CHAPTER 11
KATIE
What’s the best thing to do when your fake relationship with one of the world’s hottest athletes has been revealed to the world? Bury yourself in work.
And it’s not like I don’t need to be in the lab on a Sunday afternoon, still trying to get this useless Western Blot to work.
I do. I need this result for my next publication.
It’s just worked out to be the perfect excuse to hide away and pretend I haven’t walked straight into a situation that’s spiralling out of control.
Turns out, I’m pretty good at pretending.
“It’s got to be the sample preparation,” I mutter, peering down at the notes I’d made on Friday. They’re a list of things I’ve tried to alter to no effect and are sometimes the most useful part of experimentation. Finding what doesn’t work. In this case, the list is long.
Blowing my hair out of my eyes, I use my shoulder to push a few strands back from my chin as well.
I’ve got my gloves on and they’re covered in SDS solution, so I can’t use my hands to fix my hair.
I should have tied the masses up with a scrunchie today.
It’s the only thing that holds all the hair up for any substantial amount of time.
Too bad they make me look like a reject from the ‘80s.
“I’ve done the protein extraction as per the revised protocol,” I murmur out loud.
Given it’s Sunday and even the most studious of scientists see this as a day of rest, I have the entire lab to myself, so there’s no one here to hear me.
It’s the perfect work environment, being here on my own.
With no one around to judge me, I can play my movie soundtrack playlist at top volume.
I can have the temperature in the lab up at a toasty twenty-five degrees Celsius, and I don’t have to hunt around for my pipettes.
Unlike every other day of the week, on a Sunday, my pipettes are just where I left them.
“Right. This time it’s going to work.” I send up a little prayer to the science gods (Rosalind Franklin in particular) and set the gel to run. It should take at least forty-five minutes; just enough time to get a drink and continue to ignore my phone.
With step one complete, I peel my gloves off, pin my timer to the top of my jeans and take off my lab gown.
As opposed to every scientist ever depicted in the movies or on the TV screen, we don’t wear lab coats here.
Instead, we wear hospital gowns, tied at the back and all, to protect our fronts from splashes and spills.
Something that cannot be done when wearing a lab coat, unbuttoned.
“Very practical, but not as cute,” I tell my gown as I hang it on the hook next to the door.
On silent feet, I walk down the hallway to the office I share with two other post-doctoral fellows, flop down at my desk and risk a glance at my phone.
Yikes! Fifty new notifications from Instagram. And one message.
From my fake boyfriend.
NATHAN
What are you doing today?
I check the time of the message. Only ten minutes ago.
KATIE
Working
NATHAN
That Western Blot still giving you trouble?
My heart sings that he remembered.
KATIE
Yeah.
I will not be defeated.
NATHAN
So you’re in the lab?
I mean, where else does he think I’m running all these failed Western Blot experiments?
KATIE
Yep. It’s where you can usually find me.
I watch the three dots dance across the screen for a minute before disappearing. He’s clearly had enough of the science talk and has wandered off to find something more interesting to do. Shame, really. We need to connect about this whole fake relationship media storm we’ve created.
A conversation for later, it seems.
With one last glance at my message screen—still nothing—I check the timer at my waist and turn on my computer.
I have thirty minutes to read through my latest research proposal and check the referencing.
It won’t be enough time to get it all done, but in the quiet of my office, I can at least make a start.
I’m deep in referencing hell when my timer beeps, saving me.
Standing and stretching, I pad my way back to the lab and complete the next step of the experiment.
As per my troubleshooting protocol, I check the transfer solution and then set it to run for two hours.
Just the right amount of time to take a lunch break.
“What to eat today?” I wonder, wishing I had a pile of those bagels in front of me. I’ve been dreaming about them since…yesterday? How was that just twenty-four hours ago? So much has happened since then.
I’m just remembering that I never got around to having a cup of tea earlier when my phone vibrates in my back pocket and I glance down at it. Another message from Nathan.
Can you buzz me up?
Hmmm, clearly a mis-message.
KATIE
You just sent that message to me.
NATHAN
I know. I’m outside your building. Can you buzz me up?
I stare at the letters on my screen, trying to make sense of them. What on Earth?
