Rachel read the copy: ANGELBARS: slimming never tasted sweeter. It was somehow both stupidly offensive and offensively stupid.
She sighed and was surprised to hear the exhalation lapse into a laugh, a tired, sad chuckle that swelled into something crazy. As she giggled, she realised this was partly because, after his performance the other night, she couldn’t help imagining Tom trying to imitate Jessica’s latest pose.
‘What in the world are you laughing at?’ Jack asked. He turned away from the bus and fixed his eyes on his feet.
Rachel wiped tears from her lashes and shook off her outburst, glad to see that Jack had been unsettled by the sudden reappearance of the woman he’d cheated on her with. His lips had turned down and he was frowning, frustrated – as if pissed off that fate had seen fit to photobomb his carefully planned ‘I’m sorry’ scene.
‘Seriously,’ he said, ‘I’m confused. I see nothing funny about any of this.’
Rachel shrugged and shot him a sly smile of her own.
‘You wouldn’t,’ she said, and went back to ignoring him.
6
‘It’s a clusterfuck,’ Rachel declared as she took another sip of gin and tonic. ‘A total and utter disaster. The agency’s being taken over, everything at work is going to change … and then he has to turn up into the bargain. You could – not – make – it – up.’
She drained her glass and put it down on the table, then looked around at her friends. Will’s soft, usually smiling eyes were anxious and Anna was biting a nail. Tom was frowning, turning a cardboard beermat over and over in his hands.
‘I just can’t believe it,’ Anna said. ‘I mean … what are the chances?’
‘I know. It would probably be funny if it weren’t so BLOODY AWFUL.’
Will heaved himself up off the leather sofa he’d sunk into. Recognising that it was probably the most useful contribution he could make to the conversation right now, he said, ‘I’ll go to the bar.’
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ Rachel sighed. The last of her rage had ebbed away and she felt empty, deflated. Dangerously close to tears.
Slumped down in her seat, she tipped her head back to stare at the ornate ceiling of the pub – an old gin palace on the road into Crouch End. About halfway between the girls’ flat and Will and Tom’s place, the Hope Tavern was elegant yet unpretentious: the kind of place that served real ale, a wide selection of gins and a good Sunday roast. It had original stained glass in its heavy mahogany doors, dark wood panelling on the walls and roaring real fires in winter.
The four of them ended up here most Fridays, sometimes with additional boyfriends and girlfriends if Rachel and Tom were seeing people. Traditionally, though, their ‘start the weekend’ meet-up was cheerier than this.
‘Maybe I should just leave – look for another job,’ Rachel said, squeezing her eyes shut in the hope that, when she opened them again, everything might be back to normal.
‘Hmm. That seems extreme, Rach.’
She opened one eye to look at Tom, who was peering at her over the remnants of his pint.
‘Why should you quit a job you’re good at and which – vegetable bullshit aside – you mostly enjoy? A takeover like this is bound to feel scary, but I doubt you’re someone the business will want to lose, even if they’re planning to let people go. A restructure could even be good for you. Isn’t it worth sticking around to find out?’
Rachel groaned at him good-naturedly.
‘Thomas, do you always have to be so bloody rational?’
He shrugged and smiled, opening his palms in apology. ‘I can’t help it. Wisdom is the cross I have to bear.’
Rachel sat up straighter and made a face at him. ‘The trouble is, this is not a simple question of what makes sense, career-wise. It’s about whether I can stand being in the same office as someone who …’
‘Broke your heart,’ Anna put in: a statement rather than a question.
‘I was going to say: someone who totally screwed me over and is a massive cheating twat.’
‘Oh.’
‘I guess only you know how strongly you still feel about him,’ Tom said, fiddling with the beermat again. ‘I mean, er, about what happened. But I somehow doubt he’ll be a shit to you at work. He sounds too clever and far too selfish to risk his own reputation. More likely he’ll stay out of your way, especially if you warn him off.’
‘Maybe,’ Rachel replied, her chin cupped in her hands. ‘It might be we don’t have that much to do with each other at work anyway … We’re in different departments, I suppose. And just so we’re clear, I do not have “strong feelings” for Jack – or about how things ended between us.’
She tried not to wince as his name left her lips.
‘In that case,’ Tom said, ‘what’s the harm in giving yourself a few weeks just to see how you handle being around the … what was it? “Massive cheating twat”? Then, if you decide it’s too uncomfortable, you can start job-hunting.’
Unable to argue with this, Rachel nodded. Will passed her another pink G&T and she popped the gin-soaked raspberry garnish into her mouth, chewing it slowly in order to avoid saying anything.
‘It’s a bit of a piss-take, this happening at the same time as that busty type’s started turning up on buses, isn’t it?’ Will observed, in a surprise intervention.
Anna gave him a look that said: YOU’RE CRAP AT THIS, SHUT UP IMMEDIATELY.
‘It kind of is, isn’t it?’ Rachel murmured, suddenly more inclined to see the funny side than she’d been all day. Anna was still staring murderously at Will in defence of her friend’s presumed sensitivities, while Tom looked agog at this sudden decision to wade in.
