That answers my question. ‘Of course he’s sorry,’ I spit. ‘He got caught with his trousers around his ankles with my best friend.’ The moment I see pity on his face, I regret telling him. I don’t need his pity. I don’t need anyone’s pity.
‘She sounds sorry, too.’
I recoil. ‘Did you read all of my messages?’
‘He sounds like a prick.’
‘He is.’
‘He doesn’t know where you are?’
‘No,’ I snap. The mention of his name has me fired up. I start hammering away at my phone, trying to expel some of my rage, as I power through, deleting messages and contacts. I don’t know why I didn’t do this before. It’s long overdue. But as I’m scrolling through my phonebook, I notice something. I look up at him in disbelief. ‘You deleted Brent’s number?’
‘And blocked him.’ He shows complete indifference. I’m staggered.
‘This is taking things a bit too far.’
‘You don’t need his contact details.’
‘That’s not the point. You’ve violated my privacy.’
‘I bought that phone, so technically it’s a work perk. Which means I’m perfectly within my right, as your employer, to monitor activity. I’ll remind you of the NDA.’ His straight face is hovering on the edge of humour, and my eyes bug at his cheek. There’s nothing funny about this. This is being much too controlling. ‘And if we’re going to talk about violating—’
‘No.’ I hold up a hand before he can head down that road. ‘Is that all?’
‘No. I’ll need my tux dry-cleaned for the Andelesea Gala. Make arrangements with Giles at Fosters.’
The Andelesea Gala. It’s one of the biggest annual events in the art world. It’s always held at Countryscape, and usually exhibits some spectacular piece of art or treasure. I nod and draw a line under my list. ‘Got it.’
‘Good.’ Becker takes off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. He looks troubled all of a sudden, like the weight of a thousand elephants is on his mind. I inwardly laugh. Join the club. I open my mouth to ask if he’s okay but pull up when I remember that I’m on work time. The balance. I mentally yell at myself, and at Becker, too. I don’t know how to approach this situation; don’t know how he wants me to be. I need help.
‘Mr Hunt,’ I begin, and he looks up at me, startled. I’ve just interrupted some deep thoughts. I hope he’s worrying about the same things I am. Like how we proceed. What happens next? Are we crazy?
‘Mr Hunt?’ he says. ‘Really, princess?’
‘Well that’s just it, isn’t it?’ I flop back in my chair, exasperated and exhausted from the weight of my worries.
‘What is?’
‘This’ – I wave my pen between us – ‘after yesterday, last night . . . all of the . . . and the . . . with my job . . . and the thing that happened.’ I give up, struggling to articulate my issue. He’s not stupid. He must understand.
Becker flops back in his chair, too, exhausted by my nonsensical blabbering. ‘Yeah,’ he says quietly, sliding a palm on to his nape and massaging. ‘It’s screwing with my head too.’
Oh, thank God. I’m all kinds of relieved, and the air that gushes past my lips is proof. ‘You need to set some boundaries,’ I say. This is a stupid request. The boundaries since I’ve been here have always been blurred.
‘We have this.’ He looks a bit too pleased with himself when he raises the NDA above his head before slipping his glasses on and glancing down at it. ‘Maybe we could add a few more things.’
My jaw hits the notepad on my knee. ‘Are you serious?’
He grins down at the paper. ‘Totally.’
‘Seriously, Becker. We need to draw lines. Big fat black ones that are as clear as day.’
‘Probably wise,’ he agrees, placing the NDA in front of him. ‘What would you like to add to clause three?’ He arms himself with a pen and looks at me expectantly. He really is serious. ‘Oh’ – he takes his pen to the paper – ‘no . . . flirting . . . with . . . the . . . enemy.’ A dramatic full stop is added when he stabs the paper with the nib of the pen.
‘Then stop letting him in The Haven.’ I basically sigh my way through my words. ‘And so we’re clear, where it says in the NDA that there should be no client–employee relations, do you mean on the whole or just Brent Wilson specifically?’
‘Brent isn’t a client,’ Becker breathes tiredly.
‘Oh, yes. Of course. He’s the enemy. In that case,’ I go on, well aware that my next words might push a dangerous button, ‘do you mean no flirting with any enemies, or just Brent in particular? And if it’s the former, can you confirm if any other enemies you might have are as hot as Brent, because if that’s the case I might have to quit.’