Chapter 20
20
“Where’s the report?” Susie’s sharp voice scrapes the inside of my ear like a long fingernail on a blackboard.
“It’s on your desk,” I pant down the phone. I scan the blueprint of her desk in my mind, half the time her Chloé Marcie handbag is slung over the entire surface. “It might be under something but—”
“I don’t see it.” She sounds frantic. “Darling, I’m about to have a very important meeting and I need that report.”
“It’s definitely there, in a blue folder. I dropped it off before I left.”
The phone bounces against my face as I half walk, half sprint down the dusty pavement. I left on time, but it’s always on the days you have to look your best that you end up stuck on a delayed tube in the middle of summer and having to walk half the journey. At least the breeze from my pace is drying my sweaty forehead.
“If it was ‘definitely’ here, why can’t I see it?”
I internally cringe. Susie wasn’t exactly supportive of me leaving the office two hours earlier than usual on a Thursday to meet with Bancroft and the owner of the Heimach Hotel, so she gave me some extra last-minute work to do as a punishment. The hotel sprouts through the concrete in the distance; I burst into a full jog in heels.
“Maybe try underneath your handbag?”
She’s silent for a moment as I hear shuffling on the other end of the line. “This is why you need to book these meetings outside of work hours. It wastes both of our time.”
I guess she found the report.
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time. I have to—”
“Next time?” she interrupts. “I’m under a lot of pressure right now. I need to know I can rely on you.”
“I just mean... the Ditto presentation is in a couple of weeks so...” I trail off, not knowing how to say “hopefully I won’t be working for you after that” in a way that won’t end up with my head being stuffed and mounted in her house as a hat rack.
I can almost hear her eyes rolling in her skull like bingo balls circling a cage.
“I expect your actual work on my desk by tomorrow morning, hopefully somewhere I can see it without having to search for it?”
“Of course. Have a good evening.”
“ Have a good evening! ” I repeat to myself in a whiny high-pitched voice, chastising myself for my attempt at pleasantry with a hungry, rabid hyena.
I reach the hotel’s revolving doors, which are nestled between a tall, glossy office building and a Blank Street Coffee. I take a deep breath and wipe my damp hair and face with my sleeve. My navy-blue fitted suit feels very Bancroftian. In sweltering weather like this, I’d usually opt for lighter colors and fabrics, but this meeting is too important to mess up by being underdressed.
I head into the lobby and the cold air hits my skin as if I’m crossing the tundra. Bancroft is standing with a man at the end of a wide expanse of onyx floor, but he hasn’t seen me yet. A sign of glowing backlit marble lancing spreads across the hotel reception. The word HEIMACH spelled out in industrial lightbulbs looms over the lobby. Well-dressed staff with slick hair and black jumpsuits rush around holding iPads. This hotel is a hotspot for cool, creative types who can often be found pounding on their laptops on a green leather sofa in the lobby workspace. Alice would fit right in here. I scan the clientele, checking people against the mental list of Ditto’s target audience attributes. Unique, young, cool. Seems as if we’re in the right place.
My sweat-soaked skin prickles as Bancroft clocks my presence, studying my outfit with a scrunch of his eyebrows so subtle I almost think I imagined it. Yemi was, of course, right. I spent a lot of last night staring at the ceiling, running scenario after scenario of what I should have done and said differently in his office. Before fully drifting off, I came to the conclusion that, even though it hurts, I can understand his instinct to not tell me. Craving his signature smirk, I shoot Bancroft an awkward tight-lipped smile and his eyes flash with something resembling relief before looking away. He’s standing with a man with platinum-blond hair dressed in a striped blue-and-dark-green suit and a bright red tie. He must be Christoph Teller, the youngest of the Teller family hotel dynasty. According to Forbes and Vanity Fair his father is very good friends with Bancroft’s father, Malon. They tower over me as I approach, like two marble columns guarding the entrance of a club exclusively for those over six feet tall with an inheritance.
“Ahh!” Christoph Teller claps his hands together. “You must be Ms. Hastings.” His voice rings out through the lobby, commanding but warm.
“That’s me. Lovely to meet you, Mr. Teller. I’m so sorry I’m late. Tube delays.”
“Please, call me Christoph.” His perfect smile beams as he speaks. He seems to radiate an infectious warmth and joy, definitely not what I was expecting for the heir to a multi-million-pound hotel chain. “Eric has told me all about you!”
“If any of his stories involve a cooking class, I swear I didn’t stab him on purpose,” I blurt without thinking.
Christoph bursts into a sharp peal of laughter that echoes off the black stone walls like sonar in a cave. I cut a side-glance at Bancroft, who is staring at me with an unreadable but intense expression. My eyes narrow back at him and he quickly returns his gaze to Christoph, who has stopped laughing and started telling the story of a guest who blinded himself attempting a sabrage on a bottle of champagne. I try to punctuate the story with light laughter in the right places until he suggests we start the tour.
