Chapter 28
All the way back to Brooklyn, my mind refused to allow me to think clearly about what had just happened – how badly everything had gone wrong. What an utter, clumsy fool I’d been. I should have talked to Amelie first, before embarking on my stupid espionage campaign. Or I could have talked to Zack, long ago, when I was first worried about her, and perhaps he would have listened, spent more time with her, given her the opportunity to tell him she was pregnant.
And then not snogged his ex. For fuck’s sake.
In spite of the horrible weight of guilt I was feeling, I was aware that, however idiotic I’d been, however badly I’d mishandled the situation, ultimately Zack was to blame for this, not me. I’d been rash and foolish – he’d cheated on his wife. I’d come rushing out to help my sister without thinking through the possible consequences – he’d abandoned her in an unfamiliar city while she was homesick and vulnerable.
But that didn’t change the outcome. My sister wasn’t talking to me, and it felt as if she might never forgive me.
We’d had rows before, of course, like all sisters do. But never one as awful as this. The epic fall-out of 2018 when I’d borrowed her Fenty Beauty lipstick to wear to a festival and it had melted in my handbag was nothing in comparison. The night before my A-level maths exam when she’d come home late from a party and stayed up until four in the morning playing music and chatting to her friends and I’d called her a selfish bitch seemed like a minor tiff next to this.
This felt terminal, and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t ask the AI version of Adam, because I no longer felt like I trusted it, after the mess it had landed me in. I couldn’t confide in Ross, because after what had happened in Katz’s Deli he must suspect that I had feelings for him that he could never reciprocate.
I should have known better. I should have known that I wasn’t cut out to be the cool girl, the sexy, daring girl. If Kieren had taught me one thing, it should have been that.
The relationship – thing, situationship, whatever it was – between us had lasted six months. A whole half a year – the tail-end of summer, all of autumn and into February. After the second time in the office, he acted totally normal. Again, there was no note under my keyboard the next day. But this time, I wasn’t tortured by doubt about having done something wrong – and I was no longer worried that it wouldn’t happen again.
And it did. The following week, when we’d been working late on a deadline, he did message me – a brief note over email.
Want to stay here with me when we’re done?
I’d replied with just one word – Yes. A small word, but it had meant more than that – it had signalled a willingness to continue doing what we’d done. And we did continue. A handful of times, I went back with him to his flat after work – but not often. Mostly, we had sex in the office. It wade me cringe, now, to remember it, but at the time it had felt illicit, thrilling, powerful. He must really want me, I’d rationalised to myself, to take such risks.
Because it was risky. Mostly, it happened in the office after everyone had gone home – on the sofa in reception, in a meeting room, on his desk chair. But sometimes it would be the middle of the day when he summoned me with an email, or his eyes, or just a few words. And then it was in the stationery cupboard.
I knew it was wrong – I knew it was stupid and dangerous. But I didn’t know how to stop it, and part of me didn’t want to stop it. For the first time in my life, I was the sexy girl, the girl a man couldn’t keep his hands off, the girl with the power to ignite desire.
But, increasingly, it didn’t feel right. I believed no one at work knew – certainly, I hadn’t told anyone. But, as the days began to grow longer and winter felt like it was finally drawing to a close, I did tell my sister. We were round at our parents’ place for Sunday lunch, and while we were stacking the dishwasher I leaned in and whispered, ‘So, I’ve kind of been seeing someone.’
‘Seeing someone? Like, a man?’
I nodded.
‘Seeing like as in having sex?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ooooh! Who is he?’
I told her. His name was Kieren, we worked together, he was a journalist. I bigged up his attractiveness, although the qualities I admired – his lean jawline, his incisive writing style, his air of being a slightly tortured soul – were attributes I knew my sister would totally not see the point of.
‘So when do I get to meet him?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. We’ve kind of…’ We’ve never actually been out. Not together, as a couple.
But I couldn’t bring myself to admit that to my sister – I knew what her reaction would be. You what? Like, never? Luce, that’s not seeing someone, that’s being someone’s booty call.
As soon as I imagined her words in my head, I shut them off. More than that – I rewound the tape and erased them.
