"What?" Miles had been temporarily caught up in his own little world, so much so that it had taken him several seconds to fully process her question. "No, I er, just sort of forgot we had one," he shrugged. It didn't mean much to him if Katrina discovered that Eleanore knew about that one, ill-fated evening, she'd forgiven him worse before. "A date, I mean."
He listened in to her instructions in total silence, an expression of heavy resignation on his face, and toyed with the idea of irksomely asking her to repeat them before concluding that it would probably end up with him having to endure a tirade about how stupid he was, and how he had better listen to her in future if he didn't want to find himself upside down on her kitchen table with a knife in his back. He no longer had the energy. The sooner he could get out of her office, which was beginning to feel stuffy and oppressive and far too hot, he could go home, order himself a frighteningly large pizza, call Rhys and drink himself into an early death.
"Right, 603, I'll remember that, Miss, er, Eleanore," his voice sounded strangely monotonous, even to himself, as he stood up, pushing his glasses up his nose and fixing his shirt. He was unsure of what he was meant to say or do now, and not wanting to look at her under any circumstances. If he did look at her and happened to see even the tiniest hint of pain in her eyes, as unlikely as that was, he probably would have cracked right then and there, and apologized for strolling into her office and ruining her life. So he stared dully down instead, contemplating the barely discernible pattern that ran through the mock wood of her desk. "You know where to find me if you want to send me a copy of that contract, or you could just wait until I'm at your place, I don't mind. And I'll let myself out."