The Wedding Game

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX LEXIE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Lexie

Congratulations, Chris messages, followed swiftly by a second text: Max only just told me! I’m really pleased for you.

I’m in the flat, unpacking and repacking my suitcase one more time. I’ve got a couple of days and I feel as if I’ve forgotten to pack something essential for New York, though I can’t remember what it is.

I look at his message and, not for the first time, feel strange knowing I’ll be working for the same company as Chris. It’s going to be weird, seeing him again after everything that’s happened since we met back in August, since I found it too easy to fall for him right there and then, and in every message after. But we’ve let our flirting come to an end, or rather I forced it to an end. And now we can simply be friends.

Come with me.

Oh God, I have to stop hearing him say that. Stop it, stop it, stop it. Why am I replaying this? I reason it’ll be OK now, as we didn’t even kiss and we’re in the friend-zone now.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

Fuck fuck fuckity-fuck. But I did then flat out say we’re just friends. So, I’m pretty sure he’s got the hint. Chris hasn’t said anything remotely flirtatious since then. It’s all been job-related.

I breathe in deeply, attempt some pragmatism. He lives in New York, and I live in London. That’s not about to change. But I’ll be in the same office as him for the next couple of weeks, a fact I find slightly disconcerting. I genuinely believed, when I said goodbye to him and he climbed into his taxi, that we would never see each other ever again. Is this going to be really awkward?

And since Josh arrived on the scene, thoughts of Chris haven’t managed to take on a life of their own. I’ve not let them. Not since those immediate pangs of regret after his taxi pulled away that night. And those pangs only lasted until I kissed Josh anyway. Sort of.

Thanks, I write in response to Chris’s congratulations.

Chris types, Someone’s setting up a laptop for you as we speak on a desk next to Max. He says you’re joining us for a fortnight before they cast you free back in London. That’s incredible. It’ll be great to see you again.

Thanks. I’ve never been to New York before.

You’re in for a treat. I love it here. I reckon you will too. Might not get you back on that plane in a fortnight.

Border Control will have something to say about that, I type.

Chris sends a laughing emoji and then he’s offline. Then he’s online again and typing.

I guess I’ll see you in the office at some point then.

I send back a huge smiling emoji, which is a bit of a non-committal cop-out, but also because I’m genuinely so excited about this job and not sure what else to say. I keep thinking I’m going to open my eyes and discover this has all been the most amazing dream; that I don’t have a new job, am still penniless (which I sort of am anyway until I get paid) and that Josh isn’t real, either.

But a few days later the flight across the Atlantic alerts me to the fact that this is very real as turbulence hits thick and fast, heralding the end of my celebratory mini-packets-of-cheese and mini-bottles-of-wine party for one.

I’m in economy, but there’s still free food and drink and all the films I can watch, crammed into an eight-hour flight. I’ve eaten and drunk everything I’ve been given and have watched three movies. I’ve done well. I’m trying to keep my eyes off the onboard duty-free catalogue, though. All those make-up sets you can’t buy on the high street are beckoning me. But I reason I’m going to be knee-high in debt by the time I return, so I shouldn’t blow all my meagre spending money before I’ve even set foot in the US.

New York is going to cost me a fortune, if I want to do anything interesting outside the borders of what the company would normally pay for, so I have managed to get my parents to individually sub me a little bit of cash each. This is the guilt of the divorce still very much present all these years later, each of them trying to outdo the other.

‘How much did your mother give you?’ is always a question my dad relies on, in order to up the ante as he rifles through the notes section of his wallet.

I hate asking my parents for help. I hate looking like a thirty-one-year-old failure, but I reason that asking for a loan one last time won’t kill anyone. And I can’t take any more support from Scarlet or I’ll die of shame. Although Scarlet has actually transferred some money into my account, so that I can head into Sephora and buy her all the American skincare and cosmetics we can’t currently get in Britain. I wonder if she’ll like some of this very exclusive-looking duty-free stuff? I open the magazine again and start spending her money on her behalf.

