Chapter 1
? Story opens in city
I knew the table would be sticky, but I rested my forehead on it
anyway.
‘The absolute fucker.’
Elle’s instant summation took me by surprise – especially since I’d only given her a ten-word overview (I-slept-with-Billy-but-haven’t-heard-from-him-since) of my predicament – but I couldn’t deny its accuracy.
I cocked my head to the side and looked up at her out of one eye.
‘Huh, don’t hold back, Elle.’
‘Sorry, Mally, but I just can’t believe it. I thought he was one of the good ones.’
‘I know, right? But apparently not. I can’t figure out what the hell I’ve done wrong this time.’
I peeled my face off the surface and took my time dragging my wine glass towards me to avoid Elle’s commiserative gaze for as long as possible.
I drained the liquid slowly but determinedly as her anti-Billy castigation continued.
I’d been relying on Elle’s venomous take to exorcise any remaining fondness I had for him, and I hadn’t been disappointed so far.
‘Elle?’
‘Mmm?’
‘We’re going to need more alcohol.’
‘On it.’
Elle called over the waitress in Val Taro, our favourite West End wine bar that was possibly the only undiscovered drinking hole left in this corner of London’s theatreland.
It was handily located in the basement underneath our office on Orange Street, a narrow and distinctly un-orange road between Trafalgar Square and Leicester Square.
Setting the world to rights in here after a rough day of office politics always made me feel like my life had morphed into an episode of Ugly Betty . Albeit without the chaotic yet loving family waiting for me at home.
We were sitting in our usual discreet spot – tucked away yet with our seats on the small, circular table angled outwards so we could keep an eye on new arrivals and ensure we weren’t overheard by any mutual colleagues.
The walls behind us were adorned with Blu-Tacked theatre posters, curly-cornered wine charts and vintage Campari mirrors.
Dusty strands of fairy lights were strung around the bar as a reluctant nod to the time of year.
‘Hey, can we get another bottle, and two carbonaras?’ Elle asked.
I’d been about to order a pizza. But with the wine – and Elle – in full flow, I knew there was no point in objecting.
The Italian waitress of the family-run business smiled and nodded, placing a shallow wooden bowl on the table containing some odds and ends of crisps. I smiled back at her and passed her my unopened menu while Elle continued talking.
‘I mean, I could see you were getting close to him, but I didn’t want to say anything as I knew that would’ve freaked you out. It seemed like it was all happening naturally.’
‘That’s how it felt, too.’
The ease with which Billy and I had hit it off had felt like a big deal, since the only other thing that seemed to come naturally to me was watching telly from a horizontal position.
‘Right, you need to tell me absolutely everything, right from the start. Then we can strategise.’
It took three hours (and the same number of wine bottles) to tell Elle about the office romance that had been bubbling away between me and Billy over the past few months.
I divulged every detail Elle asked for. How, after he’d joined The Helix – where Elle and I both worked – it’d started off with Billy and I sharing awful puns over Slack and had ended in a day-long pub crawl around the cosy drinking holes of Greenwich on Saturday.
It’d been a nippy, zips-up day that had turned into a tipsy, toes-touching dinner, followed by a ‘nightcap’ at mine…
and a swift breakfast the next morning before he had to leave for the airport to fly to his cousin’s wedding.
I concluded my tale of woe with the visual agony of those two blue ticks that had tormented me for three days now.
Three agonising days in which that floaty yet ever-so-slightly nauseating feeling of possibility had mutated into its ugly opposite: pure, all-consuming self-pity…
and one actual anxiety vomit. Three days’ worth of tears that my favourite custard cream-shaped cushion had dutifully absorbed as I filled my brain with predictable yet comforting made-for-TV Christmas movies.
Three days since I’d enquired via WhatsApp as to whether Billy had managed to source caffeine before his early-afternoon flight, since we’d run out of time for coffee back at mine.
‘Run out of time, eh?’ Elle topped up my wine glass and pushed it towards me. She was enjoying this way too much for my liking. Even back at school, she’d always gotten a kick out of taking the piss out of me. ‘So, you sent him that message about coffee and then… nothing since?’
‘Yup.’
‘This feels off to me. Give me your phone.’
