Slowly, and berating herself for her cowardice, she slouched out of his line of sight and tried to think. Not for the first time in her life, she cursed her copper-coloured hair. It made her conspicuous in a crowd, to the extent that any sudden movement might accidentally draw his eye. She wasn’t ready to face him.
She examined the awful, gnawing feeling that seemed to be eating away at her stomach lining. It was mostly made up of embarrassment, which surely wasn’t fair. If anything, he should be shame-faced at seeing her again – not the other way around.
You’re not the one who lied and cheated, Rachel told herself. You’re not the person who repeatedly said ‘I think you’re the one’, then started shagging a skinny Kim Kardashian lookalike.
Nevertheless, Rachel felt as if she was about to be caught out: exposed in her imperfect body, unremarkable job and generally humdrum life. She was livid with Jack, but also with herself: incensed that his mere presence apparently had the power to mortify her.
For a mad moment she even wished she hadn’t ended things with Laurence. Meeting Jack as a still-single thirty-year-old was simply too tragic. She wondered if he would think it pitiful that, after all this time, she still lived with Anna.
If only she’d moved on – or up – enough to imply that what had happened between them was old news, now completely beneath her notice. Because at all costs, Rachel realised, he must be prevented from thinking that any of it still mattered. It didn’t still matter, she told herself: she wouldn’t allow it to.
Rachel straightened her spine in her chair, suddenly determined to be braver. She squared her shoulders and looked, as directly but nonchalantly as she could manage, in the direction of the Mountaintop Media team.
The expensive-suited man was being introduced as the company’s managing director. He started speaking, but a quick scan of her workmates’ faces told Rachel that a number of them – mostly women – weren’t fully tuned in.
She felt rather sorry for him, standing next to Jack; while everyone should be listening to his excited speech about the merger, too many pairs of eyes were dancing left – towards his younger, more glamorous associate.
Right on cue, a New instant message notification appeared in the corner of Rachel’s laptop screen. It was from Kemi, a junior copywriter with the sort of bone-deep self-confidence Rachel wished she’d had at twenty-three. Or ever, frankly.
Rachel liked Kemi a lot, worked with her regularly and – for safety’s sake – often escorted her home after work nights out.
Kemi Percival
Can you believe all this?
Also: WHO IS THAT GUY on the left??
YUMMMMMMM
Please god, I don’t ask for much … But can he transfer down here please
And sit at the desk next to mine
…
Ugh, she was still typing.
…
Preferably naked
Maybe with a red rose between his teeth
…
Don’t say I’m not romantic.
This was a double whammy from Kemi. As well as struggling to ignore the clear, continuing gorgeousness of her ex, Rachel was now fighting to extinguish the flame of dread that had started flickering in her chest. Until Kemi mentioned it, Rachel hadn’t considered the possibility of staff transfers. But why would Jack be here if he weren’t somehow going to be involved in running the London office?
She decided to try to be the adult in this conversation.
Rachel Ryan
I guess staff transfers are a possibility
Nudity in the office, not so much
Bit risky btw – you never know who from IT is reading this stuff
Anyhow, I’m listening, not ogling
We need to know if jobs are safe, if there might even be options for promotion arising from all this.
Rachel hoped this would move Kemi off her obviously preferred topic. She also hoped she hadn’t come across as sniffy and superior.
Kemi Percival
Hahahahaha, WHATEVS
Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have a go on him too
Tall, smart, seems clever
Just your type
…
THOSE EYES, THAT MOUTH …
Anyone’s type tbh
Well. That had worked perfectly.
Rachel minimised the IM window and returned her attention to the front of the room. The Mountaintop MD was still talking.
‘In the coming weeks we’ll be looking at the structure of the teams here and in Manchester,’ he said. A low, anxious murmuring began, then stopped when he cleared his throat and started talking again, his voice slightly louder than before.
