happy, angry, inspired, alive. A girl couldn’t live on work and crosswords and meals alone at the kitchen sink. And she couldn’t rely entirely on one man to define her happiness.
I nodded more firmly at Ruby, trying for a reassuring smile. “I have. I just need to figure out what to do next.”
“Well, you know my vote, but only in your own time.” She squeezed my arm and went back inside, closing the storm door behind her and leaving me on my own with my thoughts.
When I arrived back at my flat, I hung my bag on its designated hook and sifted through my mail as I walked through to my kitchen. At the sight of the palace’s return address on a plain white envelope, I froze, all manner of possibilities swirling in my mind. Was this a final paycheck? A form letter dismissing me? The finality of it all settled like a stone in the pit of my stomach.
It didn’t appear personal in nature at all based on the envelope so I pulled my letter opener from its drawer and slid it along the top of the envelope. A single sheet of folded paper fell to the counter and I gingerly lifted it as if it were a piece of police evidence I was trying to keep from contaminating. The first thing to catch my eye when I unfolded it was Malcolm’s signature at the bottom. My heart lurched and without thinking I ran my finger over his name.
Then I read the letter in full, read it again, and one more time to make certain I hadn’t missed anything.
After that, I poured myself a glass of water and went to my bedroom, eventually falling asleep fully clothed with Malcolm’s letter tucked under my pillow.
Chapter 24
Alice
The morning after Malcolm’s letter, I woke to the sound of the dog in the flat beneath mine barking. I rarely needed an alarm, but always set one as a precaution, so I was distressed to see that it was after nine o’clock when I finally sat up and looked at the clock.
“Damn, damn, damn!” I hurried out to the kitchen where I’d absent-mindedly left my phone the night before and quickly typed out a text to Grier telling her I’d be late.
But it just wasn’t my day, it appeared. I proceeded to rush around the flat preparing for work only to stub my toe on the doorframe to my bedroom, put facial scrub in my hair instead of shampoo, and shatter a coffee mug that had come with the flat on the kitchen tile. The words “No pants are the best pants” printed on its surface were now just a pile of black and white shards in my rubbish bin.
The accumulated frustrations had me giving up entirely and standing still in the kitchen while the counter supported me. I looked around at the granite surface with its neatly arranged bowl of plastic oranges and the measuring cups and spoons lined up perfectly on their decorative stand, not a single crumb or speck of dust marring the shiny surface. It looked like a staged scene for a model home, not a place where someone lived.
Without thinking, I reached forward and plucked an orange from its bowl and chucked it over the dining table and onto the sofa in the next room where it rolled off and landed in the straw magazine bin.
“Ha!” I was quite pleased with myself, so I took another two oranges, tossing each one and trying to make it into the bin to join the first. On I went, one after another, until the bowl lay empty and the oranges all rested in the sitting room—some in the bin, others on the sofa or floor, and even one on top of the mantel. Oops.
With no more oranges to throw, I moved on to the measuring cups and spoons which, to be fair, were a bit clunkier and less aerodynamic. I only managed to get one of them in the bin, losing a few to the half wall between the dining table and the sitting room and one or two more that ricocheted off the wall and bounced down the tiled hall to the front door.
After that, everything was fair game. I sought out every article in the flat that had been meticulously arranged and scattered them about, leaving not one right angle or parallel line in the entire place. And with each piece I shoved or tossed, something released inside of my