Wedding Night
Page 17
“Pow!” An earsplitting shriek interrupts me. “Laser attack!”
My blood freezes. That can’t be—
Oh no.
A familiar rat-a-tat sound assaults my ears. Orange plastic bullets are shooting through the air, hitting people in the face and landing in glasses of champagne. Noah is running down the corridor toward the atrium, laughing uproariously and firing all around him with his automatic Nerf gun. Fuck. Why didn’t I check his backpack?
“Stop!” I launch myself at Noah, grab him by the collar, and snatch the plastic gun out of his hands. “Stop that! Gavin, I’m so sorry,” I add breathlessly. “Daniel was supposed to look after Noah tonight, but he left me in the lurch, and— Shit! Argh!”
In my agitation, I’ve pressed some button on the Nerf gun, and it’s spraying more bullets out, like something out of Reservoir Dogs, hitting Gavin in the chest. I’m massacring my boss with an automatic weapon flashes through my mind. This won’t look good in my appraisal. The stream of bullets rises to his face and he splutters in horror.
“Sorry!” I drop the gun on the floor. “I didn’t mean to shoot.…”
With a shudder, I notice Gunter, ten feet away. There are three orange Nerf bullets lodged in his tufty white hair and one in his drink.
“Gavin.” I swallow. “Gavin. I don’t know what to say—”
“It was my fault,” Elise interrupts me hastily. “I was looking after Noah.”
“But he shouldn’t have been at the office,” I point out. “So it’s my fault.”
We turn to Gavin as though waiting for his verdict. He’s just staring at the scene, shaking his head.
“Personal life. Job.” He meshes his hands together. “Fliss, you need to sort yourself out.”
My face is hot with mortification as I frog-march a protesting Noah to my office.
“But I was winning!” he keeps complaining.
“I’m sorry.” Elise is clutching her head. “He said it was his favorite game.”
“No problem.” I shoot her a smile. “Noah, we don’t play with Nerf guns at Mummy’s office. Ever.”
“I’ll go and find him something to eat,” says Elise. “Fliss, you need to get back to the party, quick. Go. Now. It’ll be fine. C’mon, Noah.”
She hustles Noah out of the room and I feel every cell of my body sag.
She’s right. I need to hurry back, sweep in, gather up the Nerf bullets, apologize, charm, and turn this evening back into the slick professional affair it always is.
But I’m so tired. I feel like I could go to sleep right now. The carpet under my desk looks like the perfect place for me to curl up.
I sink down on my chair, just as the phone rings. I’ll take this one call. Maybe it will be some uplifting piece of news.
“Hello?”
“Felicity? Barnaby here.”
“Oh, Barnaby.” I sit up, feeling freshly galvanized. “Thanks for ringing back. You won’t believe what Daniel just did. He’d agreed to have Noah tonight, but then he left me in the lurch. And now he says he wants to revisit the settlement! We might end up back in court!”
“Fliss, calm down. Chill out.” Barnaby’s unhurried Mancunian tones greet me. I do often wish Barnaby spoke a bit more quickly. Especially as I’m paying him by the hour. “We’ll sort it. Don’t worry.”
“He’s so frustrating.”
“I hear you. But you mustn’t stress. Try to forget about it.”
Is he kidding?
“I’ve written the incident up. I can email it to you.” I finger my memory stick on its chain. “Shall I do that now?”
“Fliss, I’ve told you, you don’t need to keep a dossier of every single incident.”
“But I want to! I mean, talk about ‘unreasonable behavior.’ If we put all this into the case, if the judge knew what he was like—”
“The judge does know what he’s like.”
“But—”
“Fliss, you’re having the Divorce Fantasy,” says Barnaby tranquilly. “What have I told you about the Divorce Fantasy?”
There’s silence. I hate the way Barnaby can read my mind. I’ve known him since college, and although he costs a bomb even on mates’ rates, I never considered going to anyone else. Now he’s waiting for me to answer, like a teacher in class.
“The Divorce Fantasy will never happen,” I mumble finally, staring at my fingernails.
“The Divorce Fantasy will never happen,” he repeats with emphasis. “The judge will never read a two-hundred-page dossier on Daniel’s shortcomings aloud in court, while a crowd jeers at your ex-husband. He will never start his summing up, ‘Ms. Graveney, you are a saint to have put up with such an evil scumbag and I thus award you everything you want.’ ”
My blood freezes. That can’t be—
Oh no.
