Chapter 14
14
“What are you doing, Hastings?” Bancroft looms in the merchandise cupboard’s doorway, the light from the main office oozing around his angles and trickling into the room.
“Considering strangling myself with a tote bag,” I reply from the floor, scanning over the piles of Fate-branded reusable coffee cups, T-shirts, giant foam fingers, baseball caps and fabric totes littered in a circle around me. “How is Iris? I saw the Societeur post.”
He clears his throat and stares at the paraphernalia scattered around me. “She’s OK. How did you like your fifteen seconds of fame?” His blue eyes lance into me.
“Loved it. The back of my head has already been offered a laxative-tea sponsorship.”
He huffs a laugh and crosses his arms. “Don’t the interns usually handle this sort of thing?”
I tuck a stray hair behind my ear and sigh. “I sent her home thirty minutes ago, I felt bad that this was taking so long.” My eyes travel up his body until they meet his face. “What’s your excuse for being here so late?”
“Struggling to write the evaluation form for Saturday. How does one sum up molding half a vase then having to track down your sister while avoiding predatory bar managers and obsessive photographers?”
“Ah. Maybe start with some light commentary on how once you touch wet clay it gets literally everywhere. I found a smear on the sole of my foot yesterday morning, and I was wearing shoes the entire time!”
He laughs and squats down in front of me, the fractured overhead lighting dividing his face into sharp angles. He picks up a baseball cap, inspecting its logo embroidery, and then flops it back onto the pile.
His bemused blue eyes flick up to meet me. “Need some help?”
“I can’t subject you to this—it’s going to take hours.”
“Well, I kind of owe you one and I need to run some Ditto project stuff by you anyway, so I might as well help with whatever it is you’ve got going on here.”
I shake my head. “You don’t owe me anything. Seriously, it’s fine. I don’t want you to suffer too.”
He tilts his head and smirks at me. “If I tell you a secret will you let me help you?”
He must be desperate to talk about his plans. My eyebrow crease deepens. “You’re really keen to sit on the hard floor with the weird lighting that makes you go cross-eyed and pack boxes of merchandise with me?”
He takes my question as acceptance of the deal. “My parents used to travel a lot for work, and when I was eleven they sent me to boarding school in Hampshire... to provide me with ‘childhood stability,’” he says with finger-quotes. “For a while I was the only new kid, so naturally I was the bottom of the pecking order and became the resident punching bag for the other kids in my dormitory.”
Continuing to pack while he talks, I add, “I’m finding it hard to imagine you being bullied. You seem unbullyable.”
“Then hopefully you can’t imagine me with a bowl cut and adolescent acne either.”
I snort a laugh. “Oh, for that I can certainly try my best.”
He picks up and throws a trash bag of foam fingers at me. “Can I finish my story?”
I smile and nod as he continues, “The only coping mechanism I had was organizing the suitcase full of things I was allowed to bring with me. I would alphabetize my books, trading cards, organize and reorganize my clothes in this tiny little half wardrobe. Or pack everything neatly away in my suitcase and pretend I was going home for the weekend like the other kids. Then I found a book in the library about laundry and folding clothes and spent hours folding and refolding my school shirts until they were perfect.”
“Are you still like that now?” I ask, and then immediately cringe at all the times I made my desk messy deliberately when he’s around because I enjoyed the pained expression it brought to his face.
He wrings his hands between his legs, twisting the ring on his finger. “It’s definitely not as bad now. One of my teachers saw me obsessively counting in class and reported it to my parents. They made me see a child psychiatrist, which I guess... helped.”
“Did they ever ask you why you were doing it?”
“I don’t think they cared that it was a coping mechanism.”
“So when did it stop being so intense?”
“When I started punching back.” He huffs as though it’s a joke but I don’t laugh. The furrow of my brow deepens.
“How long did that take?”
“Two years.” He sighs. “Until I broke someone’s nose and got kicked out. My mum brought me out to New York to stay with her there.”
“That’s how you got that scar,” I say, glancing at his hand, remembering how he glossed over it when I asked. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” I hurl the trash bag back at him and it crumples as he catches it midair.
He smiles that same smile he gave me in the cab. “Your treehouse story was just so cute, with your parents and the fairy picnics, it wasn’t the right time for a villain origin story.”
I smile back grudgingly.
“So, will you let me help you?”
