When Monday came, Prue went back to work.
Back when it all started going to pieces, she'd called in sick. First she'd tried to drown herself in work for a few days. Work would distract her, she'd hoped, and she needed distraction.
But it hadn't.
That first Monday her boss Victor Kuric, Vic, had indeed talked to her and it had been about her coordinating the next project.
It was a promotion and a huge compliment. But somehow all the glamour had left the prospect, and he'd noticed. Grinning in his sweet Clooney-type way he'd asked if something was wrong. She'd denied, of course, but after the third day of dragging herself through the motions, they'd talked again, and she'd shared her doubts about their marriage - telling him Peter left her.
He'd taken her out to lunch - just a sandwich - and advised her to call in sick until she was up to work again. Now, almost two weeks later, she remembered how his warm hand on her shoulder had sent little thrills down her back.
He'd been so very understanding.
Now she parked her car and walked to the elevators, heels clicking on the concrete floor. They were simple things she'd done hundreds of times before, but today they felt new and they thrilled her. She met colleagues in the elevator, and they were all very sweet to her, asking her how she was, complimenting her on how she looked, and telling her they were glad she was back on board.
Walking across the office floor felt like immersing in a warm bath.
Prue found that people liked her, and had genuinely missed her. Getting a cup of coffee was a quiet act of triumph; sharing gossip a rare bit of common-day bliss.
Prue was back.
She greedily drank in every greeting, every compliment. And she needed it. Seeing Peter jerk off hit her hard - hurting her ego and shaking her confidence. His lame excuses never really convinced her. She obviously wasn't enough for him anymore.
Look what happened: they'd just made love again after weeks - twice even. She was there, naked in bed with him, and he had to sneak away to masturbate in the bathroom?
Images of Peter and Julia kept popping up as she lie in bed with him later, desperately cuddling into him, holding on to his body; the damn pictures of him and her wouldn't go away - the riot of blond hair, the big tits and the endless legs. And of course the sight of Peter crouching over the toilet, jerking his penis.
Did he think of
her
as he came, reliving their fuckfest? Had he seen Julia as they made love?
The ghostlike images never left her that night. But she decided to swallow her pride. Give him time, she told herself, maybe it is all a matter of healing.
They'd made love again twice that weekend, sweet and slow. And they'd gone out to eat and dance. She'd only danced with him and turned down advances and drinks. Back home they'd kissed and cuddled, drifting off to sleep.
Give him time.
And now she was back at work, putting away her jacket and placing her leather briefcase on her empty, shining desk when Bridget, her shared secretary, told her she was expected to see Kuric.
A thrill touched her.
He walked around his desk when she entered - tall, wearing an impeccable suit and his boyish grin. Ignoring her hand, he hugged her, telling her how welcome she was, and how sorely she'd been missed. His aftershave filled her head; her body felt his muscles through the suit.
She blushed when they parted.
Sitting in one of his overstuffed chairs she listened to him informing her about the progress of the project that had - 'regrettably' - started without her. He explained how she could still contribute until the next project would present itself.
Prue just watched his mouth move.
She should feel regret about missing the promotion, but she didn't. So many other things had happened since the shake up of her life: the betrayal by her best friend, the doubts about her once unconditional love.
She tried to focus on what Kuric said, but the emotions of the weekend returned - the relief and the disappointment, the hope and the bitter taste of reality.
If Pete wasn't totally hers, what was the use of being true to him?
The thought invaded her mind bluntly - it didn't knock or announce itself. It just entered, startling her with its matter-of-factness. Prue knew she'd always liked watching other men, weighing their attractiveness and enjoying their attention - basking in it, even. But it had always been a superficial thing, a massage of her ego and an affirmation of her own attractiveness.
Funny enough it had been more about ensuring her place amongst women than a sexual thing. She loved to compete by dressing well and looking good - not so much to send sexy signals to men, just to be noticed by women.
When men really took her up on it, she'd panicked and rushed to get back into the save arms of Peter. To be true, she wasn't a very sexual creature at all, was she? It took a lot of cuddling and attention to arouse her. And the only man she'd wanted to do that with had been Peter Hawkins.
Maybe having that certainty was the only reason she dared to do it.
Up until now.
Watching Victor Kuric talk and smile and grin caused a warmth to spread inside her. Not the cozy, secure feelings she had with Peter, or the exciting superficiality of flirting, not at all. There was a thrill in it she'd never felt with Kuric before - or with any man. It felt as if a door had opened inside her; as if a barrier had been pushed aside, allowing the warm feelings to spread, not as something sweet and sympathetic, but as a real, earthy, physical thing.
It made her wet.
It also made her feel embarrassed.
"Are you all right, Prue?"
She shook her head to lose the sticky, spidery web her thoughts had woven around her. Smiling wide she said she was fine, thanking him for his kind words and assuring him she was prepared to get back to work full force.
He grinned his infuriating lopsided grin again and rose. Following his example, she felt moisture stick to her crotch. There was a slightly awkward quality to the next moments. Then he hugged her again, wishing her success.
Prue rushed down the corridor to find the nearest toilet.
***
For Julia Monday was a blur.
She stared at the empty bottles. They seemed to be everywhere; crowding the table, lying around her bed, and even scattered throughout the bathroom. Stiff-limbed and groaning she went picking them up and dumping them in the large trash bag she dragged behind her. The clanging of the glass hurt her head and made her wince.
It was afternoon; she'd lost an entire weekend.
After working through her impressive wine collection, she'd attacked whatever liquor she had, ending with beer. She'd made sure to not have one clear moment all day or night; it would have too painfully reminded her of how stupid she'd been.
There were huge gaps in her memory, where she must have blissfully zonked out.
Collecting the empties, she found half-dried vomit and dark stains that reeked of urine.
She'd been on drinking binges before, but never like this. Slowly returning to sobriety she thanked God there hadn't been drugs or pills in the house. After cleaning away the bottles and the filth, she responded to the three voice mail messages from work. She apologized, claiming illness, and took a shower.
The water felt great.
It cleaned her body and her mind, flushing ghosts and demons down the drain together with the dirt and the embarrassment. My God, she
should
be ashamed. The proud and independent Julia crawling through the house, boozing and vomiting, and most of all: wallowing in self-pity. And why?
