3
By the time Thursday arrives, I feel a little more settled in my new job. Despite the low-level nausea which has been swirling in my stomach since this morning, my panic from Monday feels further and further away. I have even allowed myself to entertain the thought that tonight’s event might not be a total disaster. I’ll just have to do everything I can to act natural, as if Jack is any other author. To keep the past in the past and focus on the present. I can’t afford to consider any alternative scenarios. Plus, a large group of people from the company are attending, so I’ll at least have a human shield around me.
As we’re walking down the street in the warmth of the summer air, I tune in to the hum of the city, beginning to establish a tentative sense of stability, of calm. Maybe I actually can do this. Maybe this will be fine.
Then we arrive at the bookshop. Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t recognise the familiar streets we were walking down. I hadn’t paid enough attention to the location of this first event, figuring I was new enough that I’d just follow people there. In this moment, I realise what a mistake that was. As I look up, I register with horror the gold lettering of The Lost Bookshop. My secret haven from the overwhelming crush of New York. I spent countless hours here when I first moved, the comfort of the books around me dulling the loneliness of not knowing anyone in the big city. I’ve become protective of it since, only bringing people here if I really trust them. Oh God. All at once, my feelings from earlier this week resurge with full force, and I am no longer anywhere near calm. In T-minus two minutes I’m quite possibly going to either throw up on Jack Carlson or scream obscenities at him in one of my favourite places in the world, and I will never be able to come here again. I inwardly curse whatever hell-demon is following me and arranging for everything good in my life to be immediately and decisively ruined. Jessica – interpreting the no doubt horrified expression on my face as nerves, again – gives me a sympathetic look.
‘You’ll be fine,’ she says, resting a hand on my arm. ‘I’ll be here to help, I’ll introduce you. You’re really just here to meet him, everything else is already handled. Relax, have some wine, enjoy yourself.’
I force a smile and nod. Words aren’t safe right now, with most of my vocabulary suddenly reduced to expletives. I take a breath to calm myself as we enter the shop, its warmth and familiarity dulled immediately by a tingling in the back of my neck. He is here, someone I thought I would never have to see again except by some huge misfortune. But now the huge misfortune is my life. I pull Sara’s words of encouragement from earlier into my mind and wrap their warmth around me, a shield against whatever is about to happen.
I scan the room. There are people milling around, chatting, holding glasses of what looks like champagne. I raise my eyebrows internally – this isn’t the usual standard for publishing events. Either we’re pulling out all the stops, or Jack has contributed to the alcohol budget. I grab a glass from a well-stocked table to the right of the shop floor. As I turn to find my colleagues again, I almost walk straight into an uncommonly tall man standing behind me. Shit . My stomach drops as I draw my gaze upwards past his shoulders, his immaculate suit, his edgy, slightly open-necked shirt, to a pair of expressive dark blue eyes which – for the briefest of seconds – seem to register as much terror as I feel. But then it passes, and a lazy smile spreads across his face, and my terror boils into furious hatred.
‘Fancy seeing you here’ he says in his perfectly deep voice, as British as my own, and for a millisecond the tingles on the back of my neck melt into something warmer which runs down my spine. Get a grip .
‘I didn’t want to come,’ I blurt, then realise my words are a) unprofessional and b) nonsensical, considering I am both here and holding a glass of champagne. The fury bubbles up again and I hold his gaze with what I hope appears to be measured calm but which probably looks more like I’m trying to engage him in a staring contest. Just as I’m about to open my mouth and say something which will dig me into an even deeper hole, Jessica’s voice floats across from my right.
‘Hello, Jack. I see you’ve met your new publicist, Andie.’
If anything is going to make this evening, this whole situation, worth it, it’s the look on his face as he glances from Jessica to me and tries to work out what exactly is going on. I can see in his eyes that Jack is as unhappy about this as I am. At least we have that in common. But the look only lasts for a fleeting moment, and before Jessica can register what is happening the smooth veneer has returned. This isn’t the Jack I knew – he’s more practised, better at hiding his emotions.
‘Of course. Andie, was it? A pleasure.’
I let out a small relieved breath – I hadn’t realised until this moment how concerned I was that the game might be up, that even despite the negative implications for him he might reveal that he knew me and ruin the carefully constructed new life I’ve built here, away from all that. I turn to smile at Jessica and she gives me a knowing look as if to say, ‘See? Not as bad as you thought.’ She’s right, but for completely the wrong reasons.
A few moments later I extricate myself from the conversation on the pretence of going to the bathroom. Once I’m out of sight, I take the half-hidden stairs to the next floor of the shop and make a beeline for the fantasy section. Up here, there is a hidden nook with an old, comfy armchair. I’ve come to think of it as my own: I’ve never seen anyone else here. I sink into it and sigh. I won’t be bothered here, I know, but my time is limited. I can’t spend the entirety of the first event in my new role hiding in a corner. I sit for a few moments, the cogs in my brain whirring as they process the situation I’ve found myself in, and don’t notice the sound of feet on the stairs until it’s too late.
