She was going to kill Petrenko. At least, she was going to make her life a living hell for the rest of her days.
"You're welcome," she had drawled in that hideously suspicious tone of hers, and at the time, she had actually been eager to hear Fletcher talk about something other than that blasted record. The plan that the Slav had been hatching had only become apparent when she had walked into her office and found Fletcher sat. In her chair.
The dastardly expression on his face told her that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
She had demanded to know what he was doing in her chair, and why had that hideously smug grin on his face. She had thought that Frieda had simply given him the wrong edition of the vinyl again and she was going to have to deal with weeks more of complaining. Lord knows it was something worse.
In his hand was a vinyl cover. Plain black. No indication of whether the edition was right or wrong. He lifted it up in the air and the smugness on his face shifted to curiosity.
True to form, she pushed shut the door and stalked across the room, snatching it out of his hand and pulling the LP out. It only took a glance for her to know.
It was the right edition. Jimmy Winston and His Reflections. Sorry She's Mine. 1966.
It was the copy. The copy covered in Emma's wax crayon doodles. The copy that had cracked straight down the middle on Tuesday and had now been rather finely rebuilt with superglue. The copy that she had thrown in the bin.
"Anything to tell me, Ms Naylor?" Fletch enquired, arching his eyebrow for effect.
Jac looked at him and she wondered where he is hiding the anger in his face. Normally, it sits in the crinkle between his eyebrows or in the twitch of his jaw; today, she could not locate it.
She cast her eyes down to the vinyl, slipped it back into the cover, out of sight. She hated herself for this, and the unfamiliar feeling of guilt which has never dared approach her settled in the pit of her stomach.
Fletch could see the shame in her, the way her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of a poor excuse. His posture eased and he stood, stepped into her space and was surprised when she does not try to move away from him.
"I didn't mean for it to get damaged, truly." The words are soft and shy, unlike any that Fletch has heard leave the ever-brusque woman's mouth before.
"Wait, you took this?" Fletch snapped as the realisation hits him. Jac flinches, not enough to notice, but they were so close now that he felt it. His tone softened. "Why?"
There was a silence that drowns them both in its iciness. There were no words, and yet, she kept looking for them.
"Maybe I thought you needed it. You needed something to help you grieve Raf so I did something stupid. I tried to help you, and we know I am awful at helping. I screwed up, and I will pay for the last copy on the planet if I have to so that you don't hold this against me because I really wasn't trying to ruin your little project," Jac defended, back in Naylor mode even though they both knew she didn't need to be.
In her mind, she promised herself that she would make it up to him. She would buy the last copy on the planet even if it meant she had to spend every penny she had. Jac told herself that she would not let her recklessness ruin the life of someone as obnoxiously good as Adrian Fletcher.
He took the record from her and put it down on the desk. She hated him for not being angry at her in that moment.
"It's not about the money. You were right, I did need something, and this-" he points at the record "is the end of it. I don't care that I can't retire early and live off the fortune I would've made. Thank you for taking it. Thank you for giving me something to do instead of wallow."
Jac breathed for what felt like the first time since she stepped into the office. She reached for the edge of the desk and alleviated the pressure weighing down of her still sore leg.
For a moment, they remained like that and it is comfortable, until the e-mail alert of Jac's computer reminds them both of precisely who they are.
"Well Fletcher, if you aren't mad at me then I suppose you can go and get on with your job! And let me get on with mine, if you don't mind," she suggested; it was almost miraculous to watch the transition for Jac to Ms Naylor happen so quickly.
He snickered at her, and she rolled her eyes before shooing him out of the way and falling back into her seat. Jac glared impatiently at him, and he snatched up the record and made for the door.
Alone in her office, Naylor wondered what the hell Petrenko had been thinking. The Ukrainian had been doing everything in her power to stay on Jac's good side recently, remarkably well considering the skill with which she toed the line of attentive yet never brown-nosing.
A very stern conversation would be happening later today. Potentially in theatre, so it was inescapable. Frieda Petrenko was going to be reminded of what it meant to frustrate Jac Naylor.
The relief that washed over her served as a relaxant however. Fletch didn't hate her, and much as she hated to admit it, that fact significantly improved her day. She thought of how he had so easily forgiven her, how he had thanked her even for trying, so disastrously, to help. He was the only one she really felt she could trust to listen and to care without getting concerned with her well-being, and she was so infinitely grateful for that.
Then she remembered that he had taken the record with him as he left. Why would he do that?
