Chapter Three

E X C E P T I O N

May 14th

"Glad you could finally join us Jemima," Norine says through gritted teeth when I pop my head round the door. She's sat behind her desk, one elbow on it, chin in her hand.

An audience with Norine at the best of times gives me cause to tense up but it's the addition of whose sat in front of her that amplifies the pounding in my chest.

Dark, wavy hair cascades down over the chairs back and I stop in my tracks.

Ruby turns her head and tries to smile like she's seeing me for the first time. When she stands up and offers out a hand her palms are clammy, and she's still got the tissues I gave her stuffed into her jean back pocket.

"This is Ruby Halliday." Norine makes introductions as I take a seat next to her, my legs wobbly whilst my mind goes into overdrive, wondering just why on earth she's in here and how she could've slipped by without notice. Then I remember Jack, and realise she probably walked by in plain sight, amongst the chaos and peacocking due to his presence.

Yet it still doesn't explain why she's sitting pretty with Norine.

Does this mean I'm not in trouble? Or if perhaps I still am then just what have I done that would warrant Ruby being here? I start to think it might be about the really shit joke I made earlier, comparing boys to toilets. Or maybe someone saw me in there with her, thought it odd.

"So, because you were late we've already run through the basics and confirmed her start date but I wanted you both to meet, so we're all on the same page."

I stare at Norine, my mouth likely scrapping the floor. "Huh?"

Ruby keeps her gaze occupied, stares at her trainers and offers no hint or explanation. I want to pull her aside, and ask if this some kind of practical joke. Have I been set up to reveal just how awful I am with crying folk and teenage girls? Has she been sent here to unmask my lack of compassion and lame attempts at humour?

Norine slides over a piece of stark white paper and twists her computer towards me. "You're request for an intern, remember?" She trails her fingers across the screen, pointing to an email I'd sent at the beginning of year. When I'd thrown my toys out the pram about every other editor having an intern to help with tasks, run errands and make tea.

"I sent that a while ago, thought it had been forgotten about," I reply scanning Ruby's CV. "Didn't think the budget this year would stretch to having another intern join."

"She's not exclusively yours," Norine snorts back. "Keira is leaving soon to go travelling on one of those..." She trails off, waves her finger about until it lands on Ruby who looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

She sits up straight and glances sideways at me before speaking. "Gap year?" She offers and Norine claps her hands together.

"Yes, that's it. So until that time comes Jemima she'll work with you, then you can divide her between yourselves."

I want to protest that I was just being childish asking for an intern, momentarily jealous of Millie passing down all her menial tasks so she could carry on watching videos of dancing cats or post tweets about the latest television show. Put her feet up and relax a little. But how can I do that with Ruby sitting beside me? Acting like a lamb thrown to the slaughter, caught between my shock, and Norine's complete lack of tact.

"I don't know if I'll have much for her to do and-" I start to say before I'm cut off.

"Nonsense. We've got summer knocking on our door which means double the features, coverage for festivals, the hottest parties, the newest deconstructed bikini..." Noreen says before she turns her attention to Ruby who is sat with hands clasped tight. "It's a busy time for us, we have a lot of people to please."

What she really means is that I'll be the one writing Top Ten lists full of misleading click-bait headlines to fulfil our sites recent buy out by a big media conglomerate. That it's my responsibility to keep all our sponsors happy for the next four months.

"Jemima here can fill you in on our schedule."

My head begins to throb. I feel like someones slowly choking the life out of me. I really don't want this kind of responsibility. I'm not cut out for delegation or hand holding. And I quite enjoy the freedom of sitting by myself, earphones in without the pressure to dole out tasks or keep someone else busy.

But, I know it's my own damn fault. For being so jealous of everyone else, wanting what they have and not really thinking it through properly, which could also be the perfect motto for my life so far. Still, I really feel like Ruby even amongst the crying and heartache should have given me a heads up about her reasons for being in the ladies toilets.

