Chapter 7
7
“I knew this wasn’t going to end well...”
I pry my sleep-crusted eyes open to locate the source of the voice above me. Yemi is looming above my bed with crossed arms and a frost-covered bag of peas hanging from her hand.
“I didn’t think they’d end up physically injuring each other this early on,” replies Alice from down near my ankle with a concerned look on her freckled face. The bed creaks as I sit up, bending my leg to inspect the swelling. It’s turned from pink to purple since I last looked at it but at least the swelling has gone down.
“It was just me who got hurt,” I confirm in a gravelly voice, rubbing my face in an attempt to wipe my brain clean of this morning. “What time is it?”
I look out of the window at the late-morning sunlight streaming through the blinds; I must have only been asleep a couple of hours.
“Oh my God, what did he do to you?” Alice asks, mouth agape, eyes darting in question between Yemi and me.
“ He didn’t do anything.” I sigh, wincing at my ankle. “The headline is: I fell; he carried me down the hill and then into his apartment; it was humiliating.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have a bag of frozen vegetables for your pride,” Yemi consoles me, trying and failing to hide a smile as she places the bag on my ankle.
Instinctively, I reach for my phone to check my emails and watch the spinning loop as the inbox refreshes. Sometimes, when I close my eyes I can still see the little circle going round and round, like my thoughts loading for the next day’s long list of inane tasks. As usual, there are a bunch of emails from Susie, a few cc’s from various colleagues, a newsletter from AdWeek and...
ERIC BANCROFT MADE EDITS IN THE FOLLOWING DOCUMENT:
“DITTO PROJECT REPORTING. ”
My stomach drops. Whatever he has written can be seen by anyone who has access—including Mr. Catcher. My ankle throbs as I drag my laptop out from my bag at the side of the bed, flinging it open and frantically clicking through.
I enjoyed participating in this experience:
Disagree.
Additional comments:
The trail is not for unserious people or those who do limited exercise.
So much for waiting for me to heal so I can be a worthy opponent.
My mind clings to the photos in his apartment. What if he planted them when I wasn’t looking with the intention to throw me off my game? I mean, they were right there, sticking out of the top of a coffee-table book, almost too conveniently located.
He doesn’t think about me at all. That’s what he said on the trail. A single strip of pictures doesn’t change anything; the person who put them in the book is also the person who is willing to throw me under a bus for a promotion. If I want to win this job, I need to be cool, calm and collected. Serious. The exact opposite of a person who freaks out about one set of planted photographs or replays overheard words over and over until they shred into mental confetti. Perversely, I need to be more like Bancroft if this is going to work.
My fingers slam against the keyboard as I type:
If one user lacks empathy or is more self-involved than the other, the hiking-trail date package has the potential to be disastrous.
Alice joins me on the bed with a bounce and cartoonishly swoons onto the pillows. “So you went on a date with one of the most desired men in London, twisted your ankle like a fragile maiden and he carried you down a hill? Explain to me how this isn’t the romcom dream?”
I rub my face, trying to think in full sentences. “Because even if he is as desirable as Societeur Magazine claims, he’s only ‘desired’ by people who haven’t had the displeasure of spending time with him.”
“Also, because in a romcom the love interest isn’t the man who calls you a clingy psycho to his colleagues!” Yemi says. “Shit, sorry.” She winces at me.
“No, you’re right.” I sigh.
For my own sanity, I’ve been pushing down thoughts of exactly how our friendship ended six months ago. Even Bancroft doesn’t know the real reason things ended so badly. He thinks it’s because of what happened at the Catch Group Christmas party; he has no idea it was three days later.
I was a mess at the Christmas party so I was going to apologize. When I got to his office door it was ajar and I could hear him talking to someone. I assumed he was in a meeting until I heard my name.
Hastings is a clingy psycho... She’s not worth going there, not even for a quick shag. That kind of desperation isn’t hot. It’s just pathetic.
He tried to talk to me a couple of days later, but I just froze him out. It was too much; I was already dealing with the fallout from William and I simply couldn’t handle any more confrontation. Two weeks later, after he caught me alone, some choice words were said and he stopped trying.
“It’s his loss.” Yemi smiles softly, as though she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
Alice stands up with vigor. “OK, you have to beat this fucker.” She flings open my wardrobe. “And I’m going to find you a killer outfit for the next date.”
Yemi nods. “You’re in charge of what you’re doing for the next one, right?”
I nod my head in confirmation.
“OK, where is it?” asks Alice, pushing clothes from one side of my rail to the other.
“A cooking class at that restaurant we went to, El Turo? But I’ve barely got any time to organize it.”
To counter Bancroft’s contacts from big firms and global companies, I’ve been thinking my pitch should have an angle of local businesses and bespoke dates. Working to create unique, intimate experiences with amazing independent brands and companies, instead of with giant cookie-cutter companies that Bancroft will be talking to, might give me the edge I need to win this promotion.
“Babe, you haven’t been on a real first date in literally years ,” declares Alice. “Even though it’s Eric Bancroft, you should consider these dates, like, practice!”
“Immersion therapy,” Yemi adds with a serious face. “Going on a date with a dickhead will give you the experience you need to handle any future date.”
Alice pulls a dress out of my wardrobe: a plunging seventies-style fire-engine-red minidress I bought from a small vintage stall at a market when I first arrived in London. A purchase made with the assumption that William and I would be living life to the fullest in the city, instead of me being too exhausted from work to ever go out, and him continually expressing his dislike of me going out without him.
I shake my head. “Cute but not appropriate for a cooking class. They said long sleeves.”
Alice continues her excavation of my clothing until she drags a dress from the very back and holds it out to me.
The black velvet dress swings back and forth for a few seconds before Yemi yanks it off the hanger and quietly tells Alice, “Not this one. That’s the dress.”
“Oh shit.” Alice sighs. “Sorry, babe.”
“It’s fine!” I blurt out. They both look at me with puppy-dog eyes. “Guys, it’s literally fine. It’s just a dress...”
I run my fingers over the soft fabric. I spent a lot of money on this dress. I wore it for a couple of hours before it was tearstained and stuffed in a box with the rest of my clothes when I moved.
“You’re right,” agrees Yemi. “Just a dress.”
“If it’s just a dress”—Alice smiles slyly—“maybe I can do something with it to give it a new identity. You look too good in this for it to die a slow death being eaten by moths on a hanger.” My eyebrows lift as she continues, “I’m just going to tweak it a bit and you’re going to make new memories of looking amazing for your date and locking down your first brand partner for your presentation. Just give me fifteen minutes and you won’t even recognize it.”
My lips curve and I stick my bottom lip out, trying to stop my eyes from getting misty. I’ll admit, gaining an aspiring fashion designer for a flatmate is a huge win.
“You are the actual best.” I sigh. “But for the record, this isn’t a ‘date.’ It’s practically a meeting.”