Amber's revenge
Amber clenched the phone. She looked across at Michael. He was gazing vacantly out the window. No sign of what he had just told her.The room began to sway. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
She stood abruptly and marched to the toilet, a little too fast not to be noticed. She swung the door open and hurtled into the first cubicle. She retched violently.
As she dragged herself from her knees, she wiped some hair from her mouth and it fell onto her blouse; a sticky, damp blot.
"You bastard," she thought. No. Monster.
Defiantly, she wiped the residue vomit from her face and hands, washed her face and re-applied her lipstick. She was sure of what she had to do.
As she passed Amelia, there was a moment's recognition, a tentative hand raised and then withdrawn. Erin bent her head further over her documents. Amber knew she was not the only one.
Back at her desk, she made an elaborate pretence of being fully occupied, deep into the contract that was nothing more than a blur on her screen.
The moment came at five minutes to 11. With clockwork predictability, Michael rose from his seat and headed to the balcony, a no smoking zone where some smokers were overlooked by virtue of their seniority.
Casually, she made her way past the water fountain. There he was, leaning on the balustrade and puffing shallowly. A picture of practiced arrogance and confidence.
She seized his cuff and the crutch of his pants and heaved for all it was worth. He lunged at the rail, his face a combination of horror and incomprehensibility. His nails scratched lines in the paint as he hung, momentarily, above the fourteen storeys.
She watched him as he fell, a slow tumble and an abrupt halt.
Never again, she concluded.