The Launch Date

Chapter 1

1

I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

I am enough, I belong here, I deserve to be here.

I silently repeat the mantra I saw on Instagram to myself—the latest in the long line of attempts to overcome my sickening self-doubt.

I am enough, I belong here, I deserve—

A cough interrupts me and I look up from the table to see him smirking at me, as if he knows exactly what I’m doing in the privacy of my own head and knows it’s completely futile.

It’s taken me five years of hard work to get where I am now: Marketing Manager for one of the biggest start-ups in London. I wake up every day feeling as though the rug is about to be pulled out from under me, the mask of competency that I’ve been wearing about to melt away, revealing my true shitty self to the whole world. But Eric Bancroft breezes his way through.

My CV is overflowing with every minuscule marketing-based task I’ve ever done, reading like a pharmacy receipt; full of discount offers (will work for 30 percent off!), campaigns for antidepressants and medical-grade hay fever tablets. Bancroft’s entire career history is engraved on the gold signet ring he spins around his finger when he’s bored.

Even now, he just sits there, across from me at the expansive wooden conference-room table, utterly relaxed. Never doubting for one second that he deserves to be here. The fractured London sun flows through the twelfth-floor conference room window over half of his face. It makes almost icy blue eyes so bright he looks as if he could shoot lasers through the frames of the tortoiseshell glasses I’m sure he only wears to make himself look smarter.

I glare at him.

“Grace?”

The sound of my name asked as a question bounces off the echoey white-brick walls. My boss, the legendary Susie Jopling, stares at me expectantly.

“Yes, sorry.” My laptop whirs softly as I pull up the presentation full of my performance and growth figures for the month to project onto the wall. My clammy fingers tap away at the keys as I silently will my heartbeat to calm. “Susie, would you mind just pushing the button to move it along for me? I’ll tell you when...”

I am enough, I belong here, I deserve to be here.

“Late night, Hastings?” Eric Bancroft’s villain-like smirk asks, holding the end of a Catch Group–branded pen between his perfect teeth.

He loves to call me by my last name, as though I’m one of his private school frenemies.

“Some of us actually work late, Bancroft,” I reply with a tight smile, eyes fixed on the screen. A light chuckle from his boss, Dharmash, fills the silence as my eyes adjust to my presentation slides projected on the wall. “Next slide, please.”

With feigned confidence, I clear my throat and smooth down the pink suede lapels of my lucky vintage suit. Not the most sensible choice for a sweltering summer in the city, but this, styled with a pair of expensive-looking secondhand trainers from eBay, tricks everyone into believing I am totally put-together.

I throw my hand out to the first upwardly tilting graph. “As you can see here: Fate has had a fantastic month of user growth. Our latest ‘True Love’ campaign hit the exact target demographic we wanted, our twenty-five-to-thirty-four-year-old user base has increased by seven percent month-on-month, which I’m incredibly pleased with.”

Bancroft leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his navy shirt, no doubt designer. Apparently, a gladiator decides he’s defeated his opponent before they’ve even entered the ring, and Bancroft certainly acts as if he’s already won this month’s Battle of the Graphs.

“Can we see the campaign footage?” Dharmash asks me. “I’d love to see what you guys are doing on the other side of the fence.”

The fence being the metaphorical separation between the infamously polar opposite companies of the Catch Group office: Fate and Ignite, carved into two distinct spaces separated by a floor in the CG high-rise. The remaining ten floors are inhabited by the tech company’s various other gaming apps, streaming services and social media platforms. When I started working at Fate, I didn’t understand why the company’s two premier dating apps were put on different floors, but now I thank the office-floorplan gods that I don’t have to run into Eric Bancroft on a daily basis.

“It’s on the next slide. Susie?” I look over at Susie, who is engrossed in her phone. Heat rising in my cheeks, I go over to the laptop and hit the play button, trying to refocus my attention as soft, twinkly music plays and footage focuses on two people on a garden porch. A stunning man and woman with clasped hands surrounded by blooming bushes of pink roses, to be precise.