“I guess with your expert knowledge we can get this done a lot faster.” My lips curve and I point to several piles of custom T-shirts, phone cases and cup holders. “These, these and these need to be in those boxes.”
He grunts as he squeezes down next to me and crosses his legs, our knees just touching in the small room. We work in tandem, neatly arranging the packages like a military-powered pink and green Santa’s workshop as he explains his potential brand partnership lead with a cool hotel chain and how he thinks it could play out.
After a few minutes I freeze. “Shit, the tissue paper.”
“What tissue paper?”
“We have to top them off with Fate tissue paper.”
“Why?”
“You know”—I flap my arms—“for the grand reveal!”
He stares at me, trying to contain a smile. “The grand reveal?”
“If you can just see the gift, what’s the point? It’s all about the mystery and then the reveal. It’s about the slow build of intrigue, the tension!”
He laughs. “OK, you’ve sold it to me! No wonder you work in marketing.” I try my best to avoid blushing. “So where is the tissue paper?”
My neck cranes as I stare at the top of the silver industrial shelving unit. “In a box up there.”
He stands up, wiping his hands on his trousers to smooth them down. He assesses the shelf, towering over even his tall frame.
“Let’s hope it’s bolted to the wall,” he says, straining as he grabs the edges of the top shelf and pulls himself up. “Which box is it?”
“Ummm, a little brown square container?”
“You’re describing a small cardboard box in a sea of small cardboard boxes.” He jumps down with a thud, his hair now so out of place I want to run my hands through to fix it. I want to smooth each strand down, and rake it so that it frames his face.
“You know what, they’ll be fine without it,” I say breathlessly, my voice barely above a whisper.
Hands on his hips and slightly out of breath, he raises his eyebrows. “But what about the grand reveal? The mystery? The intrigue?” He throws a hand out at me, eyes wide with a mischievous gleam. “You’ve sold it to me now. We’re finding it. Get up.”
“If you can’t reach it, I definitely can’t.”
“Get up!” he repeats, pressing his back against the shelving unit. He squats down a little and then holds out his palms, one placed on top of the other.
“What are you doing?” I ask, arms crossed.
“You’ll know it if you see it, right? So let me give you a leg up.”
I close the short distance between us and slowly place my hands on his shoulders. The muscles are thicker than I imagined, not that I imagined them at all. My heart rate triples as I grip him with my fingers and place a foot in his hands.
“Ready?”
I nod, my lips sealed together in a tight line.
He pushes me up with ease, as I let out a nervous laugh. As the top shelf reaches eye level I lose the ability to process anything in front of me, all my brain power has zeroed in on the tingling sensation of his cheek pressed against the outside of my thigh as he lifts me up higher.
After a few seconds he clears his throat. “Any luck?”
The question snaps the boxes into sharp focus and I spring into action. After rummaging through box after box I finally spot it pressed up against the far wall and throw my arm out like a fishing rod.
His strong hands grip into my calves. “Hastings, if you don’t grab it now I am going to drop you.”
“I can’t reach it.” The tip of my middle finger touches the serrated edge as I flick it in an attempt to roll it toward me.
“Hold on.” Eric shifts his weight as he grips my foot in one hand and grips the back of my calf with the other. My left leg is still floating in midair as a counter-balance as he pushes me up higher.
I strain as two more fingertips wrap around the box’s edge, my calf burning under his touch despite the denim skin barrier.
“Got it! Thank you, God.” I shout with glee as I seize the box between my thumb and forefingers, dragging it toward me.
“You’re welcome,” he says through a slightly labored breath. I can hear his smirk as he starts to lower me down.
Holding the box in one hand, I use the other to hold on to the shelves as he slowly lowers me down; to stabilize me on my descent his hands move slowly up my legs until—
“Shit!” My hand slips from the metal edge and I swing backward and down at the same time, waving my arms around like a cartoon bird learning how to fly. My eyes squeeze close as I drop the box, grabbing at the metal rails for purchase and preparing for injury.
The impact doesn’t come. Bancroft drops my leg and catches me with both hands on my waist, effectively slowing me down and keeping me upright. His grip tightens as the soles of my feet hit the floor with a thump.
My clamped eyes eventually open and find him looking down at me. I realize all too suddenly how small the room is, how long we have been in here, and how comfortable we’ve been in the cramped but somehow cozy space.
“You OK?” he asks, scanning my face.
