arrived into work late. She'd spent the night at Callum's, despite her best intentions. But weekends on her own in Thurfield were so lonely. She could have gone to see Katie, but she felt she'd imposed on Katie's friendship too much of late. Besides, despite acknowledging to herself the meanness of the thought, Emily couldn't help feeling a twinge of jealousy when she spent time in Katie's perfect house with her perfect family. It only highlighted the complete and utter mess her own life had become.
The trouble was, Emily thought moodily, she was always so busy at work, and her weekday social life revolved around London, so at the weekend there was nothing for her to do. Or, rather, there was plenty. If she didn't work such long hours, she might have made some friends here other then Katie. Then she could spend her weekends with friends on long walks and cycle rides on the Downs, or going to the cinema or out for a meal. Normal stuff. Like other people did.
Instead of which she was practically chained to her desk, and when she wasn't, she was out late schmoozing people she was coming to despise, or partying like there was no tomorrow with so-called friends with whom she had increasingly little in common.
This wasn't how she'd planned things, back when she'd started law school in Cardiff, all those years ago. Then she'd been full of naïve optimism about how she was going to take on cases like her dad's (languishing at home a semi-invalid thanks to the incompetence of the firm he'd given most of his life to). She felt ashamed that she'd ended up at Mire & Innit – a small media law firm which specialised in defending the low-level famous, in cases which, in the main, were pretty indefensible. Her boss Mel had promised her the earth at her interview seven years ago.
‘This is a small firm,’ she'd purred silkily, ‘but we are going places, and for the right person the rewards are high.’
The rewards had certainly been high financially. Emily was earning far more than in her previous job, but the mortgage on the cottage was correspondingly high too. And the promised promotion to senior associate seemed as elusive as ever, while Mel continued to pile on the work. One thing she'd failed to mention at interview was that, being a small firm, they were constantly short-staffed. Great in one way, as it had given Emily opportunities she would never have had elsewhere, but not so good in terms of having any kind of decent life outside the workplace.
Emily sighed. It had all seemed so glamorous when she'd first come to London. Now it just seemed tawdry to be raking through the muck of zedlebrity lives.
Callum, too, had seemed the height of glamour when she first met him – the gorgeous public school boy with the golden tongue had bowled her over from the start, and though she'd always known he was incredibly bad for her, now he was like a bad habit she couldn't quite shake. When Callum deigned to let her, she was allowed into his world, in small bite-sized pieces. He had perfected the knack of just keeping her interested. She hated herself for giving in to him.
Take this weekend, for instance. She had resolutely ignored his calls all day Friday, cried off a party that Ffion was going to, claiming a headache, and crashed out in front of the TV with a pizza and a bottle of wine.
But come Saturday, after a desultory morning spent catching up on household chores, and a dull afternoon alone trailing round the shops in Crawley, Emily had let herself into the flat to find three messages from Callum on the answerphone. When she switched on her mobile (which she had purposely left behind), she discovered he'd inundated her with messages.
‘Come on, babe,’ the last message had urged her, ‘what else do you have to do tonight but come out clubbing with me?’
What else indeed? In the end, she'd given in and driven up to his flat in town, where they had made up over a bottle of wine, before dancing the night away at a local grungy club that Callum and his less salubrious friends liked to frequent.
‘I promise to be good,’ Callum had said as they left the flat. He'd looked so solemn and schoolboyish when he'd said it, Emily couldn't help but laugh.
‘You better had be,’ she'd said. And then he'd kissed her, and she'd forgotten why she'd been so cross with him in the dizzying intoxication she always felt when he was near.
Callum had been as good as his word, in that he hadn't taken any drugs in her presence, which wasn't to say that he hadn't taken any at all, but it was enough for her to maintain the fiction that all was right with the world.
They had got up late on Sunday, gone for a pub lunch, and though Emily had known she should really have headed back home on Sunday evening, Callum's urgent plea of, ‘Stay, babe,’ coupled with the thought of another long, lonely evening, was enough to keep her from going back. Maybe that was why she couldn't quite let Callum out of her life. She knew he was bad for her, but he was pure escapism. Maybe she needed that right now. Perhaps it was worth it to avoid the pain of thinking about Dad, though it never felt worth it when the downside was being late for work.
Emily's nerves were jangling as she walked through the door. Mel didn't tolerate slackers on her team, as she put it.
Luckily, Mel was late too this morning, which allowed Emily enough time to get herself a latte and calm down before she started work. She sat down to a pile of paperwork and opened her emails, to find there were still hundreds she hadn't responded to from last week, including one from an ex soap star whose efforts to revive her career by applying for the next series of Love Shack looked doomed since she'd got into a racism row with another would-be contestant. Emily groaned loudly. She could feel another late one coming on. It was too bad they were so short-staffed and the secretary she had shared with her colleague had left, but at least working long hours kept her from thinking too much about everything. It was another form of escapism, she supposed, but not quite as satisfactory as shagging an unsuitable boyfriend.
‘So that tooth we root-treated last time is still giving you gyp?’ Mark asked once Jasmine was ensconced on his dental chair. Her crop top was hitched halfway over her stomach and her hipster jeans sagged below it. She had less of a muffin top and more of a meringue mountain … God, it amazed him that someone so foul-mouthed, foully dressed and generally appalling as Jasmine could be deemed worthy of being in the public eye. Once upon a time people actually did something worthwhile to be famous. Not any more.
‘Too right it is,’ whined Jasmine. ‘It's bloody painful all the time. Those antibiotics were useless.’
‘You do realise that if I can't sort it out this time, I shall have to take the tooth out,’ Mark said.
‘No way!’ Jasmine was horrified.
‘I'm sorry,’ said Mark, a little nonplussed. ‘I did warn you.’
‘You can't mess with my teeth,’ shrieked Jasmine. ‘I've got a contract which says my teeth are all me own.’
‘She's got a contract,’ growled Jasmine's mother from the sofa. Kayla followed Jasmine everywhere and, Rottweiler-like, was always on hand to defend her daughter's interests.
‘Well, if you want a second opinion …’ This was Mark's get-out clause for all his difficult patients. Sadly, Jasmine had never yet taken him up on the offer, and she wasn't about to now.
‘Oh go on then,’ she said sulkily.
Mark felt his way round Jasmine's mouth. Despite her brilliant white smile, her teeth were shot to pieces. The dazzling grin covered a multitude of sins to all except her dentist. The rate Jasmine was carrying on, it wouldn't be too long before he provided her with dentures. He prodded around for a while. Jasmine responded when he poked the molar two doors down, but the tooth she was moaning
