JCRM

Jillian

Leaning back in my chair, I lifted my arms and stretched, letting out a groan as I looked out the window. Sometimes, I’d difficulty believing I’d ended up with this view. With an office at all, really, much less a corner office on the top floor of the main building. One side gave me a view of the English Channel and the other a view of most of the campus and facilities.

“A long road here, Jill. A long road,” I said aloud then nearly jumped out of my chair when my mobile rang. ‘A Lupo’ popped up on the screen and I felt my stomach flutter. It’s ludicrous, really. I’m a grown woman, forty-eight years old, not a bloody teenager. I hold a senior position in a Global 500 company. How can I have butterflies?

I retrieved my mobile and answered, “Good afternoon.”

“Hey.”

Rain or shine, it was always the first thing said.

“How’s your day?”

The second thing always said. At the end of our conversation, I know I’ll hear either a “See you tomorrow” or a “Speak tomorrow” unless it was a Friday, in which case I’d get a “Speak Monday”. And finally, a “Have a fantastic evening, Jill” or whatever the appropriate timeframe was, said so sincerely. So consistent. I loved it. I also loved the fact that my name, said in that deep American Southern drawl, was two syllables.

“Fair,” I answered, smiling. “No accomplishments of note though I just finished a two hour conference call around the use of inappropriate surrogate endpoints in Phase II trials.”

“Two hours? Damn, that’s long.” There was a note of sympathy in that voice. “Worthy of hazard pay. They still having difficulty with p-values and the false discovery rate?”

“Difficulty? Not quite the word I’d use. A refusal to acknowledge facts is an apt phrase. It’s basic maths. Well, basic statistics, but no matter.”

“People don’t like their apple carts upset, Jill, and you’re very good at it.”

“Frankly, I’m to the point where I don’t care about their apple cart. We’re making no progress on this issue,” I complained. “I’d hoped for a bit more enthusiasm once the potential cost savings were understood, but apparently 800 million a year isn’t enough to move people off their positions. It’s incredibly frustrating.”

A knowing chuckle was the response. “I’m sure it is.”

“Tell me about your day, please,” I requested.

“Trying to avoid getting run over by others’ apple carts by any means possible. We still on for lunch tomorrow?”

“Definitely. I’ve managed to squeeze another half-hour out of the day so I’ve a two hour slot.”

“Well done. Any particular place you have in mind?”

“I quite fancy The Cinnamon Club. I’ll be at 1 Victoria both before and after and we haven’t been there recently. I’ve already made reservations but we can go elsewhere if that doesn’t suit.”

“The Cinnamon Club sounds great to me. What time shall I send a car for you?”

It was amazing to me someone would know such an inconsequential detail about me. When I’d business all day at 1 Victoria Street, the car wouldn’t stay with me as it would had I appointments all over London. The service would drop me and not return until the end of my day. I’d stopped arguing about the car. A taxi would do me fine, but I never won the argument. In this case, however, I was definitely not going to need a car.

“Thank you, but I’ll walk. It’s just a few blocks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. I’ll enjoy the walk after sitting all morning. I should arrive a few minutes after noon.”

“Excellent. I’m looking forward to it. See you tomorrow. Have a fantastic evening, Jill.”

A smile crossed my face. As I said, rain or shine.

“You as well,” I said softly.

I ended the call and put my mobile down, then stared out the window, the gloom a marked contrast to how I felt right now. A few of the sun’s rays poked through a tiny gap in the clouds. The golden colour reminded me of those eyes and the challenge they belonged to, the inspiration for those glorious feelings I have.

It’s taken me so long to get to a place where I can even acknowledge how I feel. There are these moments when our eyes meet and time stands still and I can see into the golden-green depths. I want to abandon all reason and good sense and jump, sure I’ll drown. All of this…so beyond any experience I’ve ever had. But what a spectacular way it’d be to go.

I’ve no idea if the feelings are reciprocated. I think they are but what if I’m wrong? I keep trying to look at this rationally. Logically. Find the empirical evidence. Anything, really, to support my conclusion because I don’t trust myself. How can I when I allowed Paul to almost destroy me?

But I’m so, so tired of running from that challenge. I’m tired of denying how I feel. We’ve spent the past year knocking bricks out of each other’s walls. Peering in through the holes. Grudgingly sharing personal information, each nugget, given or received, priceless to me. The discovery and exploration we’ve done is slowly restoring those parts of me I’d thought long since destroyed.

I’m grateful for so many things in this…friendship. The acceptance I experience is overwhelming at times. Absolutely no judgment, no matter what absurdity I spout on occasion. The patience with me that’s demonstrated. The respect for my privacy. For knowing when to push and when to stop. For seeing the real me from the very beginning, seeing who I was even when I’d lost sight of it. For fighting for me and pulling those pieces out of me I’d thought destroyed. For not asking me the questions I can see are there, the ones I know I’d have.