The company has naturally put me in one of their two Manhattan hotels and it’s bijou – space being at a premium in one of the most expensive cities in the world. It looks refreshed, furnishings-wise; and flicking through the huge bundle of corporate and investor info Max sent me, I can see they have a regular refreshing scheme for all soft furnishings every few years, and for fixtures and fittings every eight. For a portfolio of thirty hotels, this must keep Max on his toes. I’m keen to understand how a company that’s twenty years old, and has expanded into most of the capital cities, has never yet opened a hotel in London.

Max said if I was jet-lagged I could come into the office tomorrow instead of today, but I’m raring to go now. I’m sure the need for sleep will catch up with me, but I am buzzing and want so desperately to start work. I text Josh again. He’s not replied yet. I’ve already told him I’ve landed and have sent him a picture of my room, and now one of me standing near a yellow taxi. I’m such a tourist.

The office is just round the corner, off Bleecker Street in the Village. I walk there so slowly once I’ve showered and changed, taking in the squat buildings next to tall ones, the traditional brownstone buildings mixed with shop fronts and pizza joints, bars and florists. Yellow cabs go past, honking horns randomly. I feel like a tourist. I am a tourist, but it’s purposeful tourism. I’m going to work. In New York. For a fortnight only, but still. I can’t believe it.

The area is fun and funky as I walk past gift shops and coffee bars, artisan perfumers and independent fashion stores, all draped with huge awnings and hand-painted signs, while oversized Christmas decorations shine in the bright sunshine. It’s bright but cold. Winter is here. The shops are bigger, the signs bolder, the decorations magnificent. New York, to me, is as if Paris and London had a love-child and then supersized it. I’ve been here five minutes; but so far, so pretty, so inviting.

I pass the original outpost of Magnolia Bakery that I saw on a rerun of Sex and the City . I take a picture for Scarlet. Huge cupcakes and intricately swirled celebration cakes sit under glass domes in the window and, as I pass, I know I’m coming back here to load up on baked goods at the first opportunity I get.

The office is in a narrow three-storey red-brick building and, with a trembling hand, I push the blacked-out front doors and enter the open-plan, super-white but comfortable space. It’s filled with sofas, fresh flowers and plants, and there are desks scattered about, with people moving to and from breakout areas, and deluxe coffee machines and platters of pastries and fruit. I cast my eyes around, but I can’t see Chris. Maybe he’s on another floor. The woman on reception greets me with a smile and more enthusiasm than I ever greeted anyone with, when I worked on reception. I pull my eyes away from the impressive but small office and meet her curious gaze.

‘Hi, I’m here to see Max Riley,’ I say, taking off my thick winter coat.

But Max beats her to any spiel about signing in and, taking a badge and a lanyard, he bounds across the room and greets me so warmly, instantly putting me at ease. He’s larger than he appeared on our Zoom and younger, in his fifties. He’s dressed from head to toe in white, which is a brave move, but then he does work in design. He sort of blends in with the office, as if he’s wearing workwear camouflage.

I’m now doubting my choice of denim miniskirt and tights, an oversized blazer and a pair of suede ankle boots. I didn’t want to overdo it, but likewise I wasn’t sure jeans would cut it. Max is a whole other level of fashion, though, and, paired with his bright-red varifocal glasses, he’s giving off quite the Elton John vibe. I instantly warm to him and his infectious smile as he asks me about my flight and my hotel room, and tells me where I’ll be sitting in the office and what we’ll be doing for the next fortnight – including tours of the company’s New York hotels and going through the core plans for London and my role there.

He talks so fast and I already feel I should be writing everything down and, just when I’m about to say that, I feel someone watching me. Out of the corner of my eye I spy Chris, who’s talking into his phone, but holding his gaze on me. I feel myself draw in a short, sharp breath and for a few seconds I can’t hear Max any more. I can’t hear anything.

