Chapter 10
According to Ethan, we were now walking up Fifth Avenue, where his ad agency was based midway between Washington Square Park and the Flatiron Building.
Ethan had seemed a bit embarrassed about his idea to head to his office at first, but the plan sounded ideal to me: I’d be able to set up my laptop while he worked and get some words down for the speech I was meant to be working on while I was on this trip, while being on hand to help Ethan out with any captions or structural speech stuff.
Plus, if I positioned myself strategically, I’d be able to secretly watch him while he was working and familiarise myself with whatever his ‘concentrating but happy’ face was.
As if that weren’t enough, Ethan had told me there were free hot drinks and limitless snacks, the location of the office meant it would be easier to meet up with Mum and Anneka after their shopping spree, and I’d be able to connect to the building’s superfast Wi-Fi to stay in touch with them.
It was win-win, with an extra cherry-flavoured win on top.
As we ambled north, Ethan talking non-stop about all the ideas that were flying into his vision for his cartoon-based story, it dawned on me that I would normally be gasping for some alone time by now.
But being in Ethan’s company was stimulating in a good, non-overwhelming way, and I wanted to keep that feeling alight for as long as possible.
We came to a stop outside a Dunkin’ Donuts branch and he beeped an unassuming doorway next to the shop’s main entrance with a keycard.
‘Handy for doughnuts,’ I quipped, nodding towards the fast-food outlet.
‘Ha, yeah. It’s a pretty sweet space upstairs, though – I think you’ll love it.’
‘And we’re definitely allowed in on weekends?’ I asked, as we walked into the building.
‘Yeah, it’s a co-working set-up so it’s open twenty-four-seven and I can sign you in as a guest. It’s all legit, don’t worry.’
Given that the last time someone had said that equivalent phrase to me (Mum, yesterday, before it’d emerged she hadn’t actually booked the foraging tour) I’d ended up trying to stave off hypothermia in Central Park, it went against my instincts to take his words at face value.
But, unlike the psychological repository of evidence I’d spent decades collecting against my blood relatives when it came to anything about trust and truth, I had no reason to disbelieve him.
An unassuming corridor filled with lifts – elevators – greeted us inside.
He beeped the control panel with his pass, slipping a lanyard over his head, and summoned a lift.
A pair of elevator doors opened instantly with a chime, and Ethan stepped inside, placing his hand against the opening to make sure I made it inside in time.
As I mentally filed his chivalrous gesture alongside all his other qualities, I momentarily forgot to think about my feet, causing one to trip over the other and plunging me face-first directly into Ethan’s chest, pressing him firmly into one of the corners of the confined space while the lift doors casually dinged closed behind us.
‘Fuck, sorry!’ I said, re-transferring my weight to my own body as opposed to his.
‘Not a problem; are you okay?’ He held me gently on each of my upper arms, as if I might tumble again at any moment. Which, let’s be honest, I might.
‘Yeah, my brain must still be lacking in oxygen after… earlier.’
Is he looking at my mouth again?
I resisted the urge to lick my lips this time.
We stood there for a few beats, his hands on my arms, me looking up shyly at him.
I noticed that his stubble already looked softer than it had just a couple of hours earlier, and I felt a sudden urge to confirm as much with my fingertips.
But then I noticed the lift hadn’t even moved yet.
‘Do we, umm, need to push a button or something?’ I said, wishing my voice didn’t sound quite so high-pitched and breathless, as if I was a heaving-bosomed Bridgerton debutante.
Ethan inhaled deeply and blinked a couple of times, stepping to one side and pushing the uppermost button, marked 11.
As the lift ascended, he stepped back into my eyeline, leaning gently – but fully – against the corner I’d inadvertently pinned him to moments earlier, creating a little more distance, but still not much. I angled myself away from him and leaned against the adjacent handrail, our hips touching.
‘For a second I thought we might be stuck in here,’ I said quietly.
‘It wouldn’t have been the end of the world,’ he murmured.
My lips parted slightly in surprise, but before I could figure out how to best acknowledge what he’d just said – what he’d just implied – with the rest of my body, the doors chimed once more.