"You can start next week." Norine taps her pen up at the large wall calendar behind. "I take it your college doesn't start up again till the autumn? Is that right?"

Ruby politely nods. "I'm absolutely ready to start next week, and I've actually finished college now."

"I think I'm going to need a bit more than a weeks notice... to sort out work," I mumble quietly, hoping Norine might take note of my bulging eyes begging her to reconsider all of this. "We'd need to get another desk too, and oh jeez a laptop. If she needs one that is."

"She's computer literate if that's what you're asking. They all are these days," Again she foists Ruby's CV forward. "I think you'll see she's quite capable." Her coral coloured nail digs into the paper right by her surname - Halliday. I repeat it over until the cogs fit together and the penny drops.

It's now obvious that the grin on Norine's lips isn't just because she's got an hour left on the clock before she swans off to the Spa as is her Friday traditional, but also due to Ruby's fortunate, infamous family name.

And it makes sense that she's unfazed to see there's not much on her CV except for a short lived stint manning phones at an auction house and a month at a fancy sounding Bistro, because they're all coincidentally owned by The Halliday Trust.

Known to anyone not living under a rock for the past twenty years, the Halliday name is synonymous with the jet set London elite. Just like caviar or the finest champagne.

And Beatrice Halliday, the heir apparent to a not-so-small fortune garnered from two successful world famous auction houses, a fine art gallery, an impressive portfolio of clubs, hotels, and property is the latest Halliday to capture the publics attention. One who likes to bask in the spotlight of a new wave of modern, tabloid worthy privilege.

I'd seen her face countless times in the pages of gossip rags whilst waiting at the hospital for pap smears, and antibiotics for the nasty cough I developed after quitting smoking. She'd even been featured on the site once or twice - good or bad I can't quite remember, but regardless she was and is still a big deal.

A socialite turned philanthropist before it became trendy. Who liked to collect charity galas, and men like someone might collect loose copper coins in a purse. And now her daughters sat next to me, hoping to become my intern even after our earlier run in. What a strange day.

But Norine's attitude makes perfect sense now, because who would want to be the person to turn down a Halliday? It stands to reason that Ruby will be joining us, even if it transpired she couldn't speak a word of english. Not even Norine's got the balls to decline and chuck her CV in the scrap heap like all the others.

And because I unfortunately understand her so well, I know she's already plotting ways of using it to Aspires advantage. Perhaps hoping that Ruby will be able to bring some je ne sais quoi into the mix with her fortunate family connections, give us a boost or some inside scoop.

That's why it's almost comical to see her lean across the desk and fawn. "I loved your sisters line for Selfridges a few years back. So chic."

"Oh really? That's cool. I'll pass that along," Ruby replies, her voice still quiet. I sense she must get this an awful lot.

The mention of her sister brings to memory headline fodder of years past. Something about dating an heir to an oil dynasty. A stint in rehab. But that was all before the PR spin to turn her into somewhat of a national treasure, a famous face.

Violet Halliday now runs a subscription lifestyle blog not too dissimilar to Aspire, just with more of a focus on what you shouldn't eat, or drink, or wear or feel when it comes to being the fairer of the sexes. In essence though we're all part of the same team. Instructing strangers on what to do with their lives, one lipgloss and nutritional kale shake at a time.

I tell myself that I haven't heard about Ruby because she's too young for the showbiz lifestyle, and that perhaps she's got no desire to join. Maybe she's happy flying under the radar of the publics thirst for others personal lives.

Norine continues talking with her hands, none the wiser. "She has a real good eye for style, and a flair for the fit, really please do tell her that."

"I will."

"Fantastic." Norine settles back in her chair. Pleased as punch. It's the most emotion I've seen from her in years. "I'd say where about done here. Jemima, speak to Lara about setting Ruby up with everything she needs - I.D card, email, server log in details yadda yadda, you know the drill."

