Chapter Seventeen
“So, the whole office is on fire about you dating Ralf,” Michelle giggled, shoving her phone in her pocket.
She’d snagged me to go for a quick coffee, saying she wanted to mark the end of my first week at RJF and so we sat on the balcony, taking in the morning air.
Elliot had yet to arrive, but I was relieved to have a slow start.
I was exhausted. Writing with Elliot this week had been such a rollercoaster – long days and late finishes.
To make matters worse, my drink with Ralf was tonight.
I had wondered whether I should cancel so I could rest, but it felt harsh.
He’d been so warm to me all week; it was entirely possible he was the reason almost every other employee had started to acknowledge my existence.
Even Sadie had permitted me a frosty smile when I’d said goodnight to her yesterday.
“It’s not a date.” My cheeks heated at the thought of the RJF employees gossiping about me.
“Uh-huh, that’s why you’re blushing like a tomato,” Michelle cracked.
“It’s not a date,” I said again. But her jokes had me considering why I’d agreed to go out with Ralf. Was it really because I thought we’d have fun as friends? Or did it have a little something to do with the fact I was very sure it would piss Elliot off?
“Okay, fine. And it’s not the whole office that’s on fire,” Michelle added. “Just me and Riley. No one else cares.”
“Ugh.” I covered my eyes. “He’s welcoming me to New York, that’s all.”
“Out of the goodness of his heart?” Michelle pulled a face. “Sure.”
“You sound just like Elliot,” I said defensively.
“Sorry.” Michelle yawned. “I’m coordinating the All Kinds of Killing junket press day and it’s killing me. Sol Rodrigues’s team have so many demands and stipulations, it’s just so much work.”
“I bet.” I sympathized. Junket pressers were intense days of back-to-back interviews between talent and key press outlets.
I had some experience of what they could be like due to that time I’d had to chauffeur one of our directors to one because his horoscope had told him not to operate machinery and this had included holding microphones. “What’s Sol Rodrigues like?”
“She’s a doll but her team are nuts,” Michelle said. “If I told you what her manicurist alone charges … man, you’d be running off to cosmetology school, like, now.”
“Sol’s amazing,” I said. “I think I watched her last movie about five times and each time there was something new about her performance to appreciate.”
“The Lanthimos?” Michelle asked. “Yeah, just incredible. Don’t get me wrong, it is awesome to have her in RJ’s project but, damn, if her schedule isn’t driving me crazy.”
“Lucie?”
I whipped my head around. Elliot stood at the balcony doors, his hair damp and swept back off his head. “Oh, hi.”
“You ready?” Without waiting for an answer, he darted back inside.
“Guess that’s my cue.” I sighed.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said as we took our seats in the writers’ room.
He wheeled his chair round to my side of the table so he could tap in the password to the server, and I found myself oddly fixated on his hands as they worked the keyboard.
Despite some redness across the knuckles, they were compelling.
Maybe it was because it had been several weeks since I’d been with a man but for some insane reason the sight of his large and capable hands confidently moving across my laptop was sexy.
I had to shove my own hands under my thighs so I didn’t reach out and grab one of his to see if the skin was as soft as I hoped.
“Seriously?” I said. “You won’t give me the password even now?”
“What can I say, I feel the need to play it safe,” he muttered as he typed. “You’re in,” he said eventually.
“Thanks.” Flustered at my strange reaction to his hands, I lowered my head and got to work.
“You have a date? Already?” Bex sounded congested, tired.
“No. Yes.” I was walking down Tenth to the Meatpacking District, where I was to meet Ralf. “No! It’s just a friend thing.”
“Oh, so it’s not with Boner Rage?”
“No. And can we please refer to Elliot as Elliot?” My heart thudded at the mere idea of going on a date with Elliot, even though it was a total impossibility. “Anyway, it’s Ralf that I’m meeting for a drink. He works with Sadie.”
“Hang on, don’t tell me who Sadie is.” I’d emailed and texted Bex multiple times already since arriving at RJF, there was a lot for her to remember. “Um … the producer who hates you.”
“Not so much ‘hates’ as questions the reasons for my existence, but yeah.”
“So, this Ralf, he fit?” Bex said hopefully.
“No. I mean, he’s nice looking. And it’s not a date!”
“Ah. Nice looking.” Bex made a retching sound. “That’s the sexual kiss of death from you.”
“I’m trying to make friends more than anything,” I said. “Ralf is a junior producer and that’s the sort of role I’d kill for. I could learn a lot from him.”
“Oh, so you’re using him,” Bex said.
“For friendship only.” I was at least clear on that.
“Does he know that?”
