She chose drugs over everything every single time. I didn’t doubt that she bought the heroine in aid of my watch, either. My mother stole and sold anything she could get her thieving hands on.
After giving up, I left her babbling to herself on the floor and backed away from her, finally spotting a glass bottle, and syringes on the kitchen counter. I also saw the needle wounds in her arms and sagged. How could I be so stupid by thinking she was ever going to stay clean? She never would.
My head was still pounding from the tumble I’d taken, and I was itching for a drink. Instead, I paced the kitchen floor, waiting for her to wake up as the minutes turned into hours.