Unfortunately I do. It also means the conversation's over, not up for debate. Ruby's the newest intern and I've got to clear out some space for her under my wing until I'm told otherwise.

As she dismisses me with the casual waft of a hand, Norine brings my initial fears back to life. "You can go now Jemima but we'll have a talk about your time keeping next week. Do try not to be late this time."

"Sure thing." I pretend to smile as Ruby waves at me.

"It was nice to meet you Jemima," she says it so convincingly I almost believe it's the first time.

Going along with the charade I tell her the same because I can sense she's uneasy about second our surprise meet, and how it's not gone over so well, at least with me. But I can't be too visibly annoyed, not when her body language reads like she'd rather be back in the toilets crying her bloody eyes out than have to face further interrogation about her family ties.

Because even before the glass door swings shut, I hear Norine start to press her for information, and tidbits she can gossip about to her other editor friends. Ruby really has no idea what she's let her in for.

It's unfortunate but right now she's not my problem.

Still, I've cause to groan because come Monday whether I like it or, she very much will be.

*** *** ***

Once five thirty rolls into the office, I grab Louisa and we take the lift down towards freedom. Counting the seconds until we're free women, ready to embrace the weekend and respite from work.

On the tube we huddle close together away from all the sweaty armpits and leering perverts in their socks and sandals. I bury my face in her wild, curly blonde hair with a squirm when a suited and booted banker rubs his groin against my back, and I hold on for dear life when the tube comes to a grinding halt.

We stay motionless in a dark tunnel for what feels like an eternity before it slowly starts up again and safely delivers us to our final destination.

As we walk along the high street towards the flat Louisa shares with a fabulous gay man called Simon and his miniature schnauzer Frankie, above a popular Bikram yoga studio, she asks me to dish the details on my meeting with Norine.

I tell her all about Ruby but not about our meet up in the ladies toilets, and when I've worn out all I can remember, I admit that I'm honestly dreading it.

She laughs, eyeing up a happy hour blackboard outside a plush wine bar as we wait at traffic lights. "It might not be that bad."

This gives me a tiny bit of hope. "You think? I mean she might be alright."

"Nah I'm only kidding. The last one I had god bless her was useless," She puts emphasis the last word. "Couldn't send emails properly. Thought she had a one hundred and forty character limit so they always seemed rude or too vague."

"Sweet jesus, really?"

"I'm sure yours will be better."

"We're talking about her like she's my property. It's weird," I reply. "Doesn't seem right."

Louisa side steps out the path of an oncoming tourist group, their guide hoisting a large sign above his head. "I know but our industries kinda notorious for treating interns like shit. Maybe you can be the exception."

I sigh heavily, the thought of it all weighing heavily on the headache I feel spike with every step.

"Anyway, I don't know why we're wasting time talking about her when you could be telling me all about your encounter with a certain someone..." She says with a sly wink.

I do as I'm told. When I reveal that he'd asked me out for a drink, she shakes her head about and laughs madly.

"Seriously? That boy has zero shame. After all this time he thinks he can just waltz in and charm his way back into your knickers? Please tell me you said no."

"Told him I was busy. Seeing a friend."

"Good one. Like it," she replies. "Leaves it open to interpretation, like you might just be going on a hot date with some hunk." It's sweet she thinks this way but somehow I doubt he'll be loosing any sleep over it.

"Well the important thing is I didn't accept the offer and I'm going home instead to have a glass of wine. And to pretend like I can't hear Abbie and Dave have sex in the room next door," I joke, hoping I'll jinx it just by the mention so I won't have sleep with earplugs in for another night.

Louisa stick her fingers in her mouth. "Gross. Let's hope not but if you want to do something Simon and I are going dancing later. There's this salsa instructor he's got a hard on for so I'm his wing-woman tonight."

"Thanks but I'm pretty tired, maybe next time." I feel bad about ducking out of another invite but I'm too frazzled from earlier events and there's a microwave dinner I've got to nurse, and a bottle of wine with my name on it.