KATIE
I’m not at home, Nathan.
NATHAN
Yes…
Insert
He’s outside? Now?
Galvanised into action, I run down the three flights of stairs, feeling breathless for many reasons when I find him standing there.
He’s wearing the peacoat, dark green with a few snowflakes resting on his shoulders.
His hair is tucked into a dark grey beanie, and his cheeks and the tip of his nose are pink from the cold.
And he’s holding a tray of takeaway drinks and a bag of…
food? The man seems to think he has to bring food every time he shows up.
“What are you doing here?” I swipe my access card and open the door. He steps inside, bringing with him a gust of frosty air and the scent that is uniquely his.
“I figured we need to talk. And you probably need to eat.”
Dumbfounded, I stare at him. “How did you know where to find me?”
“You told me you were at work.”
Yes. But—“But how do you know where that is?”
His pink cheeks turn a deeper shade of red. “Instagram. LinkedIn. Google Maps.”
I motion him to follow me up the stairs. “You little cyber stalker.”
He shrugs. “You were actually quite easy to find.”
Hmm, that’s a bit terrifying.
“You didn’t have to come find me to talk to me. And you didn’t have to bring food.” My grumbling stomach protests this, and I silence it with a stern pat. Behave.
He shoulders through the door into the Centre and motions for me to walk through, like he owns the place. I swallow down my annoyance and lead him to our kitchen area. It’s small, almost too small to fit me and the oversized intruder with food, but it will have to do.
“Here, sit.” I point to a chair and take the one across from him. “Explain yourself.”
His lips tilt, like he’s amused by me. “First, eat.” He pushes the takeout bag towards me and, after several seconds of deliberation, I give up and dig in. Who am I kidding? I was always going to eat the food.
“Dumplings? My favourite.”
His smile is wide and indulgent. “You have lots of favourites. Makes you easy to please.”
I bite into a pork dumpling and ponder this. Is it a bad thing? Should I try to be more difficult?
“These are amazing,” I groan, giving up overthinking this. “Thank you, Nathan.”
He reaches over and grabs a container. There are at least a dozen varieties of dumplings, and once again, he’s ordered enough to feed an army. And not a small one.
“You’ll have to show me around,” he says, dunking his dumpling into the soy and vinegar combination dipping sauce. “I’m dying to see where all the Western Blotting magic happens.”
Once again, this man using science terms, meaning he listens when I speak about it, has my heart swooning. It’s such a little thing, but it makes me feel important. Like he wants to know me, everything about me.
Nathan is proving to be the perfect fake boyfriend.
“No magic happening,” I sigh. “That’s why I’m here on a Sunday. Fingers crossed it works this time.”
He looks around the tearoom, his keen eyes scanning the walls. “Is that yours?”
I follow his gaze. He’s looking at a poster I presented at a recent European Society for Medical Oncology conference. It gained a bit of traction as oncologists around the world are clamouring for any positive research on early detection markers.
“Yeah. That was some research I did back when my experiments actually worked.” I push away my food and grab a cup from the takeaway tray. Ah, a chai latte. Again, the perfect choice. “But enough about me. Let’s talk about the reason you’re here.”
He examines my face. “I thought we were already doing that.”
My cheeks heat under his gaze, and I shift in my chair. “I mean, let’s talk about the articles. We’ve been outed.”
“Yeah, I saw. It’s good.”
It is?
I frown. “I thought you wanted to control the narrative. The stories out there now aren’t all feel-good stories. Are you alright with that?”
He stands up and roams around the small space, restless energy pouring off him.
“It’s fine. Most of the stuff is positive.
You know? Nathan Jackson Has Finally Moved On?
That kind of thing. My publicist says the media is eating it up.
Doesn’t hurt that you are supremely photogenic. The camera loves you.”
I choke on my drink at this casual compliment. “Nonsense,” I splutter, wiping the dribble from my chin. Jade and I had spent a lot of time looking through all the posts about ‘us’ this morning, and I wasn’t a fan of any of the images captured of me.
He fishes his phone from his pocket, humming while he scrolls. “Tell me you don’t look like a model in this shot?”