I can picture those golden-green eyes peering intently into mine. Seeing inside me. The curiosity in them. The dark brows a bit furrowed, lips barely parted. A question on the tip of a tongue. An almost imperceptible nod then a swallow and the lips close, the question unasked. And I am saved. Again and again and again.

“If there’s something you want me to know, Jill, I trust you’ll tell me,” said matter-of-factly in that voice that reaches so deep inside me.

Misplaced trust, in my view. How can someone trust in me? I don’t trust myself. But I want to find out how. I want the rest of the walls down.

Now.

But I can’t…won’t do it. Not right now. I can’t take a chance Paul will find out before the divorce papers are put in. It’s taken every last bit of patience I have to get to this point. I don’t want to give him the chance to delay it any longer.

He doesn’t know a thing, even when we’d still lived together. I don’t know why I hadn’t told him, even in the beginning. We’re just friends. Nothing’s ever happened between us, not even a kiss unless you count the faire la bise, the French custom of kissing both cheeks, when we meet up outside of meetings.

He’d enquire how my meetings in London had been and I’d say fine. Met up with the usual suspects. Business, you know. Not a lie, but not the entire truth, either. We’d met in London through work. It just hadn’t been solely about work every time we saw each other.

I was determined he’d not find out. If he knew about our friendship, never mind my feelings? He’d do his damnedest to try to destroy it…and her. I won’t allow it. None of the ugliness will touch her. She’ll need not know any of it.

Don’t worry, Ade. I won’t let him hurt you.

‘Ade’ is what I called her when I spoke with her in my thoughts. I’d never said it aloud to her. Never crossed that line. Always Adrienne. If I said ‘Ade’ to her I don’t think I could stop the rest from spilling out.

A knock on the doorframe and Beth, my assistant, walked in carrying a box.

“A package has come in late mail. It’s been x-rayed and scanned. I didn’t want to open it as it’s marked personal.”

“Ah, thank you,” I responded, taking the box from her and putting it on my desk. I still found it hard to believe we x-rayed and scanned incoming mail and packages. How had it ever gotten to this point? We’re a bloody business, discovering medicines to treat diseases. To help people. Why should anyone ever send us bombs?

“I’m old enough to remember when the IRA were the only bombers one needed to worry about. Do you have a minute?” I asked, indicating she take a seat then reached for a letter opener to break the tape.

She took a seat in one of the chairs in front of my desk whilst I looked for a return address. There was none. I wondered who would send a personal package to my work. “I’ve lunch tomorrow from noon to two at The Cinnamon Club. I haven’t put it on my schedule yet so nothing last minute, please.”

“I’ll put it in. How shall I mark it?”

“SEF board business.” A necessary obfuscation. I never put Adrienne’s name in my calendar, particularly since Paul still had access to it. We’d likely talk about the Science Education Foundation for a minute so it wasn’t a complete lie.

As I pulled the flaps open on the box, a smaller box nestled in the packing paper was revealed. I took it out, removed its top then set it down and opened the tissue paper.

“What have we here?” I pulled out a crude wooden carving about ten inches high and placed it on my desk. The base looked like a tangled mess of tree roots. The box may have been marked personal but I couldn’t imagine anyone who knew me ever giving me something like this. Even Paul.

“Hmmm.” I stared at it but couldn’t tell what it was a carving of. “What do you think it’s supposed to represent?”

“I think…no….” Beth leaned in closer, studying the piece of wood. “Is that supposed to be…the top there. It looks like hair. See the curl right there about an inch down?”

She’s a much better imagination than I. “So then this part would be the face, I suppose, and,” I peered intently at it. “I think those are breasts with…hands over them. And….”

“Pregnant. That’s definitely a bump.”

“Pregnant? Not plump?”

“I’m quite positive,” she assured me with a little laugh. “I’ve seen that in the mirror.”

“Ah. I’ll defer to your expertise then.” Beth had three children. “And the feet are missing. What the bloody hell?”

“I think the base is supposed to be the feet. Who’s it from?”

“I’ve no clue. There’s no return address.”

“Is there no card in the box?”

I turned the box upside down, shook it out, and rummaged through the tissue paper. “Not a thing. I think we can safely dispose of this,” I said as I gathered all the pieces and tossed them into the rubbish bin. “We do get some very strange things. Remember those Terry’s Chocolate Orange slices arranged to spell ‘thank you’ and glued to cardboard?”

“Oh, I’d forgotten about that,” Beth laughed. “I couldn’t imagine what it was when I’d opened it. Well, at least it’s better than the threats.”

“That, my dear Beth, is most certainly true. Would you please give Laurence Halloway a bell to check on the revised agenda for tomorrow afternoon?”