Today’s word of the day is: awkward.

Thomas merely said ‘hi’ to me this morning when he walked into the office. No eye contact, no secret smile, no covered-up semi when he remembered what we did last night. He’s fulfilled his daydreams of fucking his secretary and now I’m worthless to him, only a tragic reminder of his one-time-only sexual indiscretion.

I sat with my back to him the entire morning, feeling as if he was breathing down my neck, angry that he couldn’t even be bothered to ask how I was. I was wrong about him; he’s more like my exes than I realised: a selfish bastard who only cares about himself and his dick.

Every so often I glanced back to see whether he was staring, and twice I caught him looking out at me through his self-made glass prison. I was tempted to do something to freak him out, like look up ‘sexual harassment in the workplace’, zoom in on a headline and leave it up on my screen while I went to hide in the photocopier room and check on my phone for the zillionth time to see whether I had any missed calls from Jamal.

I haven’t spoken to Jamal since last night. I haven’t seen him either. Has he seen my sex tape? Is there a sex tape? He didn’t show up for work today and no one knows where he is.

What if he’s taken all of my money from my bank account and done a runner, leaving me penniless and vowing to kill him if I ever find him? What if he doesn’t pay me the rest of my money? I’d have to hire a PI to track him down and find my stolen cash, then get a hitman to torture and kill him mercilessly. Where does one go to find such men (or people, to be more politically correct – I doubt there would be much sexual discrimination in the assassination business though)? I’d have to ask around. Amelia might know; maybe she’s worked with a few shady freelancers. I don’t really know what she does – something to do with financial settlements and lawyering?

Last night I managed to get through to Amelia and cried down the phone that she at least owed me a final goodbye if she was going to dump me when we’ve been friends for over a decade. I was in a right state, unashamedly crying in the back of my taxi, the driver looking at me with an immense amount of pity in his rear-view mirror while being smart enough not to ask me anything in case I had a go at him too. Through my sobs I told Amelia that I was through with men, I wanted to kill Mark, I was going to become a nun or a lesbian or get fucked on drugs for the rest of my life until an overdose killed me.

Amelia told me not to be so stupid and that she’d see me tonight at our usual place. That’s where I’m heading right now (the bar down the street from her office), worried about what I’ll do if I bump into Mark again. Kick him in the nuts, push him off the pavement into an oncoming truck, stab him in his ice-cold heart? No, I’ll probably pretend to ignore him and hurry past. Hopefully he’ll notice me and forever hate himself because he was blanked by the one-and-only, amazingly-wonderful Julianne Carrell and he’s lost out on his chance to ever have sex with me again.

I need someone new in my life. In truth, I don’t think I could be a lesbian: I don’t feel the same kind of chemistry towards women as I do for men, and I’d really suck at being gay because of that. I hate myself for falling for fucked-up selfish pricks though and not caring that they don’t care because they temporarily make me forget that I’m alone in this city and in my thirties. Sex with incompatible men is like a bandage you wrap around your head so as not to hear your inner thoughts screaming at you that you’re boring, no one likes you and you’re going to die alone.

I order a bottle of red and two glasses then sit down at our usual table. Jamal and Mark better not fucking interrupt us tonight. My feet kill again from walking to and from my stupid office – when can I escape that hellhole? I slip off my shoes, wriggle my toes and finally feel life creeping back into them again.

Waiting by myself for Amelia to finish work, I scroll through my newsfeed on my phone. Then a text pops up from Mark: ‘Are we still on for tonight? I want to make up to you for last night.’ Well, tough shit, because that isn’t going to happen.

I ignore his message, put my phone on silent, and decide to people-watch instead of staring at social media. There’s an old guy with a beard nursing his beer, somehow managing not to dunk his frizzy facial hair into his glass. Two chavvy lads are pissed and coming on to a couple of professional-looking women in suits, who cringe at their embarrassing predicament and down the rest of their white wine spritzers, wanting to get out of here ASAP.