A familiar rat-a-tat sound assaults my ears. Orange plastic bullets are shooting through the air, hitting people in the face and landing in glasses of champagne. Noah is running down the corridor toward the atrium, laughing uproariously and firing all around him with his automatic Nerf gun. Fuck. Why didn’t I check his backpack?
“Stop!” I launch myself at Noah, grab him by the collar, and snatch the plastic gun out of his hands. “Stop that! Gavin, I’m so sorry,” I add breathlessly. “Daniel was supposed to look after Noah tonight, but he left me in the lurch, and— Shit! Argh!”
In my agitation, I’ve pressed some button on the Nerf gun, and it’s spraying more bullets out, like something out of Reservoir Dogs, hitting Gavin in the chest. I’m massacring my boss with an automatic weapon flashes through my mind. This won’t look good in my appraisal. The stream of bullets rises to his face and he splutters in horror.
“Sorry!” I drop the gun on the floor. “I didn’t mean to shoot.…”
With a shudder, I notice Gunter, ten feet away. There are three orange Nerf bullets lodged in his tufty white hair and one in his drink.
“Gavin.” I swallow. “Gavin. I don’t know what to say—”
“It was my fault,” Elise interrupts me hastily. “I was looking after Noah.”
“But he shouldn’t have been at the office,” I point out. “So it’s my fault.”
We turn to Gavin as though waiting for his verdict. He’s just staring at the scene, shaking his head.
“Personal life. Job.” He meshes his hands together. “Fliss, you need to sort yourself out.”
My face is hot with mortification as I frog-march a protesting Noah to my office.
“But I was winning!” he keeps complaining.
“I’m sorry.” Elise is clutching her head. “He said it was his favorite game.”
“No problem.” I shoot her a smile. “Noah, we don’t play with Nerf guns at Mummy’s office. Ever.”
“I’ll go and find him something to eat,” says Elise. “Fliss, you need to get back to the party, quick. Go. Now. It’ll be fine. C’mon, Noah.”
She hustles Noah out of the room and I feel every cell of my body sag.
She’s right. I need to hurry back, sweep in, gather up the Nerf bullets, apologize, charm, and turn this evening back into the slick professional affair it always is.
But I’m so tired. I feel like I could go to sleep right now. The carpet under my desk looks like the perfect place for me to curl up.
I sink down on my chair, just as the phone rings. I’ll take this one call. Maybe it will be some uplifting piece of news.
“Hello?”
“Felicity? Barnaby here.”
“Oh, Barnaby.” I sit up, feeling freshly galvanized. “Thanks for ringing back. You won’t believe what Daniel just did. He’d agreed to have Noah tonight, but then he left me in the lurch. And now he says he wants to revisit the settlement! We might end up back in court!”
“Fliss, calm down. Chill out.” Barnaby’s unhurried Mancunian tones greet me. I do often wish Barnaby spoke a bit more quickly. Especially as I’m paying him by the hour. “We’ll sort it. Don’t worry.”
“He’s so frustrating.”
“I hear you. But you mustn’t stress. Try to forget about it.”
Is he kidding?
“I’ve written the incident up. I can email it to you.” I finger my memory stick on its chain. “Shall I do that now?”
“Fliss, I’ve told you, you don’t need to keep a dossier of every single incident.”
“But I want to! I mean, talk about ‘unreasonable behavior.’ If we put all this into the case, if the judge knew what he was like—”
“The judge does know what he’s like.”
“But—”
“Fliss, you’re having the Divorce Fantasy,” says Barnaby tranquilly. “What have I told you about the Divorce Fantasy?”
There’s silence. I hate the way Barnaby can read my mind. I’ve known him since college, and although he costs a bomb even on mates’ rates, I never considered going to anyone else. Now he’s waiting for me to answer, like a teacher in class.
“The Divorce Fantasy will never happen,” I mumble finally, staring at my fingernails.
“The Divorce Fantasy will never happen,” he repeats with emphasis. “The judge will never read a two-hundred-page dossier on Daniel’s shortcomings aloud in court, while a crowd jeers at your ex-husband. He will never start his summing up, ‘Ms. Graveney, you are a saint to have put up with such an evil scumbag and I thus award you everything you want.’ ”