I hated it when she did this. The last time she’d got her hands on it she’d sent my brother Josh an offensive GIF that had ripped the piss out of his dedication to veganism. I’d managed to administer a swift deletion, but not before he’d seen it.
After twenty-five years of friendship, I was used to mopping up the messes Elle tended to leave in her wake.
She’d always been the confident one who courted attention, and these days loved nothing more than gossiping in the office kitchen with her cliquey underlings in the editorial features team.
I, meanwhile, loved nothing more than escaping to the work loos for some alone time every now and then to take a break from my busy internal comms role.
Elle had put me forward for the job a year or so after she’d joined The Helix .
Being invited for a selection day at one of the world’s leading online publishing companies – when I hadn’t even applied for the position – had been a unique experience, that’s for sure.
Especially since my limited digital presence meant I didn’t have a clue what half the interview questions had been about.
But, apparently, my ‘obvious lack of journalistic ambition’ – as referenced in my formal job offer – had worked in my favour in the end.
They’d wanted someone who was focused on the corporate duties outlined in the job description, not distracted by the lure of a ruthless editorial career.
Working with Elle had never been the plan after uni. In fact, I’d always intended to carve out my own path, bit by bit. But, in fairness to her, I was now on a much bigger salary than before. I owed her a lot.
I handed over my phone, metaphorical mop at the ready. Elle unlocked it and fired up WhatsApp, quickly finding the last message in the conversation with Billy:
Mally:
Has that flat white been acquired? xx
She started scrolling upwards.
‘Elle, come on – that’s private.’
I held out my hand to get it back, but instead she rolled her eyes and shut down WhatsApp before swiping through my paltry collection of apps. Defeated, my hand reached for my wine glass instead.
‘You know,’ Elle said, ‘it would take me like two minutes to set you up with a Hinge profile. I can do it right now if I could just figure out how to download apps on this piece of junk…’
My choice of mobile phone – a basic pay-as-you-go model from Argos and the cheapest smartphone in whatever the digital equivalent of their iconic paper catalogue was these days – was always a source of amusement to anyone who noticed it.
Yes, it was clunky, but it ran all the apps I needed.
And a dating app certainly didn’t fall into that category.
I reeled off my pre-rehearsed answer whenever this subject came up.
‘I can’t be arsed with it, Elle. The blokes on there are mainly on the prowl for one-night stands.
And the ones who claim to be “open-minded” tend to dismiss anything you care about while trying to frame it as an “intellectual debate”.
’ My over-exuberant air quotes brushed the wine glass and it started to topple. Elle swooped in to save it.
‘That’s a literal summary of all our male colleagues,’ she said, moving my glass out of harm’s way.
Except Billy. Or maybe I’d been wrong about him all along.
It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d scared a bloke off by – as one ex had succinctly summarised – ‘expecting too much, too soon’.
Although, in his case, it’d been my quite reasonable suggestion that I leave a mini tube of Sensodyne toothpaste at his place that had sent him running for the hills.
‘C’mon, Elle, let me have my phone back.’
She sighed and skidded my phone along the table towards me.
‘And he didn’t say anything about doing a digital detox while he was away or anything like that?’ she asked.
‘Nope, in fact…’
I looked down at the screen to review its tortuous insights.
‘…yup, look – he’s online right now. And only a couple of hours ago he posted a Reel of himself with one of those ironic unicorn inflatables.
Argh, what am I even saying?’ I briefly re-introduced my forehead to the tacky table – it really could do with some Purdy & Figg.
‘I don’t want to spend my spare time obsessing over the online exploits of a man who’s treated me like shit.
I’m thirty-eight years old, for fuck’s sake – I shouldn’t be reduced to this!
I just want to meet someone, Elle. Someone who I can meet at home after work and binge-watch telly with. Is that really too much to ask for?’
‘Strong life goals there, Mally.’
‘Oof, you know what I mean. I want to connect with someone who… gets me. Like what you and Rory have.’
Talking about relationships and the deep connections I craved didn’t come easily to me, unless I was pouring everything out in one of my emails to my younger sister, Livvie.
Elle was the opposite. Back at school, our conversations had revolved around her latest crushes – yes, plural – and seemingly endless love-life dilemmas.
Finding a life partner was less of a mission for her and more of a YO!
Sushi-esque conveyor belt of blokes, practically begging for her to select them.