‘Luce? You’ve kind of what?’
‘It’s tricky,’ I said, ‘because of work, and me being still in my probation period, and him being older and a section editor. I don’t think he wants people in the office to know.’
Amelie raised one of her carefully shaped eyebrows. ‘Okaaay. Fair enough. Although to be honest, Luce, I’d question whether if he doesn’t want people to know he’s doing something, he should be doing it in the first place.’
‘It’s not like that! I don’t report to him or anything. And I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do.’
‘Cool,’ Amelie said. ‘So if he doesn’t want people at work to know, how about people not at work? You’re coming to my birthday drinks next month, right? Why not ask him along?’
The idea of Kieren surrounded by Amelie’s friends was almost impossible to imagine, but there was no way I could tell my sister that.
‘Okay,’ I said, although I felt far from certain. ‘I’ll ask him.’
More than a week passed before I could find the courage – a week in which I was barely alone with him, anyway. Finally, the next Monday evening, I got my chance. I was in the kitchen, rinsing coffee mugs and scooping up used teabags, when Kieren walked past, his bag slung over his shoulder.
‘Knocking-off time,’ he said casually. ‘You coming?’
‘I… yes. Just a second, I need to finish in here and get my things.’
He nodded. ‘See you downstairs.’
So this would be one of the nights when I went to his flat – almost a luxury, compared to our hurried, furtive encounters in the office. By now, I knew the ritual. The Tube journey, the walk to his house, the climb up the stairs, the glass of wine, the sex. I’d resisted the urge to mention anything about my sister or her birthday until afterwards – then, I’d learned, Kieren was at his most mellow. So I waited. I’d never been eager for sex with him to finish before, but that day I was. Rather than wanting the intimacy we had to last as long as possible, I was eager for a different kind of closeness.
‘Kieren?’ I said, as soon as I dared, just as I was feeling him easing his body away from mine.
‘Mmmm?’
‘What are you doing this weekend?’
‘Doing?’ he laughed. ‘Same as I always do. Pub on Friday, football with the lads on Saturday. Getting over my hangover on Sunday. Why?’
‘It’s my sister’s birthday and she’s having a party on Saturday night. Do you want to come?’ The words came out in a rush, before I could reconsider them.
Now he did push me away, but not roughly. He sort of turned me around and held me at arm’s length, looking at me.
‘Do I want to come to your sister’s birthday party?’ he echoed.
I nodded, feeling a dark foreshadowing of what was to come, wishing I could unsay what I’d said and go back to how things had been a few seconds before.
‘Is that what you think this is?’ he asked. ‘The kind of thing where I meet your family and buy you flowers and in a year or so we shack up and have a couple of kids?’
‘No! I never thought that. I just thought…’
‘Lucy.’ I remembered how it had made me feel the first time he said my name, how it had felt when he called me Princess. I didn’t feel that way now. ‘I thought you understood. This was never going to be a boyfriend-girlfriend thing. I thought you were on the same page as me. I don’t want a woman. I’ve my career to think about. I don’t have time for that. But I enjoy the occasional fuck. I thought that was what you wanted, too.’
‘I do.’ My tone was almost wheedling. ‘But I thought we could see each other sometimes, too.’
‘Well, we can’t. Jesus. A girl like you, I thought you’d be grateful for what you could get. Seems I was wrong.’
‘I am grateful’ – Well, you shouldn’t be! screamed the voice I’d been ignoring, outraged – ‘I just wanted…’
‘More. Well, you’re not getting it. It’s this or nothing – take your pick.’
To my shame, I heard myself say, ‘It’s okay. Forget I said anything. We can carry on as we are.’
His hands released their grip on my shoulders and he sat up. ‘I don’t think so. This isn’t what you’re after – you’ve made that clear. It’s enough, now, before you get yourself pregnant or something and try to trap me that way.’
I was so appalled and stung by his words I was unable to come out with any of my own. My face flaming, I struggled into my clothes and left, without saying goodbye. Somehow, I made my way home, and it was only once the door was closed behind me that I allowed myself to start crying.
