close enough to cop the soppy bomb. Then I begin to strip out of my sodden pyjamas, my skin burning from the mix of cold and hot, as I mutter under my breath every name for Becker I can think of. He expects me to return to work like nothing’s happened? Is he insane?
The shower door swings open and the sponge sails through the steam, slapping me right in the face before dropping heavily to the shower floor. ‘You’ll need that.’ The door closes, and I stand with my eyes closed, taking deep, calming breaths. ‘You still smell of me.’
I don’t rise to his taunt, but I do bite down on my lip and slowly sink down to collect the sponge. Then I start to wash the smell of Becker Hunt from my skin.
I’ve been standing looking at the bathroom door for an age, wrapped in a towel, psyching myself up to face him again. I know he’s still here. I might not be able to smell him on my body any longer, but I can smell his scent lingering in the air. And I can feel him close by. He’s gone full-force into wind-up-merchant mode. Irritating mode. Joker mode. It’s like nothing ever happened.
Just get dressed and go out. Pretend he isn’t even there. Sounds simple in theory. In practice, though, I’m aiming for the impossible. But I’m willing to give it a go.
On entering the small space of my apartment, I catch him sprawled on the couch, looking comfy and at home. I resist the overwhelming urge to go over and batter him with a pillow, instead heading straight for my wardrobe. Grabbing the first thing I lay my hands on – some jeans and an oversized blush-coloured shirt – along with some underwear, I pelt back to the bathroom, chickening out on my brash intention of dressing in front of him. After last night, I’m zapped dry of brazenness, and I hate him for it.
I ignore the feel of his eyes on me as I make my hasty escape and shut the door, throwing my clothes on a nearby rail. My urgency to be out of here won’t allow time to moisturise, so I throw on my clothes, haphazardly slap on some make-up, then blast my hair with the dryer. It’s the fastest I’ve ever got ready.
Before I venture out of the bathroom again, I plot my escape, mentally locating my cute suede ankle boots, my leather jacket, and my bag. I’m a little early to meet Lucy, but I’ll find a park, where I can sit on a bench and clear my head.
Straightening my back and raising my chin, I casually exit the bathroom and calmly find my boots, slipping them on while feeding my arms through the sleeves of my jacket. I can feel him watching me, probably with a frown on his face, but I succeed in disregarding it. My bag and keys are my last claims before I’m out the door and walking purposefully down the stairs to the main entrance hall. I can smell freedom as the street comes into view, my feet picking up pace.
Just as I feared, soon I hear heavy footsteps in pursuit of me. ‘Eleanor, wait.’
I ignore his call as I fasten the zip of my jacket and take the pathway to the street. My shoulder jars a little as Becker overtakes me, skidding to a halt and blocking my way. ‘Excuse me,’ I say politely, stepping to the side to pass. He moves with me, so I take another step to the other side, all in vain. Becker shifts, too. I refuse to look at him when I speak. ‘I’m not playing your games any more,’ I tell him, maintaining my calm. I’m surprised that I actually mean it. I’ve lost a little self-respect. I’ve lost a job I truly loved. He got his way, I didn’t. I’m done. Again.
‘My game?’ he asks, stunned. The nerve of him. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Deadly serious. Just fuck off, Becker.’ I start to pass him, but he grabs my arm to stop me. Keep your cool, Eleanor.
‘But Mrs Potts is wondering where you are. She’s worried about you.’ He steps forwards, prompting me to move back, away from his closeness.
‘Then you can tell her she needn’t be.’
‘I can’t go back to The Haven without you.’
I pluck up the courage to look at him. Is that . . . embarrassment coating his features? It takes two seconds flat to figure out