"Okay but don't you dare think about calling him. I know what you're like, and what you like."

"What am I like? What do I like?" I try testing her.

She shrugs. "You like guys like Jack. A certain type. Your last one was a bit of git too wasn't he?"

I'm grateful she's only been around for a choice few of my previous relationships and doesn't know about all those that came before the Jacks, and the Finn's she's so far only heard about. Really though, I should be able to tell her that she's right about a few of them being gits but how I also maybe attract them, often because I can be a git too. I've not always been the one left heartbroken or treated poorly.

Maybe I should enlighten her about the exchange student who came to slum it with one of my friends back when I left home at seventeen, to sofa surf my way round London. He was brooding, chestnut-haired, and fuelled by hormones. He promised to teach me Spanish during his three month stay. I learn't nada of course but he did cook a mean Paella and knew how to make me come, so it wasn't an entirely fruitless affair. Still, he caught me kissing another boy at his leaving party, called me a puta sucia before storming out.

Or how about Kit? Sweet lovely, singer-songwriter Kit Smith - named after an Nineteen-Eighties artificially intelligent car, and not the chocolate bar. A guy who tolerated my phase of wearing baggy clothes and heavy eyeliner until we got into a drunken spat about his debatable music tastes, love for Bono, and I ended between it us on a park bench, still half cut. Simultaneously breaking his heart and writing myself into the history books when he had a Top Forty hit years later with a song called Park Bench Blues (Ode to a Jem).

Which luckily left the charts before Patrick came on the scene. He played tennis obsessively, and reminded me of a teenage telly heartthrob I used to fawn over every Saturday morning as a kid. They could have been twins - all floppy haired and bushy browed.

When Pat wasn't practising on the court he was busy with me, serving up some interesting moments between the sheets before I called him Zach in the throws of passion, abruptly shattering our six month union.

Ginger Freddie came sometime after - a graphic designer with a cool loft studio and a crazy, hostile ex-girlfriend. Then there was Samuel, a ridiculously handsome telemarketer with two rocks for brains and a trio of Ben/Benjamin's a year or two apart until Finn came on the scene and took me off the shelf for a couple of years.

There might have been others in between but my memory's probably deleted them for a reason. Maybe they were all gits, like Louisa said.

"I think I'm just a sucker for a devilish smile," I tell her hoping she'll drop the subject of Jack so I can forget too.

"No way. Not for me at least, they almost always spell trouble."

"Well if we all liked the same things life would be so utterly boring."

Linking her arm firmly into mine she chuckles, "Amen to that."

*** *** ***

After Louisa's been dropped off outside hers, I take the short walk back home to Abbie and Dave's flat above what was once a grimy fish and chip shop but is now a micro brewery pub. It's already buzzing with girls in tight top knots and bearded guys, trendy man buns, and spectacled Shoreditch locals.

Just getting the key in the door proves a hassle as I have to politely ask a group of smokers to let me past, slamming the door back quickly so the smoke doesn't invade the tiny hallway up to the second floor.

"Here's to the weekend!" Abbie calls out as soon as I take off my shoes. She comes out the kitchen and promptly hands me a glass of white wine. "Busy day?"

I let out a prolonged sigh so she'll get the gist. Say no more.

"Wasn't sure what time you'd be back so we've already made dinner."

"It's fine," I reply, tummy rumbling. Begging for me to find the microwave ASAP. "I've got something in the fridge."

Abbie smiles and I follow her into the tiny kitchen. The extractor fan's in overdrive and it smells like Dave's burn't the onions again. There's a stack of pans by the sink like culinary Jenga and spaghetti hangs from the ceiling. Due mainly to something I'd taught Dave back when he could only make beans on toast, instructing him to test out pasta by flinging it against something - like a wall, or a ceiling.