And now here I was, back in my Brooklyn AirBnB, once again returning home in tears. I flung myself down on the bed, my whole body limp with shock and fatigue. I didn’t think I’d be able to fall asleep, but somehow I did – only to jerk awake again a couple of hours later, my heart hammering in panic.
I had a deadline. I was meant to have filed an Ask Adam column the previous day, and I’d completely forgotten about it. It would be the start of a working day in London now. If the subs hadn’t already gone to Greg and asked when they could expect to receive my copy, they’d be doing so any moment.
And I still hadn’t picked out a question to respond to, never mind written Adam’s carefully considered response.
Shit. I sat bolt upright in bed and switched on the light, all prospect of sleep now vanished. Greg had been generous enough to allow me to work remotely from New York on the basis of the personal crisis involving my sister, which I’d explained to him as thoroughly as I could while omitting as much detail as I could get away with.
By missing my deadline, I’d not only be putting my career in jeopardy but also taking advantage of his kindness, and there was no way I wanted either of those things to happen.
If you get the sack, you’ll never see Ross again. The thought turned up unbidden.
Which would probably be no bad thing, the other part of my mind argued back. And anyway, you might crack an invite to his and Bryony’s wedding, so you’d get to see him then.
Shut up! You’re no help.
But actually, my internal conflict reminded me that I had a lifeline. I’d posted the problem Adam had received from the anonymous correspondent I felt sure was Zack into GenBot 2.0, just a couple of days before. I remembered arguing with the bot, trying to make it see my side of the story and change its normal diplomatic response to something that more closely reflected my own indignation about what Zack – if it even was Zack – was planning on doing.
And now I knew he wasn’t just planning – he was actually doing it. I’d seen him kissing Brooke. If I was absolutely sure that Anon was Zack, I’d feel obliged to have Adam tell him exactly what I thought. But I wasn’t sure; it was only a suspicion, albeit a pretty cast-iron one.
That didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that I had a duty and a deadline. It was time to put my feelings second and my career first, not time to burden my colleagues with additional stress and a late night because I wanted to tell some man who might or might not be my brother-in-law what I really thought of his actions.
So, frantic with haste, I opened my laptop and navigated to the tab where GenBot 2.0 was still open, the text I’d pasted into it still waiting there in the usual field.
I’d read the reply. I knew it was adequate. Not particularly hard-hitting and probably a bit over-long, but the subs would take care of that – it was their job to make the copy fit the allocated space, and they always needed to give everyone’s work a fairly robust edit anyway.
I selected the text in the window, opened a new document and pasted it in. I added the usual identifying copy at the top – Ask Adam, my name and the date – scrolled down and typed [ENDS] at the bottom.
Then I saved the file, navigated to my email and attached the document to a new message, addressing it to the chief sub and copying Greg, with a quick not apologising for my lateness and explaining that I’d been confused by the time difference.
Then I pressed Send, closed my laptop and turned out the light. To my surprise, I fell asleep almost immediately.
When I woke the next morning, I felt strangely calm. I was still in New York – still in the same city as my sister. Perhaps I’d be able to see reason, once she’d had a chance to calm down. And if not, I’d keep messaging her, trying to FaceTime her, assuring her that whatever happened I’d always be there for her. I wouldn’t let her feel like I’d abandoned her, or wouldn’t forgive her for the things she’d said to me.
I just needed her to forgive me.
And I needed to tell her friends – who were worried about her too – that I’d seen her. Not about the baby – that wasn’t my news to share. But I’d say I was here, Amelie hadn’t been well and was feeling better, and leave it to them to contact her too, make her feel supported and loved and not so far away.
I needed to reach out to Bryony – to apologise and explain and tell her I’d fucked up, but that there was nothing going on between Ross and me – never had been and never would.
I tapped through to WhatApp, and saw a couple of messages from Ross, which I only glanced at. Astro was okay. He wondered whether I was okay, and why I hadn’t been in touch.
Why do you think? Maybe because I’m not in a hurry to make a twat of myself over a man again, I thought.
Then I opened the bridesmaids’ group.
