Chapter 6
Lara
In the beginning, not everyone in town has your best interests at heart.
But it’s worth looking beyond what’s obvious!
Nat: You slept in his room? A complete stranger’s room? Who are you, and what have you done to our friend? And why didn’t you call last night?
Lara: Because Luca would have heard everything? And he’s not a complete stranger; we’re at the same event.
Aria: He still could have been an ax murderer or something.
Aria: Or a handsy gamer lad. That’s more likely in the industry. And creepier.
Nat: Or a mysterious stranger! Is he handsome? Is he nice?
Lara: You called him Mr. Hot back on that platform . . .
Nat: Wait, that’s HIM? So did you just sleep in his room or WITH him?
Aria: Jesus, Nat.
Nat: What? Btw, met a mysterious stranger yesterday too!
Lara: Oh, really? At the disco? Did you bump into him like in a romcom?
Nat: I’m only telling you about him if you tell us more about yesterday!
I slump against the basin with a sigh. There’s nothing to tell, though I’m sure Nat thinks the mere fact that I’m in this room is absurdly exciting.
In all the time we’ve shared our flat, I’ve never brought anyone home with me.
Nat? All the time. Aria? Rarely, but at least she’s been on one or two dates.
But me? No chance! So yeah, the situation is unusual—but probably just unusually unpleasant, that’s all.
Luca seems to feel the same, because I woke up this morning to the quiet click of the door as he snuck out at six thirty.
Something was different about him in this room last night.
I almost burst out laughing at myself. How am I supposed to know if he’s different?
I don’t even know him. And yet, I think it was pretty clear that Luca wished he could have uninvited me.
He wasn’t cold or dismissive or anything, just .
. . not as open as he was during our first encounter or during the drive, and not as excited or sincere as he’d been downstairs by the bar.
I unlock my mobile; the screen had gone dark again.
Lara: There’s nothing to tell. My room was flooded, and I couldn’t stay there. He happened to overhear and offered to let me spend the night in his room. We both did some work, went to sleep—that’s all. Tomorrow we’ll be parting ways again.
Nat: After beating him today!
Aria: This is so romantic though. Is he from London too? I bet he is, if he got on the train there. Maybe you won’t have to go separate ways . . .
Nat: Aria’s doodling a heart with your names in it on a notepad right now.
Nat: By the way, they’re the same length and end on the same letter. Kind of romantic, if I’m honest. Makes it harder to think of a ship name, though.
Aria: Larca works.
Lara: You have issues. Both of you.
Nat: And we love you lots. Good luck, and keep us posted.
Aria: I googled. You can find him under “Luca” and “GameChanger.” Luca Brown—and he really is from London. Hah!
Shaking my head, I close the chat, switch to my playlist, and start getting ready.
I’m looking much more awake than I have these past few days.
No wonder, what with that mattress and the ridiculously soft pillows.
No bags under my eyes, just a rosy glow to my skin, and for a change, said skin has not decided to grace me with a pimple on my nose right on time for an important appointment.
A few dabs of concealer, lipstick, and mascara later, I’m feeling almost comfortable with myself.
Almost. Until I inevitably catch a glimpse of my skin as I’m changing.
A glimpse of the skin on my arms and legs in a range of pinks that never quite match.
The surgeons tried their best, gave satisfied nods and complimented their own work.
But though they were trying to put the old me back together bit by bit, it sometimes feels like I lost some important parts of myself from that time before.
And I have no idea how to pull them back to me over that invisible threshold.
It’s not just the sight that bothers me.
In spite of everything, my skin reminds me of how lucky I was.
It’s the memories attached to the image.
That feeling of being unable to breathe.
The smell. The fire may have been put out long ago, but my fear is still there, smoldering.
It still lives inside me, whisking me away with the faintest whiff of barbecue in London parks.
Even now, years later, my chest tightens at the thought of what happened, and a lump forms in my throat.
Sometimes I wish I could meet the version of myself who didn’t go through all of that.
Who wasn’t saved by firefighters at the last second, who didn’t have to lie there in the hospital, undergoing surgery after surgery.
Who doesn’t have to see the guilt in her parents’ eyes because they were at the autumn market that night.
What would the version of myself be like who wasn’t bullied for her looks for years?
Would she wear skimpy outfits like Nataly with an admirable level of confidence?
Would she like what she saw in the mirror?
Would she be open and extroverted, because she hadn’t isolated herself to avoid the staring and the whispers?
It’s been years since I was last bullied. But nastiness has an unfortunate tendency to stick like it’s the truth. It feels like it’s a part of me, though I know it was imposed on me from the outside. But how the hell do you manage to shake that sort of feeling?
I avert my eyes, because I can’t allow myself to spiral, not this close to my presentation.
I pull my thin surgical sleeves down over my arms. I don’t really need them when I’m wearing long-sleeved shirts; I usually wear them as UV protection in warmer temperatures.
But I don’t want my jumper to slip the way it did on the train yesterday and distract me from my presentation.
I pull on a wine-red jumper that Nat packed for me, and I pair it with a flared plaid skirt and over-the-knee socks that just barely leave the tattoo on my thigh legible.
For a moment, I entertain the idea of wearing something more respectable, maybe trousers and a blouse, to impress the judges.
Something that won’t give that creepy tosser from yesterday any more fodder.
Clothes to go with the posh mansion, not downtown London, where no one cares what you’re wearing anyway.
But Nat lectured me on how much better I would feel if I didn’t dress up—and, as usual, she’s right.