‘Andie?’ Fuck . Can I not get a second of peace?
I wipe all emotion from my face and look up to see that it is, indeed, Jack. Wonderful. ‘You followed me.’ I say, trying and failing to keep accusation out of my voice. He shrugs and nods, his posture more awkward than it was downstairs, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller somehow. I ignore it.
He goes to lean against the shelf next to him, almost knocks a book off it, then decides against it and straightens himself. ‘I love this corner. I used to come here as a kid when I was visiting my dad and read books about dragons.’ Frustration surges through me at this revelation – of course he’s claimed this place as his, too. I cannot catch a break today. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, as if gearing up to say something. ‘Listen, Andie—’
‘Don’t,’ I snap, cutting him off. ‘I really don’t want to talk about it.’
He flinches slightly but carries on speaking. I plead internally that he’s not going to go there, that he’s smarter than that. ‘I think I owe you—’
Apparently not. ‘Nothing,’ I say, interrupting him again. ‘I don’t want anything from you, Jack. Except turning around, walking back down those stairs and giving me a minute to myself. I’m going to have to see a lot of you in these next few weeks, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t want to start cosying up just yet.’ The words flow from my mouth with ease, releasing some of my rage in his direction, and it feels good.
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is.’
He lingers for a second too long, perhaps hoping I’ll change my mind and let him apologise or say whatever it is he was going to say, which I’m sure he thought would instantly erase the five years of resentment. I remain silent, staring at my lap, and eventually he leaves. Once he’s gone, I let out a breath, my calm exterior crumbling. Fuck. This is going to be a lot worse than I thought. I can’t do this , I text Sara, hoping she’ll know what I mean. Yes, you can she texts back immediately. He is a stupid boy, and you are a boss bitch. Go get ’em. Don’t let him ruin this for you.
Sara’s words are enough to remind me why I’m here: to do my job. To not let him ruin it. I take a deep breath and spend a few more moments steeling myself, then slip downstairs and find a spot at the back while Jack gives his talk. I replay our conversation upstairs a few times in my head, cursing myself for being so easily affected by him. But I couldn’t help it: seeing him stripped away any professionalism, any calm I’d built up ahead of this evening and brought to the surface a myriad of feelings I thought I’d buried.
Through my thoughts, I catch snippets of his talk: about the shift from non-fiction to fiction, the importance of setting, his writing process. I tune it all out as much as I can – I’m going to be hearing a lot of this, in the coming weeks, so I can catch up. I only hope it doesn’t drive me as slowly insane as it’s doing right now. I glance around the room at the audience: about a seventy-thirty split between the public and my colleagues (at least, the ones I recognise). Tonight was a sold-out event. People love Jack, from what I’ve been hearing all week from Jessica as I’ve desperately tried to keep a lid on my past while learning the ropes. His books are bestsellers, and this one no different: it hit the top 100 of the New York Times bestseller list this morning.This is going to be a challenge, too – watching someone I hate be so openly adored by everyone else, when I know who he is deep down, know what’s lurking behind that charming veneer. Someone who would sell someone out, wrecking their life without a second’s thought, just to protect themselves. It’s enough to make me want to just leave, right now – walk out the shop doors and never come back, leaving this entire mess behind. But I swallow, taking a breath and digging my nails into my palms. I can’t do that, can’t let him win.
When the talk ends, I find a spot on the other side of the room from Jack and do my best to throw myself into meeting colleagues and socialising, making the most of the human shield. But with each moment that passes the pretence becomes more and more draining, as if just being in the same room as him is sucking the lifeblood out of me. Eventually and fortunately Jessica finds me, mistakes my pale complexion for first week exhaustion, and tells me I can head home.
It’s a cool evening, and the fresh air outside is welcome. I gulp it in, relieved, my lungs suddenly expanding – as if there had been something pressing on my chest while I was in there, making it harder to breathe. I let it out in a long, slow exhale, the harsh reality of my current situation hitting me all over again. I’ve been keeping it together so well up to this point: one foot in front of the other. Don’t look back, don’t dwell too much on the past. I thought I’d built a life far enough away from it all that it didn’t have any power over me anymore. I put an ocean between us, for God’s sake. But seeing Jack this evening came very close to unravelling all of that. His presence makes me feel out of control, vulnerable in ways I haven’t felt since I left the UK five years ago.
When I get home I can’t stand the sight of my empty apartment, so I climb out onto the fire escape, the first place I go when I need some space to organise my thoughts. I sit for a while, looking over the blinking lights of the city, and take some deep breaths, hoping they’ll bring a moment’s relief. In the space between breaths, a thought rises to the top of my mind, as true as it is terrifying. If this evening is anything to go by, Jack Carlson could be the undoing of me. And I can’t let that happen. This time I might not be able to put myself back together.