“Yes?” I wasn’t sure. Ralf hadn’t stated his intentions clearly, after all. There had been winks, meaningful stares and, of course, the asking out on a date. But I hadn’t led him on. Had I? “He’s kind. I think.”
“You think?”
“Maybe? Elliot seems to think Ralf is the one using me.”
“Using you?” Bex said. “But you’re—”
“A nobody, I know.” Elliot’s words sent a fresh wave of irritation coursing through me.
“Um, actually, I was about to say junior,” Bex corrected me hotly. “But you don’t do relationships anyway, so ignore everything I’m saying. Where are you going?”
“Some place in the Meatpacking District.”
“I could make so many jokes about packing meat, but—” she yawned “—I’m out of inspiration right now.”
I decided not to tell her about my thoughts in the museum yesterday. “Are you okay? You sound a bit off.” The miles stretched further as I listened to her shuffle around.
“Yeah, I’m just a bit under the weather.”
“You have a cold?”
“I think so,” she said. “Dan’s away with work, so I went to the shops to get some supplies – I was so knackered I honestly could have laid down in the supermarket aisle and gone to sleep.”
“Sounds bad,” I sympathized.
“It’s no fun,” she said. “No appetite, awful headaches.”
“I hope it isn’t flu.” I wished I was there for her. When I’d caught flu a couple of years ago, Bex had been the most excellent nursemaid. Whatever I needed, she’d supplied, ensuring I had all the medicine and fluids necessary, even cueing up the right shows on Netflix to entertain me.
“Maybe.” She sniffed. “But even if it is, I’ll be fine. You just focus on not fucking this Ralf guy.”
“No focus needed,” I said. “Because it definitely won’t happen.”
“What won’t?” Ralf’s voice startled me so much I nearly dropped my phone.
“Oh, nothing. Hi!” I greeted him loudly. I’d been walking so quickly that I’d managed to power all the way down Tenth to where it intersected with Hudson, revealing an open square surrounded by high-end boutiques and cafés.
“Is that him, is he there?” Bex cooed down the phone.
“Yes,” I said, mortified. The way Ralf was grinning back at me, he clearly thought I’d been gushing about him to my friend. “I’d best go. Love you.”
“Be safe!” She squealed cheekily as I hung up.
“You made it.” Ralf pulled me into a hug before I could even say anything in return.
I clocked his outfit and immediately felt distinctly underdressed.
I’d opted for a simple outfit of wide-leg jeans and a camisole, but he was in neatly pressed trousers and a silken shirt with no tie, open at the neck.
His aftershave made me think of expensive cars.
“Well, your instructions were pretty clear,” I said. “Where is it we’re going?”
“It’s just down the block,” he replied as we set off down the street. “This time next year, anyone who’s worth knowing will be drinking here, if they aren’t already.”
As much as I appreciated the value of networking, this suddenly sounded more intense than the relaxed introduction to Manhattan I was in the mood for. “It’s not the kind of place with a dress code, is it?” I hadn’t even bothered with heels, just trusty leather flats I’d owned for years.
“Relax, Nocturne belongs to my buddy Carter, I got a couple shares in it. I’m, like, family there.
You’ll be fine. This way.” Ralf grabbed my hand as we crossed the street to an industrial-looking tenement building.
He didn’t let go of me as we headed to the end unit, where a queue had already formed outside an imposing matte black door.
There was no signage, just a man dressed head to toe in black, the only clue towards his employment an oversized silver ‘N’ brooch pinned to the lapel of his exquisite jacket.
Ralf led me straight to the front of the queue, whereupon I could feel many eyes raking over me, assessing me, my clothes.
I gulped and pretended I didn’t feel each and every eyeball burning holes into my skin.
Without saying a word to us, the bouncer gave Ralf a nod, then the door behind him a thump and it swung open, revealing darkness and a faint bassline of unidentifiable music.
“After you,” Ralf said, gesturing me forward.
I took a deep breath and entered. My eyes began to adjust as he whisked me down a dim corridor that I could just about make out had gold-embossed logos on the floor and thick red curtains either side. Then, by unseen hands, the curtains opened.
Wow.
The place was exquisite. Maybe it was the soft amber-hued lighting, or the ponderous jazz played at just the right volume.
Maybe it was the gleam of the mirrored wall behind the premium selection of liquors above the polished wooden bar or the oversized, heavily cushioned booths full of beautiful people.
Whatever it was, it was the most stunning bar I’d ever seen.
It was edgy and cosy and effortlessly chic all at once.
“Remember I told you about dreamers and doers?” Ralf said. “Well, this is a place for doers.”