Making Amends [ROBERT & IRENE]

“Yes, Warren, of course, I went to that party with the plan to pick a fight with both Mrs. Seymour and  the birthday-boy himself, what do you think?” Irene bit into her phone, annoyance straining her voice as she brought a cigarette to her lips, leaning against the iron wrought railing of her small balcony.  Exhaling smoke into the cool evening, she barely listened to the response on the other line as her eyes followed a couple walking through the flower-filled park facing her apartment, framed by the last embers of the setting sun—a perfect scene for what had probably been a perfect date.  “No– I— Look, I couldn’t just not make an appearance— yes, I understand. No, of course I care about keeping my job, what do you think? Yes, I know, Warren.” She rolled her eyes as he continued, his voice rising on the other end.

She took another breath, the couple sitting down on a bench to watch the sunset. It should have been a peaceful scene, but his angered voice ruined it. She exhaled smoke, forcing the cool calmness into her voice. “Yes, I understand. Sorry. Of course not…” She sighed. “Yes, I’ll do that... I won’t. I’ll fix it. Don’t worry.  Bye, Warren... Bye.”

Hanging up, she started rubbing the space between her brows, letting out an aggravated sigh. The cigarette between her fingers burned low as she took one last drag. She wasn’t a smoker. Hadn’t smoked in years. She would stop as soon as this storm had blown over. At least, that was assuming it would blow over. She stubbed out the cigarette in the empty flower pot that functioned as her ashtray for the time being. Exhaling smoke, she allowed herself a moment to watch the golden light that fell upon the spring flowers of the park. Another sigh and she turned on her heel, walking back inside the living room of her apartment.

What a disaster.

Wooden floor creaking softly underneath her step, she allowed herself to collapse back into the plush, beige couch, extending her legs onto the coffee table as she turned on the TV. Pulling out her phone as her phone pinged again, another concerned text from her mother. She rolled her eyes, scrolling through the notifications. More missed calls from Robert. No word from Charlotte. She threw her phone to the side, turning up the volume of the TV. News flashed across the screen—a new crown prince, a new heir to the high priest. The kind of stories she should have been writing about. They wouldn’t let her anywhere near anything remotely interesting these days. She shifted the channel to some mindless sitcom, considering if she should just pour herself a glass of wine and call it a night.

Lolling her head back against the couch, her eyes fell from the tall ornate windows, to the tall bookshelves that encompassed the decorative fireplace. The kind of understated luxury she had gotten used to.  An award stood on the mantel, journalist of the year, 2022. How quickly one could fall out of favor.

Why didn’t she ever listen to good advice? She pressed her hands into her face, muffling a groan. What the hell was wrong with her?