I comb my hair and pin back the strands in the front with two clips. Done.
“You’ve got this,” I murmur to my reflection, who doesn’t quite seem to believe me.
I consider running through the presentation one last time, but I already know it by heart, despite having had so little time to prepare.
So instead, I grab my mobile and my key card and head down to breakfast. According to my phone, it’s just before seven, and with any luck, I’ll make it down there before the big rush.
Yesterday’s short first impression, by way of the man in the black video game T-shirt, was enough for me.
I descend the steps into the lobby, my footfalls muffled by the red rug. At the bottom, I follow the signs to the breakfast room, but after only a few feet, I no longer need them, as the heavenly scent of fresh waffles tickles my nose and my stomach starts to rumble.
“Hello, your name please.”
“Lara Anderson,” I reply, returning the gray-haired man’s smile. He makes a check mark on his list and nods contentedly.
“Lovely to have you, Ms. Anderson; it’s an honor. The breakfast room is straight ahead, buffet on the left. Our waffle and pancake station is there, on the right. For any vegan options, just let us know.”
“Thanks!” I reply, slightly floored. I’ve only been on one business trip before. Aria and I shared a room, and breakfast consisted of toast and baked beans. This is quite the upgrade.
First, I take a look around the breakfast room, which is, in fact, still pleasantly quiet.
Here, magnificent chandeliers are trying to outshine the first rays of sunlight, and the round dining tables are covered in white tablecloths draped nearly to the floor.
There are chairs with golden upholstery assembled around each table—echoing the same color in the ceiling and the ornaments on the walls.
In the middle of all this intimidating interior decoration, I recognize a head of dark-brown hair.
Luca’s sitting at a table in front of a wall decorated with plants, and he looks up the exact moment I walk in.
My heart skips a beat, and my jumper suddenly feels uncomfortably warm.
Luca, on the other hand, seems unruffled.
All of this probably doesn’t bother him in the slightest, but I still can’t shake the feeling that there’s some kind of tension between us.
Or maybe I’m just overthinking again. I wave, approaching slowly, and to my relief, he indicates the seat across from him with a nod.
“Good morning,” he says once I’ve reached him and plopped down in my seat. His voice is even lower than usual, as if he hasn’t spoken yet today.
“Morning,” I reply. My voice is as low and scratchy as it always is, and I wish I didn’t have to speak today.
“Sleep well?”
“Way too well. It was so quiet.” I stop myself from mentioning the divine mattress, because I still feel bad about the sofa. “How about you?”
He inclines his head. “I slept, which is progress, considering the last few days. Ready for today?”
“In theory? Yes. In practice?” I laugh, and unfortunately, I sound as tense as I feel.
Everything here just reminds me that I don’t belong.
The napkin in front of me is thick and embroidered with golden letters, the cutlery looks expensive, and even the silence feels posh, because everywhere in London is loud and frenzied.
Luca has no encouraging words for me, the way my friends would have had.
He only nods. “Same.” For a moment, it seems like he’s about to add something, but then he closes his mouth again.
Maybe it really is the nerves making him tight-lipped, and this isn’t about me.
Despite everything on today’s agenda, that thought is a bit of a relief.
“Have you tried the waffles yet?” I ask to keep the conversation going.
It’s silly, but I find that I want things to be all right between us.
I convince myself that it’s just because we’ll be crossing paths now and then at events, but if I’m honest, I know it’s more than that.
I want the version of Luca from our ride here back.
The one who tells me stories from his school days and takes my mind off things.
Luca shakes his head and points at his cup. “Only had coffee so far. No idea if I’ll be able to eat anything.”
“If you’re nervous, a liquid breakfast of pure caffeine is the smart option, of course,” I tease him, and to my surprise, he smiles. It makes his dark eyes sparkle and my throat strangely dry.
“You’ve got a point there. I’ll go get some. You coming?”
I nod, and together we make our way over to the waffle station, where I don’t have to wait long for my vegan waffles, thanks to the nearly empty room.
After garnishing them with applesauce and strawberries, I order a coffee—although coffee is just as bad an idea for me.
I post a photo to the group chat, because I know Nat would never let me live it down if I didn’t, and I return to my seat with a happy little sigh.
“I could get used to this,” I say after the first bite. Dangerously tasty, as expected.
“Ditto.”
“I reckon both of us have to get through to round two then,” I tell him, and I can almost watch the light leave Luca’s eyes. He nods, but he doesn’t seem all that convinced. Does he think his chances are bad?
“You’ve got this! Yesterday you told me that you’re developing the best horror game of all time.”
“Tell me about your game,” he replies instead of responding to my pep talk.
“Well, Novel Haven is an indie simulator game inspired by the sixteen-bit era, so retro pixel art . . .” I stop because I realize I’m starting to rattle off my presentation, and I clear my throat.
“It’s great. My boss Sophia is a book nerd, so she really wanted to develop a game that’s about literature.
But it’s so much more too. There are loads of different characters in Novel Haven, and they’re all really multifaceted, which you discover as the game goes on.
The main character moves into an old lighthouse that she inherited, which used to be a bookshop, but it hasn’t been used in years.
She decides to reopen a bookshop there, but there’s lots of work to do . . .”
I barely register that I’ve lowered my fork and have started to wave my hands around, gesticulating wildly. I’m getting lost in the story—as usual with the game. And there it is again, that smile on Luca’s face, and that treacherous tugging sensation in my stomach.