Chapter 27
Eve
The plane to Dublin is packed full of expo attendees and lads making the most of the ￡15.99 Ryanair summer deals. I’ve walked the 83 miles through Manchester Airport’s terminal buildings to find that I’ve been allocated a seat on the front row, right next to the emergency exit door.
I quickly message Will again. When I got back from Adam’s the other day, he’d gone, and he hasn’t answered any of my texts since.
The safety procedure demonstration ends, and a flight attendant clips herself into the seat opposite me. I glance around me quickly; there are two flights to Dublin today, and I’m almost certain Kirsty had booked onto this one. But I arrived late, running up to the gate as the stragglers were boarding, and I haven’t seen her.
As soon as we’re in the air, I pull out my laptop and load up my presentation again. It’s the one I left open for Kirsty the other day: my original PowerPoint, before Dev changed the schedule.
My plan was simple — it was a basic double bluff. I changed everything on the presentation, falsifying figures and writing out bogus campaign ideas that would never come to fruition. Then I added notes to each piece of information, things like ‘Make Kirsty believe this is actually achievable’ and ‘Tell Kirsty this is actually 83%’. Before I went to the toilet, and before she started snooping, everything I told her was accurate. I gave her all the correct information. She was only in danger if she decided not to trust me.
Adrenaline pulses in my throat. What I’ve done is fine. I was honest, genuine, as long as she was, too. I gave Kirsty a choice: take the correct information I told her at face value, or dig around and uncover imaginary lies that would ruin her presentation. She made her decision, and, whatever it was, now she’ll have to live with it.
Just fifteen minutes into the flight, we begin our descent. I close my laptop and pull out my phone, desperate to make plans for the evening. As soon as the wheels hit the tarmac, I tap out of airplane mode and fire off a message to Graham.
Me: You arriving this evening? Fancy a drink?
My phone beeps a response almost instantly, but it isn’t him.
New alert from Animal Search UK
Hi I think this is my cat does it have a collar like this please let me know thanks
There’s a picture attached, and I open it. In front of a Christmas tree sits a large, black cat in a pink jumper and a sparkly silver collar. Its eyes are amber, but the similarities end there. I type back:
Hi, I’m sorry, the cat we’ve found is a tortoiseshell. I hope you find yours.
I screenshot the interaction and the photo, and send them on to Adam. A phone beeps loudly from the back of the plane, and the noise triggers people to rustle in their bags for their own.
I’m first off the plane, and I stride quickly into the terminal building, hoping to avoid Kirsty and anyone else from work who might be onboard. Passport control is empty, so I sail through and straight into an awaiting taxi.
I have twenty-five minutes of peace before we pull up outside the Cosgrove hotel, a standard-issue, three-star establishment that Florina decided was cheap enough to be coverable by expenses. I walk quickly inside and over to the reception desk, where I give my name and wait for my keys.
I check my phone again. Twelve emails, but no response from Graham. I load up Tryst; fresh faces, Irish accents... that would be one way to spend an evening. I swipe through, trying not to think about how Kirsty and I spent the evening before last year’s expo: drunk on a boat up the Liffey.
Once I’ve matched a few, I look through my inbox. The names continue endlessly — New Match! Say Hello! — hundreds of unopened connections from back home trailing behind a few new potentials from Dublin: Ross, Cian, James, Donal, Freddie, Ben, Adam—
‘Hiya.’
I glance over my shoulder, certain whoever it is isn’t talking to me.
It’s Kirsty.
‘Oh, hi.’ I lock my phone quickly, but she’s seen.
‘Fishing for local talent?’ She leans against reception and drums her fingers against the desk.
‘Just seeing what’s out there.’ I smile tightly. ‘How are you feeling about tomorrow?’
‘Fine, yeah. All of your stuff was really helpful.’ She smiles at me sweetly. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re more than welcome.’ I turn back to reception. ‘I’m sure you’ll blow them all away.’
‘Here we are, madam.’ The receptionist hands me a key, the number 304 in faded lettering on the side.
‘Thanks.’ I take it and turn back to Kirsty. ‘See you tomorrow.’
She nods, and I move towards the lift. I step inside.
The doors begin sliding closed behind me, and I turn back to face reception. Kirsty looks at me. When only a slither of light remains, and the doors are almost shut, she grins.
‘Good luck!’ she calls.
* * *
I pace my room, beating a path into the carpet from the bed to the desk to the bedside table. I start running a bath, and then stop. I do some squats, some sit-ups, and have a shower. I check my phone, and resist the urge to message Graham again.
Tryst notifications light up my screen sporadically, but I ignore them all. If Kirsty sees me out with a random man... I couldn’t give her the satisfaction. Why is she doing this?
Eventually, I order a pizza to my room and open my laptop, plunging myself into my real presentation for tomorrow. My anger at Kirsty is at eruption point. I want to find out her room number, go over there and smash her door down. I want to ask her why she’s stabbing me in the back over and over, blatantly now, and what I’ve done to deserve this. I want to know why our friendship meant so little to her.
There are boys in the room next to mine; they keep shouting and playing music. Occasionally I catch snatches of words, they have Manchester accents, and I assume they’re racking up their holiday bill on the mini-bar.
My pizza arrives, and as I open the door, I see a man stood in the doorway of the room next door. He leans inside, shouting, ‘Come on, Piotr, for Christ’s sake! The taxi’s here!’
A voice calls back, ‘Ferg’s chundered all over the bathroom!’
I pay the delivery guy, and the man in the doorway turns to face me. ‘Evening.’ He smiles.
I nod, and retreat into my room.
I sit back at my computer and funnel pizza into my mouth, clicking through emails and fantasising about tomorrow. I haven’t thought much about my own presentation, but I am constantly picturing Kirsty’s. I imagine it like the Summer Bundle meeting, but on a colossal scale: fudged numbers, bumbling mistakes, ripples around the audience and Michael Peters pursing his lips, texting Dev to say that Kirsty has to go.
My phone vibrates and I snatch it up from the desk, my eyes seeking Graham’s name, a room number for me to go to. It’s Adam, and I suddenly loathe myself for being so needy.
Adam: If that’s Old Sausage, he probably ran away to avoid wearing that jumper. Thanks for the update — sorry for the late response, away from home at the moment. Saw OS this morning and gave him a tin of something stinky.
I consider not replying — there’s nothing to say — but something makes me engage.
Me: Seconded, but that is 100% not OS
Me: I give her criminally overcooked salmon so you win
Me: Hope you’re away somewhere nice
My phone stays silent, and I pick at a pizza crust as I hear the boys next door finally emerge from their room and thunder loudly down the corridor. When they’re gone, it’s silent, and I stand up again, pacing, waiting for tomorrow.