Nick
Nick
He ducks into the toilets on the ground floor before leaving the office. In the dimly lit wall of mirrors, he stares at his reflection. He looks knackered, as usual, the bloodshot eyes of a junior hedge fund analyst who still has much to prove.
He splashes cold water over his face and dabs it dry with a paper towel. Then, he rummages in his briefcase for the bottle of aftershave he keeps there, and spritzes it liberally.
Before he leaves, he yanks off his tie and sticks it in his briefcase, opening the top button on his collar.
He looks a state – his wonky jawline no longer disguised by long, scruffy hair. But it’ll have to do.
And then, taking a deep breath, and praying that the adrenaline won’t wear off until later, he heads out into the night to meet her.
*
She’s standing next to the entrance to the underground. He sees her before she sees him: looking down at the pavement, her hair falling across one side of her face. It’s longer than it was at university, hanging way past her shoulders.
She has a rucksack on her back, and she’s wearing a dress, black boots and tights.
For a few seconds, he stands still, just watching her. Remembering how she made him feel, before it all went wrong. It sweeps over him: a flood of emotion, adrenaline, hormones, memories. It’s destabilising.
She doesn’t look up. He wonders why not. Why it seems as though she’s trying to make herself as invisible as possible.
He smiles at the thought of her. Her complicated, fierce nature. And then he allows a small thrill to rush through him. A small thrill at the thought of this unexpected excitement, punctuating his hectic Wednesday, like a shooting star appearing from nowhere in the blackest night sky.
He straightens up, takes a deep breath, and strides towards her.
‘Beth,’ he calls, and she looks up.