Chapter 10
10
“Well, I’ve never eaten dinner with someone who committed a knife crime against me, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.” Bancroft’s face is shadowed by the street lamps outside, the contrast across his skin highlights his sharp cheekbones and squared-off jaw. I scoff as I look up at him, but then, guilt-ridden, my eyes flick to the hole in the cashmere.
I scratch the back of my head and wince. “I really am sorry about it. I didn’t mean to. How’s your stomach?”
He lifts his jumper to reveal the square white bandage on his abdomen for inspection. “A flesh wound. You’ll have to try harder than that if you actually want to kill me.”
My mouth twitches into a smile as we wave goodbye to the rest of the class. The couple next to us brush up close and entangle arms over each other’s shoulders as they walk down the dimmed pavement.
We walk in silence. The only sound is the rustling of the leaves from the gated residential park across the road and cars driving faintly in the distance. My hands grip my workbag in front of me while his hold the lukewarm brown takeaway box containing our pasta. There is less awkwardness than our last “date,” but when my mind drifts all I can think about is the hidden strip of photographs of us on his coffee table, and then all I can think about is the harsh sound of his voice as he said those things about me all those months ago. But then there are times, like when I twisted my ankle on the trail, when he looked at me with the eyes of someone who genuinely cares. I can’t decide which version of him is real.
Behind me, I register the scuff of shoes against the pavement and realize Bancroft is no longer walking beside me on the quiet, sleepy road.
Despite myself, I follow him over the road toward a private residential garden fenced off from the public by tall black gates with ornate spiked ends.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a strangled whisper, whipping my head both ways down the street to check for onlookers.
“We need somewhere to eat our expertly crafted meal.”
He grips the top of the iron bars, just higher than his head, and pulls himself up until his knees can balance against a horizontal ledge running against the top. He twists his torso and drops down over the bars in a swift movement before catching me staring. “Coming?”
“We’re not allowed to go in there!”
My stomach churns at the idea of getting in trouble. But even as I’m protesting, I’m picking up the takeaway box he left resting on the sign that states “Residents access only” and angling it through the bars.
Bancroft leans his arms above him against the bars, his triceps pressed across the black metal as he smirks at me. “Sometimes, Hastings, it’s better if you don’t wait for permission. You’ve just got to grab an opportunity when it presents itself.”
I don’t reply, instead peeking around his body to see a beautiful moonlit garden filled with white wisteria. He shoves against the black iron entrance gate until it creaks open just enough for me to squeeze under the clinking chain through the gap.
The scent of freshly cut grass, warm earth and sweet florals fill the night air as we leisurely pace around the garden toward one of the wooden benches surrounded by sparkling festoon lights. I make a mental note to ask Chef Giada about this place. It would be so romantic to come in here to bask in the private tranquillity away from the city and eat the delicious food from the cooking class. The old bench creaks slightly as we sit and open up the takeaway box, breathing in the smell of freshly made pasta and rich garlic.
My phone dings and I pull it out of my jacket pocket to see a text from Susie. I grimace.
“What?”
“Susie wants a proposal sent to her for a meeting first thing tomorrow.”
He knots his brows. “So, it’s her meeting... but you’re doing the proposal?”
“Yeah...” I wrench out, running a hand through my hair and letting the artificial glow of the phone screen burn into my brain. I drop my phone back into my bag. “I’ll reply later. I’m starving so there’s no way I’m leaving you with that entire box.”
I pick up the plastic fork and scoop up the now room-temperature linguine.
Bancroft stares at me, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that.”
“What?” I ask, chewing the delicious savory bite.
He leans in, his voice lowering as though he’s suggesting something illegal: “Disregard an order from Susie.”
He watches me, waiting for a response, but I turn my chin, shrug and take another bite. Overanalyzing my brief moment of insolence is a guaranteed one-way ticket to Anxietyland. He seems to understand not to press the subject, because when he speaks again he is laughing at me.
“No one on earth takes as big bites of their food as you do.” He takes the fork from me, twirls a much smaller amount and holds it up to me. “ This is what a normal human-size bite looks like.”
My lips curve at his teasing and, before he can move, I lean forward, take his wrist in my hand and eat the presented ball of pasta.
“Oh my God, Grace!” He barks out a laugh and shakes his head, taking my forearm in his large palm to pry the fork from me. The feeling of his warm skin in the cool breeze sends a shiver over my entire body.