Christoph slides himself in between Bancroft and me, resting an arm against both of our shoulder blades and guiding us through a dark, moody corridor. He has an uncanny ability of not taking in a lot of oxygen between sentences, meaning his anecdotes weave into his guided tour and leave little space for either of us to get a word in edgeways, let alone speak to each other. Talking to Bancroft about our confrontation or the painting today is melting off the agenda like ice cream in this heat.
Christoph leads us to the sun-soaked gym with parquet oak floors where we pitch him the idea of yoga classes as shared-experience first dates set in an enviable location.
“You would like to try the yoga class?” Christoph asks us in ever-so-slightly fractured English.
“Oh.” I laugh nervously, glancing at a blank-faced Bancroft for backup. “That’s OK. We don’t want to put you out.”
“Not at all!” he exclaims. “I will tell my assistant to book you in for the next session.”
“Really, it’s OK. We don’t have anything to wear for a fancy yoga class!” I laugh, panic rising.
“I have my gym gear with me. I’ll wear that.” Bancroft shrugs, the hint of a devious smile appearing on his face. Of course he does. Of course he will. His eyes flick to me. “Isn’t the whole point to try before we buy?”
“And we have a partnered sportswear brand stocked at the gym reception. Tell them I sent you and they will give you anything you need.” Christoph beams at me and I have no choice but to beam back.
“OK!” I relent with a huge, forced grin.
Christoph leads us through the equally moody but sophisticated Michelin-starred restaurant and bar where we discuss throwing the most incredible launch event to bring coverage to the app and the hotel, then he gives us a tour of a deluxe king room where users who sign up within the first three months of launch will receive a discounted stay. Finally, he shows us the crown jewel of the Heimach Hotel: the penthouse suite.
Christoph throws his arms up to the vaulted ceilings and announces that it is his favorite place in the world.
“Hard not to agree with that—it’s beautiful,” Bancroft says, crossing his arms and staring at the 360-degree city landscape. My attention snags on his tall frame, shadowed by the bright light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Christoph’s phone rings and he excuses himself to the other side of the suite, leaving us alone in the kitchen overlooking the skyscraping office buildings, piercing the clouds like cotton candy on sticks, the afternoon sun blazing through the gaps.
There’s a sense of reluctance between the two of us. I haven’t fully recovered from the hurt, but I appreciated his attempt at making amends. I creep up next to him with my best attempt at a teasing, mood-lightening grin. “You probably don’t get to see a view from this high very often, no?”
He stares at me confused for a moment until he clicks his tongue and returns to the window. “Because I’m from hell, gotcha.”
A pang of guilt pokes me in the stomach when he doesn’t smile back. We linger in awkward silence until Christoph abruptly reappears.
“My apologies,” Christoph says as he bursts around the corner. “One of our guests has brought her eight Pomeranians to stay with her but the room was not prepared to have dogs in it. Are you OK heading back to the gym for your yoga session while I fix it?”
We follow him out into the warmly lit hallway.
“No problem. It was great to finally meet you.” Bancroft reaches out to shake his hand. “I’ll call you tomorrow to finalize the details of the contract.”
“Of course, and such a pleasure, Ms. Hastings. I do hope we meet again.”
“Oh, we will. I just booked a room for me and my twelve cats,” I counter with a smile. Christoph lets out a final bellowing laugh and pats our still-shaking hands.
We watch him skip off down the hallway and Bancroft whispers, “I don’t think there was a single sentence you said that didn’t make him laugh.”
“What can I say, I’m a funny gal,” I deadpan in a neutral tone.
“You’re funny, yes, but not ‘funny ha-ha’... more bizarre. Must be the language barrier.”
My chest warms as the smirk returns; he puts his hands in his pockets and saunters off toward the lift. I’m relieved he’s still willing to joke around with me.
“True humor transcends words; you’d understand that if you didn’t coast on...” I scoff, waving a hand to indicate his general demeanor: “... this.”
I follow him to the elevator at a quick pace as he steps into the lift and presses the button. Bancroft releases a breathy laugh, looks at the ground and then up to me. In this light, his eyes reflect the flickering golden lamps scattered across the walls, all warmth and possibility. We wait side by side at the elevator door, both listening to the metallic hum as it zips downward. After a brief air of silence, he gives me a look. I sigh and turn to face him.
“I got the package.”
His eyebrows rise and maybe it’s the recessed lights from the lift but his eyes twinkle with something I haven’t seen before. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“Just a penny?” I cross my arms. “Based on the price of that painting, I know you can afford at least a quid or two.”
He doesn’t respond but the corner of his lips curl upward. I decide to make him suffer a little while longer.
“I haven’t decided what I think about it,” I say with a sighing breath, flicking a lock of curly hair over my shoulder as the silver doors slide open again.