Clair double-checked the email before hitting send. Alright, time for a brew. She leaned back in her chair at the London office, sipping her coffee as her colleague Emily sat in the break room, sniffling by the window. Clair hated workplace drama, but something tugged at her. Probably another one of those “Mr. Right” mess-ups again.
“Emily, what’s up? Win the lottery or lose the job?” Clair asked, popping a fresh mug of tea in front of her. Emily turned red, wiping her nose on a crumpled tissue.
“None of your business,” she mumbled.
“Okay, then. Why the waterworks?” Clair asked, sliding into the chair opposite her. She recalled seeing Emily climbing into that flashy convertible the other day, smug as a cat with a cream pie.
“Bareil was the golden ticket, and now he’s gone,” Emily whispered. “Vanished like a flip-flop in January.”
“So, actually pregnant, huh?” Clair leaned back, “Trust me, I’ve seen this movie. You start working doubles at the nursery, survive on leftover fish fingers, hand your kid off to nannies five times a day, and spend your weekends chasing career opportunities to pay the bloody council tax. Next you’re a substitute teacher, bargaining with single dads in the playground for English lessons. Your bloke eventually up and leaves for a younger gal, and you’re stuck paying alimony while juggling shifts at the call center and teaching GCSEs on a weekend.”
“Just shut up!” Emily snapped, storming out, tissues forgotten on the table.
Clair sipped her coffee, the same old story. The guy with the Beamer was probably off chasing someone with a bigger 401k by now.
“Clair, Mr. Patel’s looking for you,” said Claire, the secretary, popping her head in. “He says it’s urgent.”
“In a sec,” Clair replied, rinsing her mug. Mr. Patel always made it sound like the sky was falling, even when he was just offloading another mediocre intern.
“Quitting already?” Mr. Patel sighed, as if he missed her the second she said yes. “Business is slower these days. No hard feelings, but mind sending over a resignation letter? The finance team can get you sorted quickly.”
Clair had never been the office sweetheart. Cold, efficient, and too focused on climbing to the top of her own ladder — not someone who’d settle for a lukewarm omelet. Gossip said she’d been burned before, had a one-night stand that left her heart club, but honestly, it was just her choosing to build a life on her own terms. That night when her parents screamed over the kitchen counter — her mum drunk, the dad with a broken TV dinner in his hands — that was when she decided.
Her dad had been the type who believed in doting on family, packing homemade sandwiches for school. But the business venture went belly-up, he became the history teacher at the local college, and her mum started moonlighting as a warehouse supervisor to buy new shoes. The arguments… they didn’t make sense at first, but Claire heard the whispers in the hallway, saw the black eye the next morning. Her father literally gave a short lecture on how no good publicity could come from staying married to a woman who “worked too hard.”
So yeah, marriage was out. Watching her parents fight over “reliable men” versus “independent women” had been enough. Claire had grown up choosing work over waiting rooms. After finishing night classes at Oxford, she’d taken the first interpreter job that paid in pounds, not promises. Once her parents split — her dad in a flat with some ex-widow named Margaret, her mum married to a man who worked nights and slept during the day — Claire focused on her career, not the emotional rollercoaster.
She was on her way out of the office when her old man called. “Took you long enough,” he said, serving up chicken soup cooked by his new roommate. “You could’ve at least asked how things are going with your mam. She’s working two shifts at Tesco now, you know…” Claire left before he could finish, not because it hurt, but because that night in the break room taught her that sometimes, the most reliable person in a room is the one who’s prepared for the worst.
Parenting drama? Not Claire’s problem. She had a flat in London waiting, job offers, and another Emily somewhere else crying over a broken promise. Her mom always warned her about men being fickle — but then again, so did her mother’s second husband. So Claire figured the real trick was to build a life where you didn’t need a hand on your shoulder — just credit in your account.