We both jumped like some kind of rom-com cliché.
But there was no need for bashfulness – the small reception desk in the lift lobby was unattended.
Ethan entered some details on a touchscreen, swivelling the screen towards me for my signature.
Then he beeped us through a final set of security doors, holding the door open for me.
This time I didn’t trip over my own feet and press my body into his. Shame.
As we stepped into the communal workspace, I shifted my brain back into professional mode after the lift ‘moment’.
Because that had definitely been a ‘moment’, right?
Was that how Anneka had felt when she’d met Marcie for the first time?
Was that what I was meant to have felt with Will for all these years?
I mean, sure, the physical part of our relationship had been enjoyable, but it had never really been anything I’d yearned for – more like an optional activity than a vital need.
Focus, Flora.
I looked around – the vast space almost felt like a converted factory floor, with high ceilings, beautiful vintage furniture and bookshelves making the room feel almost library-like. Countless plants and rugs dotted around the polished concrete floor gave the massive room a homely feel.
‘Woah, this is impressive.’
‘Yep, we have free run of this whole floor, plus our own office. Come and check it out.’
He wandered over to the largest glass-walled office in the far corner, the interior of which was hidden by closed vertical blinds, and beeped the door open.
‘Oh my God, the view!’ I exclaimed, as I stepped inside. ‘You know, this is the highest building I’ve been in since I arrived in New York. And the first view of the city I’ve seen.’
‘You’re kidding?’
I shook my head, eyebrows raised. ‘I spent most of yesterday rummaging about in urban undergrowth. And the view from my Airbnb is non-existent.’
The ease at which the lie about where I was staying slipped out of my mouth took me by surprise. Perhaps Mum and Anneka were rubbing off on me.
‘Yeah, foraging isn’t your typical tourist activity. I’ll have to tell you where you can find some much better views. Do you have the Airbnb to yourself?’
I raised my eyebrows at the potential subtext to his question, quickly lowering them before he noticed.
Think, Flora – you wouldn’t be able to afford an entire Airbnb.
‘No, just a room in someone’s place.’
‘Nice.’
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window for a while, taking in the layered vista of building after building after building.
As I tried – and failed – to count all the yellow taxi cabs that moved in and out of my vision on the roads below us, I was reminded that vibrant cities had always been my happy place.
Against all odds, I’d always felt deeply reassured by all the people and all the movement – and the sense of anonymity the diverse throngs afforded me.
Bath was a city, of course, but it had an air of rural quaintness about it that meant the restless, almost-rebellious buzz of places like New York was largely absent.
I miss London.
The thought took me by surprise. I’d been so fixated on missing Will these last few months that I’d not even begun to process everything else I’d been forced to leave behind this year.
‘Pretty cool, huh?’ Ethan said, joining me at the window.
‘It’s incredible,’ I replied, still taking in the urban scene below.
‘And you’re sure you don’t mind hanging out here?’
‘Not at all! Like I said, I can work while you work – it’s perfect.’ To emphasise my point, I shimmied out of my coat, draped it over the back of a chair and started removing my stuff from my backpack.
‘How many of you work for the agency?’ I asked, my laptop booting up.
‘There’s around thirty of us, plus a roster of freelancers,’ Ethan said, finally accepting I was happy to be there and connecting his own laptop to one of the largest monitors – pleasingly, it happened to be diagonally opposite my desk, in the optimum eye contact spot.
‘Huh, smaller than I was expecting.’ I plonked myself onto the fancy ergonomic chair and began fiddling with the adjustment levers until it felt right.
‘You’ve never worked for an agency?’
I did a full spin in the chair as a final comfort test, bringing myself to a stop by grabbing the edge of the desk. I shook my head. ‘Nope. In fact, before I went freelance, I’d only ever worked for the civil service.’
‘What’s the “civil service”?’
‘Oh, the public sector. Basically, I worked for the UK government before I became self-employed: first in comms and PR, and eventually specialising in speechwriting once people realised I had a knack for it. Me and… I mean, I joined the civil service straight from university. I worked in the public sector for almost ten years.’
‘Why’d you decide to go freelance?’