Pausing midchew, I cover my full mouth with my palm to speak. “Did you just call me Grace?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.” He laughs nervously as his eyes follow the edges of the concrete tiles below us. I cock my head in silent question as he scoffs, “Old habits.”
An ache lances my chest, remembering how the moment we shifted from using our last names playfully to using them as a social shield had gutted me. Sure, Hastings is better than Gracie , but ever since he started using my last name to address me it created an intimacy barrier I never thought we’d be able to break back through.
Deciding playful banter is our safe zone, I reply with “Hmm, feels weird. I don’t know if I can still see you as...” and hold my finger to my bottom lip to make a cartoonish pout. “Sorry, what’s your actual name again?”
He raises his eyebrows in a challenge, watching my finger. A flicker of something I don’t recognize passes through his eyes. “You know what? I am pressing charges. And I’m having this...”
He finally swipes the fork out of my hand and scrapes the final mound of pasta out of the box. I gasp, despite being so full of carbs I want to explode, and use my fingers to pick out the last few pieces of linguine from the box.
He laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re a monster.” He turns the fork in his hand.
My phone dings again. “Urgh, I probably should reply to Susie. Can you grab my phone? My hands are all pasta alla vodka-y.”
He reaches down to pick up my bag and pulls something out that definitely isn’t my phone. My eyes widen. Oh my God, the magazine, curled around on the page with his face plastered across the glossy paper. My whole body tingles with embarrassment and adrenaline as I try to grab the magazine out of his hand, but I’m frozen. Maybe he can’t see the pages in this light?
He begins to read the page aloud, letting out a dry, coarse laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “‘Time to Mar-GO: Notorious party boy Eric Bancroft leaves Chiltern Bistro with yet another mysterious woman despite Margeaux Bardin dating rumors.’”
My cheeks burn as I glance down at the word “Prick” and the hand-drawn devil horns sprouting from his forehead. His gaze leaves the page and a flash of hurt crosses his face. His jaw ticks as he turns away from me and perches on the edge of the bench, letting the magazine curl in his tense hands between his legs.
Swallowing my shame, I go to explain but he speaks first: “You know, I see how people look at me; when they’re speaking to me they think they’re speaking to this.” He rolls up the magazine like a baseball bat. “‘London’s party boy who has a different woman on his arm every night.’” He turns his chin to me and lifts his eyebrows. “Which is blown grossly out of proportion by the way.” He sighs and turns his head back to the ground. “I didn’t think, after everything, that you saw me like that.”
I am about to say something in my defence, but my mind trails off. I’ve used the rumors to jab at him too many times.
“I didn’t use to, but we haven’t talked in six and a half months.”
He shifts. “You’ve been counting, huh?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
He spits a laugh with no humor in it. “You know, they don’t run the photos where I’m not with a woman, and when they do it’s usually one of my sister’s drunk or drugged-up bitchy friends I’m trying to help get home safely before they embarrass themselves in front of fucking Societeur , who insist on following us.”
He drops the crumpled magazine on the bench with a slap. “I’m lucky at least Dharmash has faith in me, because it’s clear Catcher only agreed to hire me because of that playboy reputation... and the Ditto project solidified that he’ll always see me that way. He never trusted me with it; he was never going to let me actually prove I can be good at my job.”
The hurt in his eyes is so jarring compared to how he acts at work. It’s almost admirable that he’s able to portray someone so confident when this is how he really feels.
I look around awkwardly, twiddling my thumbs and sifting through the bowl of alphabet soup in my head for a useful response. This is more honest than he ever was when we were friends. Maybe it’s because we aren’t anymore. He can finally be vulnerable; as if it doesn’t count with me.
“Why don’t you do something about it? Get them to stop.”
He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a sigh. “I tried to at first, and it worked for a while. But it was like as soon as I started working at Ignite, the press couldn’t get enough. Every quick drink with a friend became a headline for some gossip column. I was reportedly partying all over the city, a new woman every night, racking up bills at the most expensive places. Fuck, even my parents believed it. They believe these fucking magazines, Instagram posts and blogs over the word of their own son. They still do. And Catcher couldn’t resist the attention it was bringing in. It got to a point where it was easier to go along with the idea everyone already had of me than fight it. Why disappoint them with the real me?”