“I never liked the idea of using a dating app to find true love, but I’m so glad I took a chance on Fate.” The handsome man in his late twenties is talking to someone behind the camera while taking brief glances at the beautiful woman clinging to his muscled arm with a massive rock sitting on her manicured finger.

“I tried other dating apps, but I never knew who was looking for a real relationship and who was just looking for a quick hook-up,” the woman adds. “Fate helped us find each other in a sea of unserious daters.”

She kisses the man on the cheek, and he smiles down at her. I try not to let the cringe show on my face.

I’ve watched this video a hundred times over, making sure every frame is a perfect depiction of a successful Fate-branded love story. A year ago, I would have been fooled by this, but now this sappy brand of “true love” makes me want to gag and rage and cry all at the same time.

Ever since William broke up with me, the idea of finding a true love match seems like a pipe dream, made up with the sole purpose of earning downloads and selling subscription packages. Fate is a monotonous machine of my own making, spitting out cookie-cutter promises through rose-tinted screens to trick users into hoping for their true love story. I spend most of my days curating new ways to package a concept I no longer believe in: breath-catching, life-altering, loneliness-ending romance.

The video concludes with one final musical flourish, and I resume my presentation.

“In addition to these results, starting this evening Susie is hosting a series of panel talks discussing various topics of life, love and careers to onboard high-profile, serious users to ensure Fate’s offering is, as always, the best in the city.”

Despite Susie’s reluctance to give me any positive feedback, it’s thanks to events like these that Fate is steadily becoming the number-one dating app for women and men who are looking for classic, fairy-tale love. Unfortunately, Fate’s growth rate is more than often overshadowed by Ignite’s “swipe first, ask questions later” marketing strategy. I understand why people use their app: it’s simple and uncomplicated. But it’s the furthest thing from what I want; I’ve never been able to play it cool and do the “casual” thing. Unlike some people in this room, I haven’t got the constitution to jump from person to person like trying out new desserts on a menu; I’d rather accept that I’ll be on my own.

I glance at Bancroft, catching his eyes for a heartbeat before they flick back to the screen. He’s clearly plotting his taunts for after this meeting. Shit, I should prepare something too. For the past six months, I’ve spent so much time thinking about him just to try and maintain the upper hand. It didn’t use to be like this; we used to be friends. Which is how he knows just where to hit me and make it hurt. Our relative positions have always added an edge of rivalry to our interactions, but now he makes sure his jabs sting for days. Friendly banter turned into a sour visceral taste in the back of my throat. Bancroft runs a long finger across my painstakingly formatted page of growth figures and sighs contentedly. I’ll bet he’s mentally checking the figures against his own. My skin goes hot and clammy as I realize he’s won this month’s battle for marketing dominance.

“No, darling, you’ve got that wrong,” Susie chimes in, a patronizing laugh in her tone pulling me back to the room in front of me. “ You’re hosting the panels; I don’t have time for that.”

“Oh, OK.” I scramble, letting out a breathy laugh and tucking my copper curls behind my ear. “I guess I can make that work...” I trail off as I think of the barren wasteland that is the post–6 p.m. section of my Google Calendar. I shouldn’t be surprised that Susie is making me cover for her: it’s become the norm over the past few years. When I asked if Fate was offering any internships, she took a chance on me. When Fate was bought by Martin Catcher for a bazillion pounds and brought under the Catch Group umbrella, Susie stayed on as the recognizable Girlboss? figurehead to run the day-to-day. She insisted her core team, including me, retain their current positions.

She is responsible for any and all of my career growth, and she never forgets to remind me of this fact. I’m grateful to her, but ever since Fate was bought out I feel like I’m constantly stepping over trapdoors and she holds the lever.

“It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do, no?” Susie asks.

A rush of hot shame shoots through my veins, heading straight to my pounding chest. Why did she have to say it like that? It’s true—but she doesn’t need to showcase my utter lack of a life in front of everyone like a circus attraction. Come and look at the Lonely Woman, she markets love for a living but has absolutely no romantic prospects!

