Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 11

“I’m really sorry about all that yesterday, Gem.” Lizzie grimaces as we make our way out to my garden patio with Winnie. She sets down the two plates of pasta she hastily whipped up as an apology.

“It’s fine,” I grumble, not convincing either of us. “I just don’t know what the hell is happening to me lately.”

I flop into one of the wicker chairs as Lizzie pours us glasses of white wine. “Work’s been a mess. For the first time in my career, I feel unhinged, like I can’t cope.”

She looks at me with those big, worried eyes. “This is all my fault, isn’t it?”

“It’s not. Well, maybe just the poo part. But I’m the one who obviously hasn’t been handling the pressure well.”

We fall into silence, watching the stars in the night sky, as we take our first sips of wine. It’s Saturday evening, and I had to force myself not to work all day. Trying to have a real weekend feels like a foreign concept.

“Gem . . .” Lizzie says after a few moments. “I think your body and mind are staging a rebellion. You can’t keep shouldering this much stress without eventually snapping.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no real fight behind it. “I’ve been doing it for years and been fine. This is just a blip. I’ll get back on track.”

“You’re not exactly a spring chicken anymore, love.”

I scoff. “I’m thirty-three, Lizzie. Not exactly one foot in the grave.”

“Exactly, hovering right at the edge of middle age. And you have your first cat. Who knows how many you’ll have next year.”

“Oh, fuck right off. You’re in the same boat. Or are you conveniently forgetting that we’re the same age?”

“Yes, but I’m not the one who spends every waking hour surrounded by stressed-out employees. All you do is listen to their bitching and moaning, day in and day out.” She leans forward, her expression turning uncharacteristically solemn. “But who’s your human resource, hm? Who’s taking care of you for a change?”

I give Winnie an affectionate rub. “You and Winnie.”

Both of them fix me with an unimpressed look. “A cat is not a support network, no matter how many little bells you put around her.”

“Well, most of my other so-called mates are too busy with their own families and kids to make time anymore,” I counter with a casual shrug, like it doesn’t bother me. “They always give the whole ‘ooh, I haven’t seen you in forever!’ spiel until I suggest actual dates and plans. Then it’s always back to ‘let’s just play it by ear.’ And I’ve learned the hard way that ‘play it by ear’ means ‘play it by fucking never.’ So if I didn’t have you and my folks calling, I’d be stuck talking to a cat and about a hundred finance people and it doesn’t feel healthy, does it?”

Lizzie hums in contemplation. “I don’t have that problem with the theater crowd,” she muses. “It’s full of free spirits who are always down to hang out and just . . . be, you know?”

I tamp down the urge to roll my eyes. Winnie just gives a single, slow blink. She knows too.

“I want to support you more, Gem. You’ve been there for me in my life more than anyone else, even my own family. You have to let go of all this pent-up stress and anxiety before it eats you alive.” She sits up. “Okay, let’s try this. As an example, what’s your biggest fear?”

I shrug. “My parents dying, I guess?”

Lizzie huffs. “Besides all the standard deaths and end-of-life terrors.”

“All right, fine. Maybe . . . losing my job?”

Lizzie nods, a triumphant gleam in her eye. “There. That’s the problem, right there. You’re so focused on work and success that you’ve forgotten how to live. I’ve been fired twice already and look at me. I’m fabulous. A little broke, sure, but fabulous as fuck. That should not be your biggest fear in life.”

I mull this over, taking a swig of wine. I’m the head of HR at a prestigious private equity firm in the city, a position I’ve worked my ass off for. My parents, a humble butcher and a shop assistant, couldn’t be prouder. And neither could I. It’s a significant part of my identity, so the thought of losing that . . . it’s daunting, is what it is.

“So, what should be my biggest fear, then? Enlighten me, oh wise one,” I ask, my voice drenched with sarcasm.

Lizzie leans back in her chair, a smug grin plastered on her face. “Not finding a great love. Not seeing all the places in the world you want to see. Making yourself sick with stress and keeling over at your desk before you even hit forty.”