A twang of guilt reverberates in my chest. His reputation isn’t my fault, but I’ve tarred him with the same assumptions as everyone else, searching for evidence of said reputation like a sniffer dog the moment he welcomed me into his home. Societeur Magazine spoon feeds their readers these narratives, but I perpetuated it any chance I got—even when we were friends. Teasing him, calling him the same names everyone else did, and treating him as less than others because of his image. I’m too stubborn to apologize, but the desire to extend an olive branch is overwhelming.
“How about this?” I begin as his lowered head lifts to face me. “Maybe we could attempt a ceasefire... just for this project.”
He raises an eyebrow in question, making me instinctively roll my eyes.
“You’re great at onboarding users; I’m good at creating an amazing user experience. You can prove to everyone that you’re more than just a pretty face, and I won’t spend the rest of my professional life making sure Susie’s coffee is exactly ninety-six degrees. If one of us has a shot at getting this job, we have no choice but to work together.” I sigh at the final words about to escape my mouth: “Catcher was obviously completely wrong that we work well together—I came this close to skewering you tonight—but he was right about one thing: we do need each other.”
“Sooo, what I’m hearing is... you think I’m pretty?” His smile flashes triumphantly in the warm, humming light.
I raise my eyebrows and stare at him in carb-fueled disbelief. “That’s the one thing you got from my speech?”
“Fine, you’re right. No more mutually assured destruction.” He shoots me another smile, tight-lipped this time, a dimple appearing on his cheek.
As we sneak out of the garden, we pass an ornate black rubbish bin. I throw the magazine, complete with juvenile drawings into the trash with a dramatic flourish. Bancroft follows suit, splattering the tomato-covered cardboard remnants of our evening on top.
On the bus ride home, I rest my head against the cool glass and begin mentally planning how to weave an El Turo cooking class into my presentation. It’s safe to say my first trial date went much better than Bancroft’s. If I keep this standard up, I think I might have a chance at getting this promotion. Eventually, I give in to the morbid curiosity and pull out my phone to check Susie’s latest messages. Instead, I am greeted with a text from William:
Hey. How are you? Was wondering if we could get coffee soon, catch up? Will x
The last texts we exchanged are visible just above this one. Messages from me, begging for him to reconsider the breakup and the ultimatum. Scrolling through the pitiable messages I sent in the days post-dumping makes me feel as if bugs are crawling all over my body. This casual message is so jarring against them. As if I’m just a friend he hasn’t seen in a while, not someone whose heart he ploughed into, tore up and then left to fester in the dirt. A delicate tea party next to a gory crime scene. It’s so nonchalant. Is that how he’s been feeling this whole time, while I’ve been slowly rotting from the inside out?
Please pick up!
We need to talk about this.
I love you, we just need to talk. We can sort this out.
Will, please?
I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.
As soon as we started dating William put me on a pedestal. I did the same but on a metaphorical white horse. All I’d ever wanted was someone who loved me as much as my parents love each other, the Fairy-tale Ending. When I met William, it felt like my turn. Even the way we met felt like something from a storybook. Me the damsel in distress, him the dashing hero willing to drop everything to save me.
It was my second year of university and I was spending every waking hour in the library fueled by black coffee and pure unadulterated fear of failure. I was a walking corpse clad in clashing prints who hadn’t been absorbing any information for a good couple of hours. I had decided to go home and see if I could shower and squeeze in an hour of sleep before my next exam. I dragged my body over to the exit clutching my laptop, highlighter pens and books, trying to shove them into the canvas bag half hanging off my shoulder.
A fresh layer of winter had settled in the early hours of the morning, turning the gritted steps into slushy piles of doom. I descended the concrete staircase carefully, trying not to slip. As soon as my feet touched the pavement, I breathed a quick sigh of relief and stepped forward, right into the path of an oncoming bicycle.
I braced myself for the impact, the crash, the impending pain, but it never came. A strong pair of hands pulled me back toward the stairs and I fell to the ground with an “umph” sound, a body breaking what would have been a hard fall onto snow-covered concrete. My books and laptop weren’t so lucky, flying into the air before smacking to the ground with a loud crack.
“Are you OK?”
My scrunched eyelids peeled open and looked up into panicked honey-brown eyes. Soft lips repeated the question, but my brain didn’t register the words. I was too transfixed on the kind face framed by chestnut hair and a dark stubbled jaw as he scanned me for signs of injury.