“Yeah,” I reply breathlessly. He swallows hard as his eyes flick to my lips and then back up to my eyes—so fast, I could have imagined it. He breaks our stare and rests his chin on my forehead, sighing—or maybe lightly panting from the effort of lifting and then catching me, I can’t tell. I don’t pull away because the feeling of warm hands tight on my waist is sending electricity into parts of me I thought previously dead. The bottom of my Frankenstein stomach twists in a way it hasn’t done since the night we refuse to acknowledge.
“For someone who basically used to live up a tree you’d think your balance would be better,” he says, chest vibrating with each word.
“Just out of practice, I guess.” I breathe, only now noticing how my hands grabbed the fabric of his shirt during my rapid descent.
He looks down at me, eyes heavy and face shadowed in the light behind him. The metal shelving creaks as I release my fingers, causing him to straighten. Not knowing where to put my hands, I rest them on his arms, still tense from my fall. The muscles relax, along with his fingers as he exhales, gliding his palms across my waist so delicately my legs turn to liquid. A sliver of memory seeps in between us; his darkening blue eyes flash with it as he draws his lips together and then apart to say something.
The entire metal shelving unit vibrates behind us as his phone, sitting next to a box of Fate-branded bright pink sunglasses, starts ringing. We jolt out of the moment, retreating across to opposite sides of the tiny room as my face burns red hot. A quick glance at the phone shows Mum on the screen. I pretend not to have seen it and stretch my arm out to pass the handset to him.
His shoulders tense when he realizes who is calling. “I should take this,” he whispers, his chest still heaving.
“Mmm-hmm.” I nod, smoothing down my shirt and unable to look him in the eye.
“I’m going to be away for a few days,” he adds over his shoulder.
I stare intently at the piles of nearly finished boxes scattered on the floor, resisting a glance up at him. “Cool, good.”
No, not good. Why did I say that?
“Yes, grud ,” he says in a slight trance as he swings open the door, the fluorescent light streaming in from the outer office. The warmth his gentle tease gives me is immediately dampened by the realization that he thinks I am happy he’ll be gone for a few days.
By the time I get home, it’s nearly 10 p.m. In between having a quick five-minute “power cry” in the toilets after Susie’s flippant dismissal of my Ever After idea, marketing team meetings and running around the city to find a pop-up Lebanese restaurant for Susie’s lunch, my own work didn’t start until 5 p.m. Then, of course, I had to fill the boxes. Thankfully, Alice had a glass of our favorite rosé, the one we refer to as “the chicken wine” because of the drawing on the label and our lack of French pronunciation skills, waiting for me as I walked through the door.
We lounge on the sofa, bitching about our bosses for an hour before I’m tipsy enough to admit I had joined Ignite this morning but am too chicken to start swiping.
“You’ve got to be kidding. You swore on your pink suit trousers that you would never join a dating app like Ignite, no matter how dire things got.”
I put my hand over my face, hiding my blushing cheeks.
“I knooowwww,” I drag out, “but I have to find a real date or I’m going to be so underprepared for my presentation. It’s in three weeks—I need to do fieldwork!” I laugh, realizing how ridiculous it sounds. “But I can’t bring myself to look at the profiles yet.”
Alice gives me a scrupulous look, holding out her palm. “Hand it over.”
I roll my eyes like an inconvenienced teenager and slap my phone into her enthusiastic little hands. I wonder if Bancroft is this reluctant to create a profile on Fate. At least I can hold this over him if he doesn’t hold up his end of our bargain. My mind slips back to that look on his face. The same look he had at the Christmas party.
“Hmmmm, let’s see,” Alice narrates to herself with a singsong voice, pursing her lips as if she’s perusing a restaurant menu. “What about this guy? He’s cute.”
She holds the phone to me like a waiter displaying a bottle of wine, flicking through the photos with a manicured finger.
I wiggle my hand around like a fish out of water. “Would be OK if his first photo wasn’t him with a giant bottle of Grey Goose.”
With a shrug she flicks to the next profile. “Wait.” Alice scrunches her face at the screen. “Is this your ex-boyfriend?”
She rotates the phone and the world turns in slow motion as my eyes land on the very familiar face. The face whose text messages I can’t escape.
The words ring in my mind as a heavy, sticky rage clings to my chest. I flick through the profile; most of the images I’ve seen before on his Instagram. Him at a football game with his mates, at a fancy restaurant, topless on a recent holiday, but one makes me stop in my tracks.
“That’s my dog,” I say to the picture.