Growing bored, I pick up my phone again and decide to text Jamal: ‘Where the fuck are you? I want out of this job now!’

As I hit send, Amelia appears in the doorway. I don’t know how to greet her: an uncomfortable ‘I hope this isn’t awkward’ hello, an ‘I’m really sorry for everything’ hug, or a nonchalant ‘please can everything go back to normal now’ smile? She decides for me, giving me a pitiful look and coming over to hug me.

‘I’ve decided to forgive you,’ she tells me, sitting down. ‘God, I’ve had a long day.’ She pours herself a glass, sits back and evaluates me. ‘You look like shit.’

I feel like crying again, tears welling up like last night. I try to blink them back and pretend to look normal. ‘Last night I caught Mark with some blonde bitch called Ursula.’

Amelia looks guilty then takes another sip before admitting, ‘He told me.’

‘What do you mean, “He told you?”’

‘He was acting weird all day. Just now he came into my office and told me about last night and asked me what to do.’

‘What did you say?’

‘To text you. And that you might want to see him later.’

‘That’s not going to happen!’ I tell her, sitting back in my seat and sighing in frustration.

I guzzle down the rest of my glass. Maybe if I get really drunk I’ll forget the last couple of weeks ever happened and my life can return to normal.

‘I didn’t realise that the two of you were serious,’ says Amelia.

‘We’re not. It’s over.’

It’s Amelia’s turn to sigh. ‘As pissed off as I am with you, I know you and I know Mark. And I know Ursula.’

Oh, God, she knows Ursula? ‘Is she a bitch? Or an idiot? Does she have a third nipple or webbed feet?’

Amelia frowns disapprovingly but then reconsiders. ‘She is a bit of a bitch.’

My face falls because I hate Mark for sleeping with her if she’s a bitch.

Amelia tries to cheer me up. ‘Mark said that he only slept with her once about a year ago. Which I really didn’t want to know… But I believe him. He likes you. I’ve never seen him look so… useless. I actually thought that he might be on drugs today.’

‘Maybe he is.’

Maybe he’s more gutted at losing me than I thought and he’s taken to coke or heroin to numb his pain. Maybe he deserves a second chance and I was being paranoid about Ursula because she looks like an airbrushed fashion model and made me feel like I was ugly, worthless and idiotic for falling for Mark. And maybe this is about more than just Mark, and I’m upset at Thomas and what I had to do last night and that I can’t tell anyone about it.

‘Maybe…’ says Amelia. ‘Or maybe you just have that effect on him?’

Amelia’s being kind to me and I hate her for it because I was shitty for not telling her about Mark. I’m so glad that she’s made up with me though. I don’t want to ever not tell her something again. Apart from the fucked-up thing that I had to do last night, which I really can’t tell her about.

‘I’m having dinner with David tonight,’ she tells me. ‘So let’s have one more drink and come up with something to tell Mark.’

‘I don’t want to say anything to him.’

Amelia sighs at me again. ‘You two are perfect for each other. He’s besotted. For some strange reason.’

I put on a fake pout. ‘It’s not that strange that he happens to like me.’

Then I smile and realise that everything is back to normal between us, and she’s still my best friend and I love her for forgiving me.

I pick up my phone and start texting Mark, reading aloud to Amelia: ‘Can we meet later? We need to talk.’

‘Don’t send that! That’s an “I’m going to break up with you” text.’

‘Oh, shit… Maybe I should make him sweat though and worry about what I’m going to say.’

‘Don’t be a bitch!’ laughs Amelia.

‘Fine...’ I delete my previous message and write another: ‘Can we meet up later?’

‘Yeah, just send that,’ Amelia tells me. ‘Now, we need to talk about my wedding…’

Oh crap, and so it begins. Now I’ll have to endure detailed planning, discussions about colour palettes, dates, dresses, the guest list and how much Amelia hates her mother. It’s a long road ahead and I hope to God that she’s thinking of getting married soon.

