Birdcage

Chapter 13 Lila...

I sat and thought about Dane's text message all day at work- 'we need to talk'. That's never good, is it... Even when he told me it wasn't anything to worry about, I still continued to fret sending myself down a rabbit-hole of worry. I should be ashamed; I give my fellow woman a bad name. I've barely known him five minutes, there is no label on what we are and it shouldn't matter what that message meant.

I flitted through different emotions, like a hormonal teenager; one minute I was chewing my nails and staring into space, panicking that he was going to 'dump' me, even though we aren't technically in a relationship - I don't think, anyway. The next minute, I was sitting casually on the end of Robbie's desk, stating to no one in particular that it was his loss, and that there are plenty of men out there willing to date me. This, however, is not true and if I was being honest with myself, I don't want anyone else. Then I would be back at my own desk, suddenly angry, mentally telling myself that he was probably playing me the whole time. Being who he is, he must have an entourage of women at his feet that he can pick up and drop whenever he fancies it - well not this woman. The rational part of my brain would then kick in and try to tell me to stop being dramatic; he has said there isn't anything to worry about. What I should be concerned about, is how this is definite clarification that I am developing some serious feelings for him and I'm not sure how practical that is when I think about it logically.

As amazing as a novel worthy, fast-paced romance sounds, when does that ever work out in reality and I have to question whether there is such thing as love at first sight. I decided then and there that the new and improved me will try and not over think things from now on, I will just go with the flow; throw caution to the wind; enjoy what feels good and right at the time.

Trying to be optimistic and laid back is difficult when dealing with, Max though. He has made work hell for me when he is in the office since our little lunch time conversation the other day. He speaks to me like the shit on his shoe and has me doing his workload now, giving me all of his paperwork. I may as well be running this business. The only thing he does is schmooze the clients and lord it up in his office. I get more and more impatient in his company and I'm scared I will blow one of these days, landing me jobless. I briefly wonder if that would be so bad; maybe it would give me the kick up my arse to go out and find something that I really want to do. I also don't see why I should put up with being treated this way; no job is worth this misery. But, for now I just keep myself together, and my head down.

By the time I am on the tube and on my way home, I'm physically and mentally drained. Between my obsessive thoughts about Dane and my megalomaniac boss, I'm not sure what diverts me into the Booze-master to purchase a bottle of red, more. I pick up a mid-range priced bottle, silently hand over the money to the lady behind the till and walk out again without so much as a smile. She must think I'm a sour faced bitch, but I don't care.

I arrive home to see that Maisie is out - again. There isn't much new there but she seems to be gone more than normal at the minute. She still spends the night at home, because Pierre goes home to his wife, but she only returns late and goes straight to her bedroom.

I switch on all the lights in the house - my new routine since the attack in the alleyway - and dump my bag in the kitchen. I take off my coat and sling it on the back of the kitchen chair, grab a large wine glass from the cupboard and pour myself a hefty glass. I gulp from it straight away, half the drink already drained. I place the glass back on the table and top it back up before going to the fridge and selecting a meal-for-one microwave lasagne. I remove the packaging and angrily stab at the film lid. It feels good, so I keep stabbing, slowly losing myself a little. I keep going and going, letting out a little scream and reducing the film lid to barely nothing. My lasagne is now a pasta and beef massacre and I'm pretty sure I've lost some plastic in there from my stabbing. I throw it in the microwave nonetheless, slam the door closed and quick start it for three minutes. My violence against my innocent ready meal caused my hair to fly into face, so I blow it out of the way ignoring the rest of the bird's nest on top of my head, and take another big swig of my wine. What's that famous saying about the end of the week...ah yes; thank fuck it's Friday.