4. Emma

The next morning, I groan as I wake up with a mouth that feels like a bird shat in it at some point during the night.

"Ugh." I try to get saliva flowing, but apparently, two (large) glasses of wine and half a pepperoni pizza have dried me out to the point that I might just turn to dust like an ancient mummy if I move.

I stumble out of bed, dragging myself to the kitchen in search of water and glance at the oven clock, which in true British summertime tradition is an hour behind because who has time to figure out how to change the damn thing every six months? 5.45 AM. I have just over an hour to pull myself together and get to work.

Shower first, then tea. Maybe I can stomach a banana. I stumble into the bathroom and turn on the shower, letting the hot water wash away some of my parched grumpiness. As I stand under the spray, I think about how today's probably going to go down.

Three months, Dad said. He needs someone up there near Inverness in three months for the start of pre-season training. Five hundred and sixty-eight miles away which encompasses a ten-hour drive. It was hell on wheels on the way down here ten years ago, and I vowed I would never make that trip again. But if I'm packing up my life, to move back home, I need my car. I barely drive it here. It's a wasted expense, but up there, I'll use it probably every day, so leaving it behind is not an option.

Sighing, I change my mind.

I'm not going. I don't want to leave my job or London or drive ten hours back home to do something I'm not committed to doing.

And then I change my mind again. I know my dad. If he wants me and I say no, I'm ninety per cent sure he will continue to go in, putting stress on his heart. I can't take that risk.

"Damn you!" I cry out, fists clenched skyward as I get out of the shower and then reach for a towel. I'm fucked.

Fucked up the arse with a red-hot poker.

By the time I'm dressed and somewhat presentable, it's half-six, and I need to move. I drag myself into the kitchen, and as I pour out a mug of hot tea, I switch my phone back on. It buzzes instantly, and I see a text from Dad.

Good morning, sweetheart. How are you feeling about everything?

I roll my eyes. Only Dad could be so chipper at this ungodly hour.

I'm fine, Dad. Just processing. Can we chat later?

The response is almost instantaneous.

Of course. Love you!

I sigh. He knows how to play the game like a pro.

Ten minutes later, heading out of the door, the morning commute is worse than usual, with the train crawling slower than a snail on Valium. Fucks knows why, but then fuck knows why anything happens in London. No one questions it. We all just sit there sighing passive-aggressively while checking the time on our phones/Smart Watches every five seconds like that's going to speed things along.

By the time I reach the office, I'm in a pretty foul mood—and it only gets worse when I see Dave-the-dick lounging by my desk, in my office, without me in it!

"Morning, sunshine," he drawls, grinning like an idiot.

"Shove it up your arse, Dave," I mutter as I plop down into my chair and boot up my computer.

Dave laughs, unfazed. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

"You have no idea," I snap. "What do you want?"

Dave likes to think he is my boss, but he only has two weeks seniority over me and, quite frankly, is shit at his job. He is only still here because I keep bailing him out because I'm annoying like that. I don't like to see people, even arseholes, in trouble and that brings this entire hockey situation back around on its head to slam into my chest with all the force of a, well, not a train—at least not ones in London this morning. A plane, then. Yeah, all the force of a fucking plane.

"Well, that promo you did for me the other day… it was a bit shit, truth be told."

Time stands still for just a second as I take in his ugly mug.

"Excuse you?" I snap.

"The views are way down, and it's making me look like an idiot with Sandra."

Fury descends on me, and I rise with such force that the chair on wheels scoots back hard enough to smack into the wall behind me. "You are a fucking idiot, Dave. You can't do this job properly, and I keep bailing you out!" I yell, drawing a small crowd, including Sandra, whose office my chair just bashed against. "I'm so over trying to help you when all you do is complain. If you had done that job properly yourself, you would have no views. Zip. Zero. Zilch. You know why? Because you wouldn't know the first thing about engaging content if it came up and bit you on your arse!" I'm shaking with anger, my voice echoing through the open-plan office.

Dave's face reddens, but before he can muster a retort, Sandra steps in. She's a petite woman in her early forties with a no-nonsense air about her. She raises one sharp eyebrow at me.

"Emma, calm down," she says quietly but firmly. "Let's take this to my office."

I don't even respond. I just nod sharply and follow her into the big room. The door closes behind us, and she motions for me to sit.

"What's this really about?" Sandra asks, leaning against her desk.

I rub my temples, trying to stave off an impending headache and shake my head. Even now, I won't throw Dave under the bus. But maybe it's too late for that.

"Have you been taking on Dave's work?" she asks quietly.

If I lie, she could sack me. If I don't lie, Dave will probably get a boot up his arse. Oh, the moral dilemma. In the end, it's me over him. "Yeah."

She purses her lips. "I see. For how long?"

"Since I started here."

"What?" she baulks, her face going an unnatural shade of puce. "Emma!"

"I know, and I'm sorry. He asked me on my first day, and he made it sound like he was my boss or something. By the time I figured out he wasn't, I was already in too deep, and I hate to disappoint people…"

"Wow," she says, sitting back and folding her arms. "You are the nicest person I've ever come across. Everyone else would've told him to get fucked."

My eyes widen at her curse. "I can't do that." But then I know that's an out-and-out lie. I told my dad yesterday to fuck off. Jesus. What am I? I'm a horrible person. I'm a choose-Dave-over-my-dad kind of person. That makes me feel ill. With my shoulders sagging, I know my decision is made. "Look, Sandra. I love it here. I love my job, but something has come up. Something personal back home and I need to hand my notice in."

"What?" she stammers. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, and no. It doesn't matter. I'll file officially with HR this afternoon, but this is my four-week notice. I'm sorry. I really do love it here." Holding back the tears, I stand up and, with a sad smile, leave her office before she can say anything else.

There is nothing left to say.

I have to go and do this for my dad, and maybe in time, I can go back to doing what I love. Who knows? Maybe in time, I will love doing that. I doubt it, but stranger things have happened.

Returning to my office with everyone's eyes on me, I hear Sandra calling Dave to her office. He glares at me as he passes, knowing the jig is up. But that's not my fucking problem. Not anymore.

Sitting at the computer in my office, I start typing out my resignation letter, trying my hardest to ignore the pang of excitement that stabs me in the gut as a small smile curves my lips.