Chris raises a hand in greeting and issues me a wide smile that turns into an I-can’t-believe-you’re-here kind of laugh. I smile back, trying to convey the same message, even though we’ve exchanged no words. Seeing him again is confusing, on so many levels. I wasn’t expecting to be jolted in such a way. When I look at my Fitbit stats later, I reckon my heart rate will have gone into the low hundreds. I can’t explain this feeling. I refocus on the conversation I’m supposed to be having.

‘Come on,’ Max says. ‘I’ll bet you could do with a coffee, after a long flight, and then we’ll go round and I’ll introduce you to everyone.’

Fully topped up with caffeine and having inhaled a giant cinnamon bun in a breakout area, we head back into the main office so I can meet the team. I’m a pro when it comes to meeting people and remembering names. I’ve been in and out of so many offices over the past few months, having to do this very thing on repeat through all my temp jobs. I know I’ll ace this bit. The rest of it I’m shit-scared about. Excited and totally, utterly shit-scared.

‘We’ll start with the owners,’ Max suggests as we climb the stairs to the next floor. ‘It’d be rude not to.’ He escorts me towards a large glassed-partitioned office and I’m briefly introduced to the joint partners, a woman and a man called Sybil and Jackson, who aren’t dressed quite as snappily as Max, with an easy attire of jeans and T-shirts all round. In among all my research I read that the two of them are siblings, inheriting their first property from their parents and turning it into something cooler and homelier. The hotels are more like apartment-hotels, each one curated to give a gentle nod to the location and the history of the original building, while fully embracing the new trend for working remotely and nomadic digital jobs. They’re all dog-friendly with shared workspaces, and the last one they opened in Berlin has its own coffee shop – an area they want to expand, or so the info Max sent me stated. I’m in awe of them and the brand they’ve built, and I tell them this, while trying not to be too sycophantic or overexcited, like a puppy that’s been shown its first real meal. This isn’t my first proper job, but it is my first proper job doing something I think I’m going to love.

We move around the upper office before circling back to the ground floor. I bookmark people’s names against their faces and where they’re sitting and hope, while I’m here, they don’t decide to have an office desk reshuffle, ruining my memorising system. Then we head back towards Max’s desk, which is near to where Chris is sitting.

Seeing him is so different from texting him. He’s really here. So am I. I’m surprised by how attractive Chris is. I hadn’t exactly forgotten what he’d looked like, but the wedding was three months ago and memories wane, exact details become sketchy. If anything, he looks better than I remember. When I picture him in my mind, he’s in that amazing wedding suit. But the black trousers and open-neck shirt he’s wearing now fit him just as well. Has he done something different to his hair? It looks darker, like the summer sun isn’t lightening it, now autumn is fading to winter.

He stops typing on his computer, rises from his chair and my throat constricts in anticipation as he walks towards me, smiling widely and moving to kiss my cheek in greeting. That incredible scent of his aftershave and of … him hits me suddenly. I breathe slowly, inhale him.

‘Hi,’ Chris says as he pulls back and looks into my eyes.

I swallow. ‘Hi,’ I respond, totally unaware if the expression on my face is conveying what he’s just done to my insides. I feel giddy and I’m aware Max is watching the two of us as he exclaims, ‘Of course, you two already know each other.’

‘Yeah,’ Chris replies warmly. And then he explains, ‘Lexie and I met in the summer’ at the exact same time as I say, ‘Chris recommended the job to me.’

Max mutters something politely in the affirmative, as he knows all this.

‘Nice to have another Brit in the office,’ Chris says, moving away from me almost purposefully, leaning back against a desk. ‘What have you got planned while you’re here?’

‘Careful! That’s quite small-talky of you,’ I reply and he immediately laughs. I love the way his dark eyes crinkle like that. I picture Josh suddenly, his blue eyes bright against his tanned face.