Lately, it had been busy. Rosa had had a housewarming, Caitlin had got a new job, Eve had got a new tattoo. They’d all been out to celebrate all these three things, and presumably it was then that they’d discussed their shared worries about Amelie, because the only mentions of her on the thread were bright and breezy @s, followed by ‘Wish you were here!’, ‘Miss you, babe!’ and ‘Thinking of you always!’, all festooned with heart emojis in various stages of brokenness.
The latest social event appeared to have been Nush’s birthday – cocktails followed by dinner at a Soho restaurant so on-trend even I had heard of it, followed by cocktails somewhere else. Evidently, judging by the pictures of bacon sandwiches and glasses of squash that followed the next day, a good time had been had by all.
Especially one person. A post caught my eye and I stopped scrolling, then scrolled slowly up again to try and make sense of it all. The night out had taken place on a Thursday – last night, the night I’d seen Zack and Brooke on their night out. And the post-mortem had begun several hours previously, owing to the time difference.
Nush: OMG I am dying. Legit dead. Thank God clever sober me booked a day’s holiday from work. I’m planning to leave my bed only to spew.
Bryony: I’m on the train to arsing Swindon for a shoot. Kill me now. Why did none of you bitches remind me of this when we ordered those mezcal margaritas at one a.m.?
Eve: We could have reminded you, but then you got kind of… busy.
Nush: Yes, you were otherwise occupied for the rest of the evening, weren’t you, snogging girl?
Rosa: Another night out, another hangover, another set of pics on my phone of Bryony’s head practically disappearing down some random’s throat, lol
Nush: I don’t know how you do it, babe. It’s quite impressive actually. One minute we’re having a perfectly normal night, the next – BAM, snog alert.
Eve: At least this one was hot, not like the one last week. You seriously had your beer goggles on that time, chica.
Bryony: Was he hot? I actually can’t remember. Oh well, go me, I guess.
But what about Ross? I thought, torn between fascination and outrage.
Nush: What about that Ross bloke you were seeing, anyway?
As if she’d read my thoughts, a whole seven hours before I’d thought them.
Bryony: Yeah, him, ahahaha. I suppose it’s not ideal, is it? Three nights out in a row I’ve ended up kissing some other bloke. Do you think it’s a signal from the universe?
Eve: I mean, you do you. It’s not as if you’re married to the guy, right?
Nush: No, obviously. But if you’re going round hooking up with randoms every time you leave the house, it’s got to tell you something, right? Call me a relationship expert, but maybe you might just be trying to tell yourself something?
Bryony: Tell myself what? That Ross isn’t that into me? I already know that. Hence the snogging, I suppose.
Eve: Oh, babe. You never said! We thought it was going so well.
Bryony: Yeah well. Denial’s not just a river in Egypt, right? He’s nice and everything, but whenever I’ve tried to have the exclusive talk he’s got all weird on me and said he’s not sure he’s ready for a relationship. So I’m like, fine, you don’t want to be exclusive, I won’t be exclusive, and I’ll snog whoever I like when I’m out.
Nush: Aw, mate. Maybe you’re right – that’s ‘just not that into you’ vibes right there. And maybe you’re not that into him either…?
Bryony: I was, honest. Or I thought I was. But you know, you can’t carry on flogging a dead horse. And besides, Charlie, the dude from last night, has already messaged me, so…
Eve: Time to move on? One door closes…
Bryony: I guess. I was meant to be seeing Ross tonight, though. Is dumping someone by text still not cool?
Nush: It’s been cool for ages. Do keep up. So long as you’re not actually ghosting him after he asked you to marry him, you’re all good AFAIAC.
Rosa: Do it now. Quick and relatively painless.
Bryony: I would, but we’re just pulling into fucking Swindon. Love you guys, feel better.
My relief was so overwhelming I forgot all about telling them where I was. I barely knew where I was myself. Okay, I’d acted like an idiot over Ross. But at least he wasn’t Bryony’s boyfriend any more; at least the only person I’d betrayed and let down had been myself. My head felt as light as a balloon, as if it was going to float right off my body and out of the window into the bright morning.