* * *

Mark texts back and asks to meet me at his at 10pm, so I head back to mine to grab some dinner and quickly shave my legs. I feel happy now that I’ve made up with Amelia. And it’s nice to know that Mark probably isn’t seeing other women behind my back. Probably. I still don’t trust him one-hundred per cent.

When I’m running a bath, my phone rings in the other room. It better not be Mark to say that he’s changed his mind. Nope, it’s Jamal.

‘About fucking time. Where the hell have you been?’ I ask him.

‘Sorry. I’m on my way over.’

‘Now?’

‘Yeah, I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

Then the bastard hangs up and I stare at my half-run bath and realise that there’s no point running any more water. I pull the plug and head back into the bedroom to get dressed again.

Five minutes later, Jamal knocks on my door. I swing it open and glare at him. He’s sweating like he’s got a fever, which is odd because normally he looks picture perfect every single time I see him.

‘Did you run here?’ I ask.

He walks inside and I shut the door behind him. He goes over to my sink and pours himself a glass of water then necks the whole lot down.

‘That’s better,’ he says, sighing. ‘Now, this isn’t going to be good news.’

I brace myself for him telling me that he can’t get the rest of my money together, so my whoring last night was all for nothing.

Then he looks around at my flat and realises something. He goes back to the door and opens it. ‘Grab your coat. Let’s go for a walk.’

‘What? Where do you want to go? I have plans tonight.’

‘For fuck’s sake... Just walk with me for five minutes. Come on! Get your coat.’

I sigh but pick up my jacket, phone and keys, then slip on some shoes. Maybe Jamal doesn’t want to say anything here because of all the cameras that he’s probably hidden in every single room.

He bounds down the stairs and I hurry to keep up with him. Outside it’s freezing and the wind blows my hair into my face.

‘The video was crap,’ Jamal tells me as we start down the street. ‘It was too dark and all of the footage was blurry so I couldn’t even make out Thomas.’

‘What the fuck?’ What he’s just told me sinks in like a bullet that’s hit me hard in the chest. ‘You had one job to do last night and you fucked it up?’

This is a never-ending nightmare. There’s no way that I’m going to do this again. He’ll just have to edit what he has. Surely he can sharpen the images to make out Thomas’ face? There’s software to do that nowadays, isn’t there?

‘I tested the cameras out beforehand, but with the lights on,’ he explains. ‘I’ve been through all the footage today to see whether I can get anything out of it, and I can’t. It’s not my fault that you didn’t turn the fucking lights on.’

‘You didn’t tell me that I needed to! Jesus, this is a joke.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he tells me. He looks genuinely worried, which makes me nervous and wonder again why he looks so awful.

‘I’m not doing it again,’ I tell him. ‘I did what you asked and now I’m out. He doesn’t want to sleep with me again anyway. He didn’t even look at me today.’

‘Julianne, you have to.’

‘No, I don’t!’

Jamal stops walking, screws his eyes shut and shakes his head in disbelief. ‘I work for some really fucked-up people, okay? They’re not pleased about this. I know I fucked up with the video, but if you want to stay alive, you need to do this. You’ve slept with him once; it’s just one more time.’

‘Why would they kill me over this?’ I ask him. ‘What the hell have you got me involved in?’

Jamal ignores my questions as an old couple walking their dog slowly strolls past. Then he says, ‘I think someone’s onto me. Onto us. We’ve got to be more careful from now on.’

‘I’m out,’ I repeat, hoping that I’m getting through. ‘I don’t want to sleep with him again. It was bad enough the first time.’

‘Really? You looked like you enjoyed it to me,’ he says with a nasty glint in his eye.

‘Fuck off!’ I yell at him, and turn around to head back home.

‘Julianne!’ He grabs my arm. ‘Please, listen to me. These people are dangerous and you don’t want to piss them off.’

‘I don’t even know who they are. They shouldn’t be pissed off with me because I did my job. I did what you asked, okay?’ And I hate myself for it now.

He sighs. ‘Okay… I’ll call you tomorrow. Go into the office like normal and I’ll try to figure something out.’