‘There will of course be opportunities arising from our merger, not least the chance to move between our sites, based in two incredible cities. Be open with your line manager in the next few days if you’re interested in a transfer, or indeed if there’s another move you’d be keen to make. Our aim here is to create dynamic, enthusiastic teams who can do brilliant work they enjoy.
‘On the subject of moves …’ he went on in his rich, friendly baritone.
He turned slightly to his left and Rachel felt her heart stutter in her chest.
‘… allow me to introduce Jack Harper, one of Mountaintop’s senior client services managers. He and a small team from Manchester will be based here from next week, and I know they’re all very excited to be joining you.’
Jack nodded, taking his cue to say something. He smiled warmly at his audience before beginning, and Rachel was sure she detected a collective swoon. Surely this couldn’t be happening.
‘I won’t chat for long this morning,’ Jack said smoothly. ‘I just wanted to say hello to you all, and also how thrilled I am to be coming down to work with you here in London. My team and I all have specialisms that will hopefully complement your expertise, and in some cases really benefit from it. We can’t wait to learn from you. Big thanks to those people I’ve met so far today, all of whom have made me feel so welcome. I’m looking forward to getting to know all of you better in the coming weeks and months.’
We can’t wait to learn from you. Bleurgh. Was he always such a suck-up? Rachel felt her nose wrinkle in disgust.
Jack smiled and nodded at Greg as Toby moved forward to start taking questions. Greg gave Jack two thumbs up – a gesture that hit Rachel like a football in the face. Yes, Greg’s relentless positivity and lack of boundaries drove her nuts, but he was her colleague. Her friend. She found herself incensed at the idea that he and Jack might become buddies, though as members of the same department she supposed that was inevitable for them now.
Greg looked over to give Rachel a reassuring wink, clearly unaware of the bilious mess her insides had become. At least that suggested her inner turmoil wasn’t written all over her face.
And if she had managed to maintain a mask of neutrality, it turned out this was the moment to keep it in place. Jack, seeing Greg gesture to someone on the other side of the room, followed his gaze and – finally – found Rachel in the crowd.
Their eyes locked, there was immediate recognition in his, and then a rapid softening of his expression. His face settled into a warm, sincere, supremely confident grin that seemed to say, ‘Well. Fancy seeing you here.’
Unbelievable, Rachel said to herself. Arrogant, weapons-grade wanker.
She looked down at her keyboard and began typing, bashing the keys with gratuitous force. She prayed no one would notice the flush creeping up her neck into her cheeks.
The meeting was over. People shuffled back to their desks and began trying to get on with work as normal. Rachel imagined, though, that for most of her colleagues the day would be spent messaging friends about the merger, wondering whether their jobs were safe and setting their LinkedIn profiles to ‘open to recruiters’. She made a mental note to switch hers too, once her brain had stopped
whirring and she could remember the right password.
The Mountaintop team didn’t seem in any rush to leave. As Greg had predicted, it appeared they were planning to stay and observe the workings of the agency, wandering through the office at will, sitting in on meetings and gradually introducing themselves to members of their new London branch.
Rachel worked through everything in her inbox and created a to-do list for the day, determined not to keep scanning the room for Jack. Part of her was desperate to look at him some more, while another prayed for him to spontaneously combust. She felt sure he wouldn’t leave without speaking to her, but had no idea when or how they’d come face to face – let alone what they’d say. She felt like one of those innocent grass-grazing animals in a David Attenborough documentary: at risk of being chased down and eaten by a lion at any moment, but unable to predict when doom would come.
Rachel heard footsteps slowing behind her, then felt a presence over her shoulder. Oh no … Was this it?
‘Ray, let’s duck into the meeting room and just read over this vegetable stuff again, shall we? The client meeting’s at three, so we need to agree on final versions of everything.’
Rachel felt her knotted neck muscles loosen slightly. It was Greg, wanting to chat about cauliflowers again – a prospect she remembered finding rather annoying yesterday, but which now felt like sweet relief.