I relaxed into him as he held me in his arms, making sure I was OK. My face warmed as he touched my cheek with a gloved hand, checking I wasn’t concussed.
As he fussed around me, it was as if I was hearing the voice of some heavenly being say: “Grace Hastings, please come to the front to collect your order: one Prince Charming.”
Looking back, it is entirely possible I was concussed.
Something snapped me back to reality and I caught sight of my laptop, lying upside down in a pile of slush. I lifted it and watched as dirty water dripped out from the middle.
“ Fuck! ” My cry echoed across the dawn-laced street, and he took a step away from me.
“Are you OK?” he asked again, more tentatively this time. He looked at me warily, the way you might survey an unexploded bomb.
“No. I mean, yes. Thank you for pulling me out of the way, but my laptop is trashed and I need it for an exam in two hours. Even if I could get one that fast, I definitely can’t afford to buy a new one. Maybe I can go beg my professor to let me take it another day but he’s absolutely terrifying and I think you have to give twenty-four hours’ advance notice to get out of exams and—”
He put a hand on my shoulder, stopping my panic-induced word vomit. “Take mine.”
My head jolted up from the cracked screen and I properly took him in for the first time. His navy university-branded hoodie was slightly crumpled, as though he’d just rolled out of bed and thrown on the nearest piece of clothing.
“Take. Mine.” He pronounced both words slowly and clearly. “Give it back after your exam. I’ll be in there.” He gestured with his chin toward the library doors.
“I can’t do that.” I looked at him as if he was the crazy one. “You don’t know me. This could just be some big ruse to steal your laptop.”
He laughed. “That’s certainly a risky heist! I think there are easier ways to rob people without risking your life.”
He dragged his backpack from over his shoulder and pulled out a shiny silver MacBook, gesturing it toward me as casually as a waiter handing over a menu.
I reached my hand out, then I hesitated. “But you’re at the library? Don’t you need it?”
He shrugged and sighed. “I’m here for research, so I’ll be reading a very large old textbook for the next few hours.”
For some reason the image of him looking incredibly sexy with a furrowed brow buried in a book took over all rational thought.
“What if you leave the library before I get back?”
He thought for a second, then he pulled out his phone, typed something and handed it to me. I winced at the bright screen but lifted my eyebrows at what I saw. An open contact form with the name “Laptop Thief” already typed in.
I laughed, added my phone number and handed it back.
“My name is Grace, by the way,” I clarified.
“William.” He hit call on his phone, and my phone buzzed in my pocket. He gestured with his laptop once again and I finally took it.
“It was nice to meet you, Grace. Good luck with your exam.” He smiled at me sheepishly and climbed the stairs into the library.
From that day on I saw him as my hero, my knight with shining Apple products that saved my arse twice in a matter of minutes. I thought it was a dream come true, a story to rival my parents. The fairy-tale moment I’d always wanted. For our first date we went to a bar on our university campus. We’d texted every day since we’d met, and I felt I already knew him so well. By the end of our date, he told me he thought I was his soulmate. Jokingly, I thought at first, but later realized he was serious.
Shaking off the memories and glancing back at my phone, I read the messages I sent the days after we broke up over and over until I feel travel-sick, or maybe just regular sick. The person who typed them feels like a long-lost friend. To think there was ever a time when I felt that out of control, attempting to claw back someone so soon after they’d destroyed me. Relentlessly picking at the scab, opening the wound to inspect it over and over again until all that was left of me was scar tissue. The bus thumps over speed bumps as my thumb flicks to Instagram and types in William’s username. He’s barely posted since we broke up, a scarcity much appreciated during the harsh withdrawal period. Not being able to get a fix of the person who broke your heart living their best curated life online is both a blessing and a curse. The utter lack of them a curse in itself, but easier than seeing them doing better without you.
A slow, thick stream of tears escapes down my cheeks until I clock the familiar landmarks of my street. I wipe my eyes and read the message from William approximately fifteen more times as I walk home, hoping to find a hidden message implying something I can print out and frame as proof I’m not destined to be an unloved husk of a person for the rest of my life. Something along the lines of Hey just to let you know I’m still in love with you and regret everything OK thanks bye .
“Look!” I’ll say to my imaginary guests. “There was one man who thought I was worth a multi-year commitment!”
Instead, I find a deep pit of shame I’m still trying to escape. I decide to leave him hanging, wondering, waiting, just as he did to me.