I told him if it sticks then it's perfectly cooked and ready to eat. Some three years later and we've amassed quite the collection of spaghetti strands. Our very own kitchen stalagmites, accumulating and inching down further with every Friday night spag bolognese. Abbie's still mad about it but none of us can be bothered to get out the step ladder and scrape them off so they've become a permeant fixture in the cramped two bed flat we share.

"Good day?" Dave asks, already tucking into his dinner. Bowl in one hand, the other shovelling in steaming sauce and pasta. He's got some on his chin and down the front of his white button shirt.

Heating up my dinner in the microwave, I rest my below on the countertop. "Was alright, wouldn't want to repeat it though if you know what I mean."

"Tell me about it," He snorts. "Had a class full of kids infected with head lice all week. Nightmare but don't worry me and Abs have already been checked - we're clean."

"That's good to know." I watch as he demolishes his first bowl, before helping himself to seconds.

Abbie rolls her eyes whilst fixing up another glass of wine for herself and a beer for her fiancé. "I cannot wait for half term," She mumbles kicking the fridge door shut. "Our dire Ofsted report from last year is still causing headaches. Isn't it Dave?"

He grumbles back that it is and we all filter back out into the hallway towards the lounge once my Carbonara's piping hot. They both take the two seater sofa leaving me with the red bean bag by the window, which is standard in the Abbie/Dave and longterm-guest Jemima household.

Settling in, I listen to them have a little back and forth about how they're so short staffed and just how worried they are about the next generation because they spend all their time glued to their iPads, unable to form coherent, full sentences or concentrate without a screen in front of them.

This is familiar conversation, not just for a Friday evening after a long week but most days. Both are primary school teachers, working under the same roof dealing with the perils of unruly pre-pubescent kids all whilst being wholly underpaid. I sympathise with them, because their wonderful people doing a noble profession but still, the constant chatter about school wears thin.

Sometimes I wonder if they ever get bored of hearing themselves talk, or if they're so wrapped up in it they've become oblivious to the fact that people really don't care about inspections or reports or sports day. I've heard the story about the kid who asked what Jesus's first name was a hundred times over. And then some.

"Babe, look I've told you that I hate this programme," Dave groans when Abbie switches channels, suspiciously landing on a repeat of Animal Police. "Why do you like watching this? All those poor sodding animals, it's not exactly feel good TV for a Friday night."

"What do you want to watch then?" Abbie bites back, visibly annoyed. "I don't want to be channel hopping, I want to eat my dinner." She looks over to me, low down in the bean bag and I shrug. Dave turns his attention too and I repeat that I really have no preference. Because it's not up to me, it never is.

This isn't really my home. And even through I pay my share of the rent and bung in extra for the bills I'm still just a lodger. One whose long outstayed her welcome but who won't dare to bring it up. Because I fear that Abbie will realise that offering me a place to crash, all those years back when I bumped into her in Oxford Circus while flat hunting, was possibly one of the worst snap decisions she's ever made.

Because I am still here. Occupying their second bedroom that's shaped like a shoebox and can fit about as much in it.

I know Abbie got caught up in the nostalgia of our college days when she let me stay. We once used to be thick as thieves, skipping lessons and lectures to go smoke at the back of the long football field. Swapping revision and coursework for hanging out at the local skatepark, eyeing up the talent. Wishing they'd teach us some tricks so they'd hold onto our waists whilst we pretended to screech like useless little girls although we were anything but.

None knew that Abbie was once a pro roller skater. Completely fearless thanks to her upbringing with three older brothers and an ex-rugby coach for a dad. And all our insisting that skateboarding was hard, and scary was just a front - a way to get into guys pants. It paid off once or twice but for the most part we were just known as the two broads hanging out at the top of the half pipe, always just getting in the way in our perverted quest to snag a shaggy haired skate god.

Then we lost touch. I left home and packed my bags for London, took the hours journey into the city and forgot to call as much. I hadn't seen her in almost eight years till fate bought us back together outside John Lewis on a wet, miserable February afternoon.

