Revelation

Part 8

"Jo, the car's leaving in ten."

"I'm not going with you. I'm going back to London; I have to find a new job."

Gerry ran his hand over his scruffy jaw, looking at me as if I'd lost a wing-nut or two. "Babe, you..."

"Screwed up," I supplied the rest of his sentence for him. "Big time. Colossal time. You have to fire me, Gerry."

"I do?"

He sounded confused rather than convinced so I stopped in the middle of gathering the clothes I'd only just unpacked when we'd arrived in Bristol the day before, turning to look at him. "You do. Of course you do. This fake thing we're fooling everybody with can't protect me from the consequences of my actions – or rather, inactions. God, I still can't believe I..." I stopped to take a deep breath, tamping down firmly on the tidal wave of emotions threatening to drown me, at least until I could get out of there and away from everyone. Away from Gerry. Especially Gerry. I'd let him down so badly and the tears of self-loathing and humiliation wouldn't hold off forever.

"Okay, you fucked up, but Jo it's the first time you've ever made a mistake like that and we found a solution."

My first mistake, sure, but a mistake that would cost the production company thousands of pounds and at least a day's delay in shooting, not to mention the inconvenience to all concerned. What the hell is wrong with me? At five this morning, an army of cameramen, lighting technicians and other personnel had shown up at the deep-water tank we had booked – I had booked - to use to shoot the underwater scenes. Instead of being shown in, as expected, we'd been greeted with the news that the main tank stage was closed for repairs and would be unusable for at least a week. Stunned and frustrated at what I considered their unprofessional behaviour in not alerting me to the problem in time for alternate arrangements to be made, I'd been on the point of making my thoughts known when the wind was completely taken out of my sails.

"We did notify you," the manager said. "I corresponded with a..." he looked at the sheaf of papers on his clipboard, "...Josephine Baker."

All was quiet, though I'd felt the weight of everyone's eyes turned on me.

"That's not possible," I protested. "If you'd let me know I would have booked elsewhere or chosen an alternate date."

While we all waited, my mind racing with possible solutions and trying to fight back panic, he drew an iPad from its case, opened an app and scrolled down.

"Here," he said, turning the screen so Gerry and I could both see. "The original booking from you...our confirmation..." These had both taken place months ago. "Here's where I told you of the repairs and suggested the tank at Shepparton..." I bristled, thinking it was obvious I had never received his email as there'd been no response from me acknowledging his news. "...and here's your reply."

What?

I looked. Blinked. Looked again. Blinked once more.

Yup, there it was – an email from me thanking him for letting me know and for his suggested alternative. I felt the blood drain from my face as beside me, Gerry muttered quietly, "Please tell me you booked Shepparton."

My mouth opened but nothing came out. I had no idea what to say; I had no recollection whatsoever of receiving the email about the leak and no memory of responding to it. My mind was a complete blank. And if I couldn't remember even knowing about the issue, what were the chances I'd...

"Call Shepparton. Now." Gerry's tone broke through my stunned haze and I jumped, fumbling for my phone. Turning away to make the call, I vaguely heard the rumble of his voice behind me and knew he'd be smoothing things over with the guy I'd practically called a liar.

What the fuck have I done?

In the end Shepparton's tank was – thank god – still available, but we would lose a day travelling to the new location as well as it being a huge inconvenience to the production staff and actors involved.

I was so ashamed I couldn't bear to look anyone in the eye as we set about re-arranging transportation for all the equipment and people. As I was Gerry's assistant this reflected badly on him too and that knowledge alone made my heart drop to my feet. Once everything had been organised I went back to our hotel room and started packing, which is where Gerry eventually found me.

"That's beside the point and you know it," I told him, unable to look him in the eyes. "Any other assistant would lose their job over this; you can't make an exception of me just because we're..." We're what, Jo? What are we exactly? I scarcely knew and certainly my mind was in no fit state at the moment to make sense of the tangled mess that was my personal life. "I've rung an agency," I continued, "and they're sending a...replacement..." I almost choked on the word. "They'll meet you at Shepparton. Here's my tablet with your schedule and all the information they'll need." I threw it on the bed near where he stood. It was taking all the self-control I had not to throw myself into his arms. "I've packed your things – your bag's in the sitting room ready to go. If your new...assistant...needs anything, they can call me, of course." I threw the last of my belongings in my bag and quickly zipped it shut, focussing on getting out before I lost control.

"Fuck!" At Gerry's expletive I cringed, but it didn't stop me picking up my bag and moving towards the door.

"I'm sorry, Gerry. I'm so very sorry."

Then I left.

---

Almost four hours later I opened the door to the flat I euphemistically called 'cosy' and flung my bag onto the sofa, heading straight to the bathroom to splash my face with cold water. It didn't do much to diminish the effects of the sob-fest I'd indulged in on the train and I glared at my reflection in the vanity mirror.

"Well done, Baker, you fucked up good and proper. What the hell is wrong with you?"

I'd asked myself that question throughout my journey but had yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. Early onset dementia seemed my best guess so far – how else to explain forgetting such a vital detail so completely that I still had no memory of it?

Wandering out to my tiny kitchen, I scanned the meagre offerings of the pantry and fridge, knowing I'd need to go shopping and replenish but in no mood to do so straight away. I debated putting on the kettle but the idea of caffeine wasn't appealing either. The bottle of whiskey tucked away at the back of my pantry, however, was smiling at me seductively.

Really, Jo? Drinking in the middle of the day?

Well, it's five o'clock somewhere.

Before I could talk sense into myself, I fetched a glass, grabbed the last few blocks from the almost empty ice tray and poured a dram, taking it with me to the armchair where I burst into my third or fourth bout of tears. By the time I stopped, I needed a refill. Emotionally exhausted, I went to lay down on my bed and drifted off, only to dream that Gerry was here with me, making love to me the way he had the previous night, before either of us knew what a complete balls-up I'd made of my job and my life. On waking and discovering he wasn't really here, I went back for a third dram and another deluge of tears.

If only I'd known it was our last time together. I'd have taken more notice of the warmth of his skin, the manly scent of him, the way it felt when he ran the tips of his fingers down my neck or took the tip of my breast in his mouth and lavished it with attention. I'd have paid particular attention to the way his breath in my ear sent shivers skittering along my spine, the intensity with which he looked at me as he surged deep inside me, how he always made sure I reached orgasm before taking his own pleasure.

I love him. God, I love him so much.

How had I not realised that before? And what the hell do I do now?