Max looks confused at the way this conversation has gone, so I give him a brief rundown of how Chris and I met and refused to engage in small talk, only covering huge subjects and deep personal insights into each other’s lives. Max’s eyes swivel between us, even more confused, and so to cut that subject dead, I tell Chris I’ve got nothing planned because I wasn’t sure how much time I’d get to sightsee.

Max slides in with, ‘Well, we finish here at five-thirty, so your time’s your own after that. I’m not working you around the clock. You should go and check off all the sights you want to see.’

‘I could take you to some of my favourite haunts?’ Chris suggests.

‘OK, yeah, thanks,’ I reply excitedly, and then a beat later I immediately sense this is a bad idea. I shouldn’t spend time alone with Chris. It feels disloyal to Josh. Although Chris and I are now working together, so I’m not sure I can avoid him without causing trouble. It’s only a fortnight. And then he stays in New York and I go back to London. Nothing’s changing. We can be friends.

Max turns to get on with work, so I automatically go with him, waving a quick goodbye to Chris.

And then I begin the first day of the rest of my life.

It’s a light start to work, with a disturbingly empty inbox staring back at me on my new laptop, but Max assures me, ‘Don’t worry, that’ll soon fill up.’

And then we’re off, talking about upcoming projects, the vision for the London hotel, the kind of vibe the owners are looking for and how I’m going to help achieve it. I can see why they need someone on the ground. For a start, organising artisan samples to be sent from across the UK to New York is a waste of time and money. Max sends me over links, so I can access all the folders and immerse myself in the vision and the mood boards. I love a mood board, the way pieces of fabric sit against pictures of chairs and images of wallpaper and paint stripes. I’m in heaven as I help Max edit one onscreen for a presentation to the bosses, and I tell him this, making him smile fondly. I don’t want to look amateurish, but I’m honestly blown away by how much I’m already enjoying this.

We work together all afternoon, and then my jet lag gets the better of me at about four o’clock.

‘Off you go,’ Max tells me. ‘Get some rest. Thank you for coming in today.’

‘Of course,’ I tell him. ‘What else was I going to do?’

‘Sleep,’ he says. ‘Go and rest and I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.’

‘Are you sure? I don’t want to slink off early when you’re still working.’

‘Go to the hotel,’ he instructs. ‘Embrace your jet lag.’

‘Thanks, Max,’ I say, looking around to give a brief wave to a few of those who are sitting near me, who say ‘Bye’ in return or issue a quick wave and a smile.

Chris catches my eye and stands to talk to me as I near him. ‘You off?’

‘Under strict instructions from Max to sleep off my jet lag.’

‘If you fancy something to eat later on, drop me a message?

‘Thanks,’ I reply uncertainly, as I haven’t worked out what I am going to do for dinner. ‘I kind of thought I’d just hit room service.’

‘You can’t do that on your first night,’ Chris says, appalled. ‘Sleep well and I’ll take you out for something quick to eat and have you back in time for another round of jet-lag sleeping.’

I laugh as I head towards the door. ‘OK, thanks.’

Back in my room, I call Josh and fill him in on my day and he tells me about his. We trade information about chic offices in New York and homely farms in the country.

‘I miss you,’ Josh tells me.

‘I miss you too,’ I repeat, meaning it.

‘I didn’t realise how much I was going to miss you,’ he continues. ‘Somehow you being so much further away than London does feel different.’

‘It is different,’ I say. ‘But it’s only two weeks. Then I’ll be home and I can pop down to yours. Now I’ve been thinking,’ I say.

‘Go on,’ he replies warily.

‘Have you got any hay bales?’

He laughs. ‘Why?’

‘You know why,’ I tease.

‘You want to have sex on a hay bale?’

‘Yes, I do, farm boy. I’m going to leave the logistics of that one with you. You’ve got a fortnight till I get home to assemble something in a barn.’

‘Specific,’ he says, chuckling to himself.