Once the door of the meeting room was shut, they both exhaled dramatically.
‘Serious shit, hey?’ Greg said. ‘I’m so glad you managed to haul your arse in here on time.’ There was a judgemental edge to his voice that she didn’t balk at because it was entirely deserved.
‘Thank you for that. It would have looked horrific if I’d strolled in after the meeting had started with a giant coffee and a pain au chocolat.’
Greg cringed and laughed in agreement. ‘What about Mr Gorgeous, though? There’s a bonus I wasn’t expecting out of this whole thing!’
Brilliant, Rachel thought. Jack mania had seized the whole office and it wasn’t even lunchtime.
‘I might be a happily married man,’ Greg went on, ‘but I’ve always been a sucker for a silver fox.’
‘Oh, you mean the MD!’ Rachel cried, realising too late that she sounded high-pitched and vaguely hysterical.
Greg smirked at her. ‘Absolutely I do,’ he replied. ‘Jack’s pretty but a bit … well. Obvious. Though now we know who you like the look of.’
He waggled his eyebrows at Rachel suggestively. She bit her lip and decided to keep her mouth shut.
They spent the next hour and a half dissecting the work Rachel had done for It’s All Good – the grocery box company – over the past week or two. She successfully spiced up the cauliflower content without turning it into a work of erotic fiction, and also managed to prevent Greg from bastardising the descriptive snippets she’d written about beetroot.
‘Beetroots are the MILFs of the vegetable world!’ Greg had bellowed halfway through their conversation. ‘Once decried as fuddy-duddy things nobody could fancy, now they’re fresh, fashionable and LUSCIOUS! We need more on beetroots. Lots on beetroots. We need to put them in a PRIME spot on the homepage.’
Having talked Greg down from this insane ledge, by lunchtime Rachel was happy with the final copy they’d be presenting that afternoon. Concentrating on her job had also calmed the incessant jangling of her nerves and she realised, now she was no longer feeling sick, that she was starving.
She’d skipped breakfast and survived, but there was no way she’d be able to cope without lunch.
Craving a gigantic baked potato, a full-sugar Coke and an hour of solitude, Rachel told Greg she’d see him later and slipped away.
Rachel made her way along St John Street and rounded a corner, heading for her favourite no-frills cafe. Cyril’s Kitchen had probably been open since before Rachel was born, and it appeared the owner had a strong attachment to its original early-eighties decor.
Old-fashioned, uncool and specialising in deep-fried stodge for committed carnivores, Cyril’s was a very poor fit for modern Islington. It was the sort of place that sold builder’s tea in oversized mugs, and sausage sandwiches made with doorstep-thick slices of sweet white bread. Almost every item on the menu came with a side of chips, including the full English breakfast.
It reminded Rachel of the greasy spoon down the road from her parents’ house in Stoke-on-Trent, and she liked its lack of pretension. At times of emotional-slash-hormonal strain, this was somewhere she could indulge her love of carbs without chiding herself that she should make healthier choices. In this place, there were none.
Cyril himself was behind the counter today, his sizeable pot belly threatening to liberate itself from a too-tight T-shirt that was straining at the seams. He grinned at her as she placed her order.
‘Looking lovely as always, sweetheart.’
Rachel suspected he said as much to all his female regulars, but the compliment was cheering nonetheless.
Having paid for her lunch, she settled at a tiny table that was tucked behind the dresser where Cyril stored mismatched crockery, dog-eared paperbacks and week-old tabloid newspapers. You wouldn’t know this spot was here if you weren’t familiar with the place, and today it felt like a sanctuary. Rachel revelled in being alone for a while.
A few moments later, half-heartedly skimming through a magazine article about ‘the REAL causes of crow’s feet’, she heard the chime of the cafe door’s bell. Then came muffled conversation – stilted, unnatural chat from Cyril and someone stuffier.