“What? You don’t have a dog,” Alice says.
I look up from the screen. “No, sorry. I mean that’s my family’s dog.”
“Awww, cute. What’s his name?”
“His name was Archie, but he died years ago. Why would William be using a photo of him and my dog?”
I remember it so clearly. I took the photo of him and my family’s honey-gold cocker spaniel on a beach holiday when we were celebrating our one-year anniversary. It was freezing cold but we wanted to watch the sunset over the sea. The taste of salty air and Bailey’s hot chocolate dances across my tongue for the briefest moment.
“It’s such a weird picture to dig up and use after getting out of a long-term relationship.” I take a screenshot of it before Alice pulls the phone away from me.
“This is an ex-boyfriend-free zone,” she says sternly, replacing the phone with my glass of chicken wine.
I fake a laugh, my suspicion lingering like a bad smell. Hoping to drown out the intrusive thoughts.
“OK, NEXT!” Alice bellows toward the ceiling. “What about this guy: Active, determined, adventurous, excitable, usually hungry. ”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s literally just a list of adjectives.”
Alice lets out a breath and rolls her eyes, shouting at his photo, “You’re right, and we’re not here to read!” and swiping left on the profile. “Oooooh, OK, this one is interesting: Jack. Twenty-seven. Aficionado of comfortable bar seats, love hearing what other people are obsessed with and spending more time in pajamas than a suit. ” She looks up at me with hopeful eyes. “That’s kind of you, babe. And look, he has a cute dog! Who is probably alive!”
She shows me his profile; he’s certainly attractive. Dark, curly hair with olive skin and a well-maintained beard.
“OK fine, he seems nice. Yes, to him.”
Alice swipes right and my phone immediately pings:
Grace and Jack, it’s a match!
“Finally!” Alice lets out a sigh of relief and triumphantly digs into the next profile. “OK, with this one, hear me out... Student by day, DJ by night —”
“Aaaaaaabsolutely not!”
“He’s hot!”
“No offence, but in hindsight, I don’t think you’re the most equipped to be swiping on men .”
She gasps in feigned outrage. “Who told you?”
We cackle in unison as she starts speed-swiping through more profiles. “Listen, just because I date women doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good-looking man... like this one...”
She tries to hide a fiendish smile as she reveals the phone screen.
“Oh my God, I can’t escape you,” I say to a picture of Eric Bancroft’s face.
I have to admit it’s a good photo, one I’ve not seen before. He’s dressed in a sharp black blazer with an undone white shirt underneath, sitting at a table covered in dinner candles and half-full wine glasses. He’s laughing and looking at someone across the table just out of frame; his genuine smile gives me a low ache in my stomach, which I quickly suppress, distracted by the fingers wrapped around one of his arms. The person is cut out of the picture, but the slender digits and pointed red nails are enough. Is that Margeaux Bardin, or someone else?
Alice notices my fixation on the image and starts reading from his profile. “ Eric Bancroft, thirty years old, Marketing Manager at Ignite. Please don’t ask me to rate your profile. ”
I flop back against the cushions. “Urgh... see? He doesn’t have to try at all yet still has a constant stream of women lined up to date him. This app is nothing but a parade of beautiful people trying to shag each other.”
“Are you saying you think he’s beautiful? I think that deserves a swipe to the... right!” Alice flamboyantly drags her finger across the screen before my wine-blurred mind can process what she’s doing.
“No no no no no no no!” I yank the phone out of her hand and stare down with wide eyes at the screen. “Fuuuuuck!”
“Why was he even on there? You live on opposite sides of the city!” Alice laughs in disbelief.
I shake my head. “I created my profile in the office this morning so it must have picked up our proximity earlier and—” My panicked explanation is cut short by a pinging sound; I watch open-mouthed as an animation appears on the screen.
Grace and Eric, it’s a match!
Bancroft’s and my smiling faces gaze up at me, surrounded by fire emojis. S hit shit shit . My whole body floods with sweat, as though the flames from the phone are real.
“Wait, it’s a match? So, he already swiped right on you too?” Alice doesn’t even try to hide her excitement.
I beg the app to reverse the decision, but I know it’s pointless. He will have received the fiery notification too. A second, different pinging sound emerges from my phone.
Message from William:
I know my text probably seemed out of the blue, but could we meet up to chat about us? I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to talk about giving things another try x
I launch my phone to the other side of the sofa as if it’s actually on fire.