‘You better,’ I tell him, shaking his hand off me.

I can’t believe him. I can’t believe that I’m stuck in this stupid, shitty situation. My pimp has failed me and now it sounds like he’s in trouble with his boss. Maybe they’ll just kill him and that will be the end of this fucking tragic story.

* * *

I smoked some weed in the bath to try to calm down, but it didn’t help at all. I ended up sobbing and the spliff fell from my lips, burning my leg. Quickly I scooped it out of the water, stubbed it out on the side of the bath for good measure and flicked it over the edge onto the floor. Then I lit up another.

That’s probably why I feel so fucking weird when I step up to Mark’s buzzer and press the button. My head’s pounding, but at least the part of my brain that’s been freaking out about everything recently is subdued for now.

A couple hand-in-hand walk out of the building and I make a grab for the door, smiling at them in a way that suggests that I live here. They frown at me but carry on walking. Do I still stink of weed? But I washed my hair.

Up in the elevator I go, reaching Mark’s floor: the top floor. I remember exactly where to go, feeling as if I’m in a dream or having déjà vu. I knock on his door and pray that I’m not too fucked up to hold a normal conversation. Whatever ‘normal’ is anymore.

Mark opens the door, dressed in an untucked white shirt and beige suit trousers. No tie; bare feet; he’s the perfect embodiment of comfort right now. He’s what I need.

I kiss him before he can say anything, stumbling into his hallway. He almost trips on something lying on the floor.

‘What’s this?’ he asks, picking it up.

It’s a plain brown paper folder. I stare at it and wonder why it looks so familiar. Then I realise. I try to grab it out of Mark’s hands.

‘Mark, give it to me!’

‘What is it? Did you just put it under my door?’

‘No! God, no. Just give it to me. Please!’

He frowns, wondering why I look so worried. Then the idiot opens it and a series of black and white photographs falls out onto the floor. There I am, high as a kite, staring down at my blurred naked body wrapped around Thomas last night, my dress covered in little red flowers pooled next to us.

Pushing Mark out of the way, I grab at the photos, picking up every last one, hoping to God that Mark hasn’t seen them or doesn’t know what they are. Then I look up at him and he’s glancing down at the folder and the one damn photo that didn’t drop onto the floor. A photo where I’m straddling Thomas on the sofa, riding him slowly, looking down at him and smiling. I grab it out of Mark’s hands and close the folder around all of the photos so he can’t see them anymore.

‘I swear I didn’t put those under your door,’ I tell him.

‘Who did?’ he asks, shocked by what he’s seen.

I can’t tell him. I can’t tell him anything. I can’t be here and I can’t have this conversation with him. Responsible adult that I am, I turn and run with the folder clutched tightly in my hand, darting down the stairs instead of taking the elevator.

‘Julianne?’ Mark yells out behind me, his voice echoing down the corridor.

I hear him behind me, pulling open the door to the stairwell and following me down the stairs, but I carry on running, all the way down to the bottom.

I’m gasping for breath as I slam my hand against the button to open the door. I need to get out of here. Mark can’t know what happened last night. He can’t know what I did. Because he’d hate me for it, like I hate myself.

Outside I run down the street and spot a taxi driving towards me. I run into the middle of the road and flag the driver down.

‘What the fuck? Are you crazy? Why are you standing in the middle of the road?’ the driver yells at me.

I scramble into the cab and yell at him, ‘Go! Please, just go!’

Then I see Mark running down the street in bare feet towards us, looking angry and waving at us not to drive off.

‘Shit, lady, I don’t know what you’ve done,’ the driver tells me.

I don’t think that he’s going to pull away but then suddenly he accelerates down the street and we drive past Mark holding his arms open and screaming at me, ‘Julianne!’

This will have to be the last time that I see Mark. I can’t see him until this shit with Jamal is over. And I’m going to kill Jamal for what he’s just done to me. Mark may never talk to me again, and I can’t tell him the truth about why he received those photos. For the second night in a row I burst into tears in the back of a London cab.