“Ummm, not tonight. No.” My face feels freshly sunburnt. I move to sit back down, avoiding eye contact with the now doubly victorious smirk I know is waiting for me on the other side of the table. Loser in work, loser in life. Why does this sort of thing never happen to him ? Probably because his boss actually respects his time. Bancroft will never experience this; he has been worshipped at Ignite from the moment he was handed this role on a silver platter.

He stands up to present, running a hand through his sandy hair and commanding the room with majestic ease, without needing to say a word. He stands directly behind me, meaning I have to turn my chair 180 degrees to bear witness to his inevitable victory. He’s tall, probably one of the tallest men in the company, but it’s his inherited aura of utter belongingness that forces everyone to shut up and listen before he has even spoken. He looks down at me and uses his eyebrows to gesture that I move.

Get out of the way—the person who actually belongs is here.

I bite the sides of my mouth and push the soles of my feet against the dull carpet, rolling my squeaky wheels across the floor.

“Our objective this month was to boost user acquisition, something we’ve achieved with ease thanks to a variety of successful projects.” He clicks a black button to move his presentation to the next slide.

I look around. Where did he get a remote from? Did he bring that from home or was it always here? No one else seems fazed by it; frankly, they probably haven’t even noticed.

“Our mixed-media approach has been integral to the success of our current campaigns. Unlike some of our competitors, who prefer their marketing to stay stuck in the past, we’re utilizing AI and VR to reiterate our USP.”

He continues on like this for another five minutes, vomiting corporate jargon that I’m sure everyone is only nodding along to so they don’t look stupid for not knowing what on earth he is talking about. The most annoying thing is, he doesn’t need to do all this. It’s not expected of him. He is a face, a brand, a legacy. A white smile and designer hair for users to desire or aspire to. To be him or to fuck him. Yet every month he walks into this room and tries, sometimes succeeding, to win.

It’s as if he gets some sort of sick pleasure from entering the ring with me.

As the meeting comes to a close I keep my eyes glued to my phone and head to the door. If I’m being honest I did this to myself, enjoying the months I won way too much, spending the next few days gloating, rubbing it in his face and taking disproportionate levels of pleasure in his loss. I set the tone for this rivalry a long time ago and now there’s no way out of it. Yes, the time I sent a “World’s Biggest Loser” ice-cream cake to his office may have gone a bit too far. It is entirely possible that it was my actions that created a creature whose sole purpose is to destroy me. My very own six-foot-three, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, fake-glasses-wearing Frankenstein’s Monster.

“That’s two months in a row I’ve beaten your growth numbers, Hastings. You’re losing your touch,” he said, lifting his chin and sticking his full bottom lip out in a sarcastic pout.

I want to take that lip in my fingers and tug it off his smug mouth.

“The only thing I’m losing is my patience with this conversation.” I spin on my heel and walk away, making sure my hips sway a bit more than usual as I leave the meeting room.

Bancroft follows me toward the shiny lift at the other end of the hallway. It’s difficult to do a good storm off down a tight corridor with a large annoying man taking up most of the space.

“If you’re struggling, I’d be happy to help out. Give you some...” He tilts his head, scanning me up and down. “... tips.”

I roll my eyes and suck my teeth while staring at the permanent smirk plastered on his face. He should trademark this look: the Permasmirk, for only the most entitled London pricks. The Permasmirk, no doubt inherited from his notorious father, has been the key to opening doors that I didn’t even know existed.

“Thank you so much, O wise one. I’ll be sure to get in touch next time I need to throw a rager to get drunk freshers to sign up for Fate. My app is for people who want to find someone of worth, someone who is serious about true love.”

“Oh, so... should you be running the marketing then?” Bancroft retorts with a pouted lip.

I tilt my head to the side and shoot him an incredulous look, unable to come up with a retort fast enough.