She was already with Dave at this point, two years into a relationship that slowly turned into an engagement. And I can't knock him too much because Dave and I get on great. He's like the brother I probably wouldn't have asked for but ended up with nonetheless. It helps that he's kind to Abbie, and treats her with more respect than most guys might. A real gentle soul, with a heart of gold, he'd never turf me out on the street but I know it grates on him - the lack of privacy and the issue of the en-suite bathroom we all have to share that's tacked onto their bedroom like an afterthought.

He's probably tired of all the half used shampoo bottles I leave in the shower and irritated by my requests for him to clear out the blocked drain, one full of dark curly pubes. I've heard the whispers too, late at night because the walls here aren't that thick.

Abbie will always remind him that I can't just move out or go stay my mum because we haven't talked in years and that I don't have any extended family to leech off. She'll often use her patronising school teacher voice, to put emphasis on the fact that I'm an 'only child'. Still, even after their nightly pillow talks they both don't say a word, or pressure me to leave. So I don't.

"What about this?" Abbie asks, switching over to a quiz show that's just started. Dave nods and they both simultaneously bring their legs up. They throw the crocheted cushions off and pull over the brightly coloured patch blanket that Abbie made back when she had a nasty bout of the Flu.

I appreciate how she tries to bring colour to the flat with all her crafty creations but the place is still falling apart. It's not exactly where any of us might have imagined ourselves living, fast approaching our thirties.

"Now we're talking," Dave replies, firing off answers at lightening speed. It helps that they're both part of not one but three pub quiz teams. Collecting tidy little cash prizes every other week.

It's kept us in wine and beer, bought us a new fridge, and a set of shelves that don't slope or fall off the brackets like the ones previous.

One fruitful quiz even paid for the three of us to go camping in the New Forrest once, along with Finn in the days before he cheated on me with a Swedish girl he met at the gym.

"Right get ready, let's see how many we can answer," Abbie says delegating the order in which she wants us to go. I continue to sip my wine and let them do most of the work because they enjoy it so much.

Watching how content and comfortable they are in each others company, all tangled legs and playful nudging leaves me feeling like a third wheel. Slightly somber and out of place. Taking my glass I pretend to check my phone. I tell them that I forgot all about meeting Louisa for drinks. They don't even look up, so lost in questions and the awe of each others intelligence.

In my room I rush to check my work emails, finding the one I'd send back to myself the day when I had a drunken moment and deleted a bunch of numbers from my phone I thought I'd have no use for. Usually I'd limit myself to only one glass of wine before eight o'clock but I make an exception this time. I need the courage and the push to keep listening to the irrational side of my brain that coaxes me into packing a spare pair of knickers in my handbag. And a toothbrush just in case.

Abbie and Dave are too busy tallying up their respective scores to notice me slip out the front door, which I'm grateful for. It's one less lie to have to repeat. The shame of it all.

On the bus across town I tell myself that this is a one time thing only - tonight is an exception.

But when Jack opens his door, wearing nothing but pale grey joggers that are loose round the waist and tight in all the places it matters I'm not sure if I can make any promises.

He grins smugly, holds the door ajar. "You changed your mind then?"

I don't reply, only shrug with the hope that he'll let me in quickly before anyone sees.

"You took so long I thought I might have to give myself a happy ending," He laughs before taking my hand and closing the door. Then he greets me with a kiss on the cheek as does what's stirring beneath his joggers.

"I'm here now aren't I?" There's no need for small talk. I don't want to drag this out for any longer than necessary.

Maybe Jack can read minds, knows what the women that come back into his life really want because he drops my bag to the floor and slips off my jacket.

He steps closer, pulls me into his arms. His stubble tickles my cheek and neck as he plants small kisses along my collarbone. Pushing his body hard to mine. The door's cold against my back but I don't care.

Jacks hands wander to all the places he likes best and without any hesitation mine do the same. Just like the first time, and all those after.

Giving in to my only exception.

. . .