I feel a sudden tightness in my chest. “Fair point.”

“Ask any seventy-year-old.” She nods wisely. “They’ll back me up. They’ll be like, ‘I wish I spent more time chasing dick not slaving away in my dumbass office job.’”

I snort-laugh, nearly choking on my wine. “I’m pretty sure that’s not exactly how they’d phrase it. More like, ‘I wish I spent more time with my loved ones, nurturing deep and meaningful relationships.’”

“Semantics. The point is, you need to loosen up before you turn into a shriveled-up husk of a woman, haunting the office with your sensible pantsuits. And I, your fabulous fairy godmother of fun, am here to help you do just that, whether you like it or not.”

I laugh as she stretches languidly, the picture of contentment, and I can’t help but feel a pang of envy. Here I am, wound tight, while she looks like she’s on a yoga retreat even though she’s perpetually broke.

The thought of living Lizzie’s life—hopping between temp jobs, clinging to the hope of a random acting gig, never knowing when the next paycheck or script will land . . . That’s my nightmare scenario.

I need structure. I need to know that I’m not going to end up living in a cardboard box, subsisting on Pot Noodles, and talking to pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

I inhale deeply, letting the fresh evening air fill my lungs. Maybe she’s on to something. Maybe it is time I started living my life rather than just managing it.

One thing’s for sure—I need to stop bringing cat shit to work. That’s a good place to start.

“I’ve got my work ball next Thursday night,” I say, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. “At least I’ll be out and about, mingling with actual humans, even if they are my morally bankrupt colleagues.”

Lizzie lights up. “Ooh, can you bring a guest?”

I hesitate. “Technically . . . yes. But I usually go solo.”

“Do other people bring dates?”

“About half the crowd,” I admit.

Lizzie claps her hands together like a deranged seal, practically vibrating with glee. “Then it’s settled. I’m your date!”

I internally groan at the idea. “Fine, but you’re on a tight leash—no mingling on your own.”

She rolls her eyes with theatrical flair. “Yes, Mum, I promise not to embarrass you in front of your stuffy work friends. Jeez, am I really that bad?”

“Sometimes, you absolutely are.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior. What are you going to wear?”

“A gorgeous pantsuit I’ve been saving for a special occasion,” I reply proudly, already picturing myself strutting into the event like a boss bitch.

She narrows her eyes. “Show me.”

I sigh, hauling myself out of my chair and trudging into the bedroom to retrieve the outfit. I return a moment later, presenting it with a flourish, waiting for the oohs and ahhs.

“Why are you dressing like the prime minister at a funeral?”

“Excuse me,” I splutter indignantly, clutching the pantsuit to my chest, wounded. “This is designer, I’ll have you know. It’s perfect for a work event. It says ‘I’m professional, but I also know how to let my hair down and have a good time.’”

“Those shoulder pads beg to differ, babe. They scream ‘I’m here to talk about your funeral bill.’”

I huff, draping the pantsuit carefully over my arm because it cost a fortune. “What exactly do you suggest I wear then? That regency frock you dragged home?”

“That’s two ends of the spectrum. We’ll find something in between, something that shows off your fun side.” She points to the pantsuit with disdain, like it’s one of Winnie’s dead mice I’ve just presented to her. “That one is strictly for Mondays at the office.”

“HR isn’t meant to be fun. We’re the reliable ones, the voice of reason.”

I’m rewarded with an eyeroll.

“You don’t have to wear your HR manager hat twenty-four seven, do you? Surely sexy-yet-classy-casual is the way to go.”

I heave a sigh of resignation. “Maybe.”

Lizzie grins. “We’re going shopping tomorrow. We’ll find you something that’s more I’m fun, I’m flirty and I don’t have a cat stool sample in my purse. Her smile turns wicked. “Trust me, by the time I’m done, even your horrible boss McLaren won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”

I roll my eyes, but my stomach does a little flip at her words. “As if I’d want McLaren’s eyes on me. All I want is for him to view me as professional.”

And right now, his opinion cannot get any worse of me.

Right?