Under My Umbrella

Chapter Eight

I spend the rest of the day moping around at Melissa’s, thinking about how I’m going to apologise to Claire. What would I say?

I’m sorry I dressed like a slut and tried to flirt with your fiancé and that your stupid friend ripped my shirt and kicked me out.

Somehow I don’t think those are quite the right words.

And it’s not like I can just go knock on her door and say that. Neither her nor Rob want to see me again.

I think of a few sentimental phrases I could throw in. Something like “Rob means a lot to me and I want to make sure he’s with the right person.”

Or I could just pretend I was drunk and blame my behaviour on booze. My mother did a lot worse when under the influence.

But that still doesn’t solve the issue of how I’ll get Claire to see me, never mind listen to me.

 Calling Carter will be much easier. I wait until it’s early evening, which will be morning back in California, and dial the number for his office.  His efficient secretary informs me that he’s in a meeting right now and can’t get to the phone. Which roughly translates as: Carter thinks you’re a heartless bitch and doesn’t want to talk to you.

I punch in Jenna’s number instead and get nothing but her voicemail.

No way am I calling my dad.

I scroll through the numbers in my contacts list and stop over Shane’s number. If I called him, what would I say? What would he expect? An apology?

I slam my phone down onto the bed.

This is not going anything like I had planned it in my head. Everything should be sorted by now. I need to gain back control.

Okay, let’s think about this logically. If what Melissa said is true, does that mean Rob’s marrying Claire for sex? Surely not. But maybe that would explain why he’s preparing for holy matrimony so quickly.

So what do I do about it?

Claire and Rob hate me.

I glance at my discarded phone again. I need to think of some way I can talk to Claire.

It’s the only way I’m going to get anywhere near Rob again, isn’t it?

But I can’t just pick up the phone. He’ll never answer my call.

Call Shane.

That thought is quickly swallowed by the engulfing feeling of guilt, telling me that Shane thinks I’m a heartless bitch, too. Just like Carter.

Besides, he probably wouldn’t pick up either. I thought I had this all worked out but all I seem to have done is alienate people.

I sit on the edge of the bed and close my eyes, taking deep breaths as I try and organise my thoughts into some sort of structure, something resembling a plan

I inhale again, trying to think of some innovative idea that’s going to save the day. This method usually works for me when I’m lying in bed on a morning, planning the day ahead.

I know how long it takes my assistant to bring me my morning coffee once I get to work. I know the precise time it takes to photocopy a document. I always know what’s going to happen next.

But this time I don’t. And the lack of control is driving me crazy.

Maybe I should meditate. Isn’t that supposed to help you relax?

I cross my legs and stretch my arms out, resting a hand on each knee with my thumb and middle finger making an ‘O’ shape like I’ve seen people do on TV.