Fuuuuuuuck, that sounded like Laurence’s voice. Leaning to her left so she could look beyond the dresser in the direction of the counter, she glimpsed a familiar pinstriped suit and shiny brown brogues. What was he doing here?
Rachel wasn’t arrogant enough to assume Laurence was pacing the streets in search of her, but this was an odd place for him to be on his own account. While Cyril’s was one of Rachel’s favourite haunts, Laurence had always refused to set foot in here when they met up for a workday lunch – instead bundling her into Pret A Manger or the local gastropub.
Rachel peeked at him for a second more, then retracted her head for fear he’d spot her. She’d decided not to hide from Jack earlier because, in the brave new world she suddenly lived in, she was going to have to face him sometime. Laurence was a different prospect entirely, and altogether more avoidable.
‘Skinny double-shot cappuccino to go, please,’ she heard him demand.
Incredible. Read the room, Laurence: they’ll have none of your frothy coffees here. No skimmed milk either.
Cyril – trying and failing to stifle a snigger – informed Laurence that his hot drink options extended only as far as a cup of Tetley or Nescafé Gold Blend, neither of which were available to take away.
Moments later the bell tinkled again as the cafe door shut.
Rachel’s breath left her lungs in a rush of relief. She didn’t dislike Laurence, but nor did she want to see him. She felt guilty for breaking things off with him; she worried that she’d hurt him. Even though she had never given him cause to believe they were destined for the altar, he’d been horrified – disbelieving – when Rachel had said she didn’t think they had a future together.
As she shovelled forkfuls of buttery, cheese-topped baked potato into her mouth, Rachel reminded herself that she’d had good reasons for finishing with him. Laurence was inoffensive: nice-looking, tallish, a decent enough dresser. He was a pensions actuary and therefore earned good money. Laurence was what Rachel’s mum called ‘a solid prospect’: the steady sort of man who’d never miss a mortgage payment or absent-mindedly put petrol in his diesel car.
But after five months of casual dating, Rachel had realised that Laurence had begun making plans for them. He’d even started bookmarking properties on the Rightmove app. While she wouldn’t have minded living in a million-pound pad, Rachel couldn’t see her toothbrush sidling up to his for the next few decades. The fact that he was mapping their lives o
ut had actually made her blood run cold.
The thing was, Rachel had never pined for him when he wasn’t around. If they’d gone a week without meeting up, she hadn’t suffered for not seeing his face or struggled with the urgent need to touch him.
And while Rachel had been wise enough to know that the stage when you can’t keep your hands off each other always ends – either painfully or because it gives way to something deeper – she hadn’t been able to help thinking it was one you probably shouldn’t skip altogether. That was the bit that reminded you why you were with this person, even if they were crap at stacking the dishwasher or kept forgetting to put the bins out.
Rachel tipped her Coke can to her lips, shaking out the last of the fizz. She wondered if Jack was any good around the house. Somehow she couldn’t imagine him dealing with dirty plates or lugging black sacks of rubbish outside. He was too celestial-looking for grubby tasks, she thought sourly – not to mention charming and rich enough to have found someone else to do them for him.
It was time to go back to the office. Rachel stuffed her magazine back into her handbag and shrugged her coat on. She wore a vintage houndstooth Crombie – probably a man’s in its first life – and she loved it despite its frayed lining and tendency to absorb, rather than repel, rain water.
‘Cheers, Cyril,’ she said. ‘See you soon.’
‘See you, darlin’. Keep on smilin’.’
It was what he always said, but today Cyril’s standard farewell felt pointed – like he was issuing Rachel with a challenge.
Her near miss with Laurence had rattled her; she still needed to confess the break-up to her mother; her job might be at risk and her heartbreaking ex was R/C’s new office totty.
She nodded at Cyril as she left, lifting the corners of her mouth into something she was sure looked more like a grimace than a smile. For now, it was the best she could do.
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Rachel Ryan's Resolutions Page 4