He backtracks, realizing he’s overstepped the invisible line. “Come on, Hastings. You don’t believe in this fairy-tale bullshit.”

I’ve managed to keep up the facade with most people, so I hate that he can tell my feelings have slowly been souring. “Of course I do. I love love.”

He scans me with a laser focus, analysing my declaration before rolling his eyes. “Please, don’t insult me. I know you better than that.”

“You don’t know anything about me. Sorry, but I don’t want to just go home with everyone I meet and never see them again.”

Slut shaming—not my classiest move but always an easy insult and deflection against Societeur Magazine ’s Bachelor of the Year.

“Ignite profiles are full of men who refer to women as ‘females’ or want someone who ‘doesn’t take herself too seriously,’” I continue. “Translation: ‘Don’t take yourself seriously, because I never will.’ Face it, your app doesn’t respect women.”

“And that’s what Fate is doing? Respecting women? Are you respecting that women might want something other than The One?”

I let out a huff, knowing he’s right but too pissed off to admit it. Instead, I say, “You sound like an after-school special. Do you ever even get past date number one, or do the women you date manage to look past your personality to stick around for the press?”

“First dates are better than no dates at all. Or has Susie finally allowed you to find time in your schedule to go on one? I hope you’re getting credit for being single and sexless for the rest of your life.” His eyes roll as if that would be his worst nightmare.

“Not everything is about gaining credit. It’s about gaining favor. Something you’ve never had to work for!” Sensing our bosses catching up with us, I lower my voice for my closing argument. “Go back down to your floor, Wankcroft, or ideally to hell.”

A look of disappointment washes over his face as he presses the elevator call button, but it’s gone in a flash, replaced with the usual cool composure. The lift dings as it arrives to take him down to the Ignite office, a floor below Fate’s.

“Fine, I will,” he relents, stepping into the silver room. The lights from the lift cover him in an angelic glow as he waits for me to join him, but there is no way I’m sharing a confined space with him. Not for one second.

“Good. Tell the rest of the demons I said hi.” I smile, waving him off with a brief feeling of pride at getting in the last word.

In a previous life, we were able to sit in a room together without glowering icy stares in computer screen light and rolling eyes over break-room coffee. We used to be cordial colleagues, workmates, peers. We used to be friends. Now, we act like rivals on a battlefield, waiting for the other to make the first antagonistic move of the day, setting off our cycle of slights, jabs and cuts. We pretend this is how it’s always been between us. We pretend that talking every day for a year never happened. We pretend a lot of things never happened.

“It’s OK, Hastings. I’ll keep your secret.” Bancroft gives me that smirk one final time as he presses his floor number. “But I think we both know... you enjoy being on top of me all day.” The elevator doors push together, and I am left with cheeks flaming.

It’s pure pissed-off-edness seeping from my pores. At him, at Susie, but mostly at myself. Even when we used to be friends, he was always faster than me. A childhood surrounded by accomplished industry titans and a private school education will do that to you. Now, he exclusively uses said quickness to charm others or leave me flustered and scrambling for words.

I’m pissed off at myself for not trying harder to beat him; I should be doing more to prove I can win. Maybe if I had a square jawline, a playboy reputation and Daddy’s money I could be as laid-back about my job as he is.

Remembering the impending panel talk, I frantically press the call button so I can head to my office to spend the next hour learning everything I can about tonight’s panelists. It shouldn’t be too hard, considering I organized the entire event, but buzzing nerves are taking up more and more space in my brain with each passing minute. My stomach churns at the thought of presenting to one hundred of London’s most eligible single women. Fate users are confident, successful high achievers, usually with their own businesses or very senior positions at the top companies in the city. It would make far more sense for Susie to be presenting tonight; she belongs up on stage in front of those women. She’s a tech titan who, in her heyday, graced the covers of magazines and had millions flocking to her TED Talks about female empowerment. I’m not even qualified to be in the room. Stepping into the lift, I close my eyes, and take three long, deep breaths.

I am enough, I belong here, I fucking deserve to be here.