‘I mean, if you were superstitious, you could almost see this as … a sign,’ Will went on, encouraged by Rachel’s agreement and finishing his point in dramatic fashion, his tone reminiscent of Mystic Meg.
Anna threw a half-melted ice cube at his head.
‘A sign of what?’ Tom asked, his eyebrows drawn together. ‘Are you saying this is God’s way of telling Rachel this arsehole belongs in her life? That they’re star-crossed lovers or something?’
At this, Rachel choked slightly on a slurp of gin.
Anna patted her on the back. ‘It’s not a sign of anything,’ she said with conviction. ‘There are no signs. There is no force ordering the universe: everything’s random, even stuff that feels like it can’t be.’
‘But what about—’ Will began.
Anna’s thunderous expression killed the question before it was fully formed.
‘It’s us who make stories, find connections, forge links between totally disparate events. We do it to suit our own agendas,’ she decreed. She had resorted to using her Teacher Voice, so everyone understood that the matter was now closed.
‘Busty, though, mate. Busty?!’ Tom suddenly burst out. ‘I haven’t heard that word since I was about fifteen. Anna, next time you’re at ours I strongly suggest you check under his bed for old issues of Razzle magazine.’
Later, as Will and Tom chatted to Nick, the pub’s landlord, Anna asked Rachel all the questions she’d held back while the men were within earshot.
‘So hit me: Is Jack still a heartbreaker or have the years been unkind? Does he have the receding hairline he so richly deserves?’
Rachel shook her head bitterly. ‘Far from it. He looks almost the same. Possibly better, bearing in mind he now wears a suit instead of a student-newspaper hoodie.’
‘Damn it. Should have known it was too much to hope that he’d turn into a troll.’
‘Way too much,’ Rachel agreed.
‘And did you … were you … interested? Affected?’
Rachel cringed. ‘Anna, within a few minutes of him being introduced to the staff I got an IM from a colleague who was already picturing him naked. Even I’m not sure how he does it – but pretty much everyone in the office was “affected”.’
‘Way to dodge the question, Rach.’
‘I’
m not dodging! I’m just not sure what you’re asking me.’
‘I’m asking if you, personally, felt anything. Not necessarily the earth moving, but … a spark. An atmosphere. Chemistry. Anything that might signal I need to question your sanity, or should start preparing to stage an intervention.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I spent most of the day feeling physically sick at the sight of him or wishing he’d fall into a big hole. Then, when he told me he was sorry and he’d changed and blah blah blah, I made it very clear that I’ve filed him under A for Arsehole. Permanently.’
‘Good,’ Anna said. ‘Just … keep your wits about you while you work out what to do next. We wouldn’t want him charming his way back into your in-tray. By which I mean, your knickers.’
‘Anna!’ Rachel screeched in outrage, feeling her insides lurch at the thought.
‘Okay, fine, I’ll stop. I still can’t believe it’s really happened, though. Do you think it could be a sign?’
‘What the fuck?! What happened to “There are no signs, the universe is random”?’
‘Nothing. I think it’s all bobbins, as previously stated. But what do you think?’
‘Ugh, I don’t know,’ Rachel moaned, and scrubbed a hand across her forehead. ‘If it’s a sign of anything, it’s that I have terrible taste in men. I binned off Laurence because he wasn’t “enough”, and now – as if to underline that I’m the Goldilocks of dating – along comes Jack to remind me what happens when I go out with someone who’s too much. The search for someone just right continues … Probably forever.’
Anna laughed and shook her head. ‘Did you check for a ring?’
Rachel sipped her drink, then wrinkled her nose. ‘A ring? How d’you mean?’
‘Oh my God, Rachel. You didn’t think to check for a wedding band? He’s, what, thirty-two-ish by now? Yes, he did a gap year, if I remember rightly – so he’s older than us. He could easily be married. He might even have kids!’
Realisation hit Rachel with the force of a breeze block. When she’d looked at him this morning, she’d seen her Jack: the one she’d adored, then felt utterly broken by. In reality, though, he could be a completely different person by now.
He could be someone else’s Jack, legally bound to them in marriage. He might belong to multiple other people, if he’d become a father. Rachel felt her heart squeeze as she pictured him with children.
He’d insisted that he’d changed, but Rachel had failed to consider what that might mean over and above ‘I no longer tell women I love them, then sleep with other people.’
I’ve been an idiot, she said to herself. He’s probably got some beautiful, intelligent wife back in Manchester – one of those women who produces perfect pudgy babies, gets her figure back within five minutes and then returns to her highly successful career as a neurosurgeon.
No wonder Jack had tried to avoid dredging up the past when he saw her today. To him, it was the past. Old news, long forgotten. Rachel suddenly felt desolate. She desperately wished she’d done something – found someone – to render the events of ten years ago as meaningless for her as they surely were for him.
Could Will be right? Perhaps the universe was trying to tell her something.
Then, just as Tom reappeared with another tray of drinks, a horrible thought occurred to her: maybe the cosmos was trying to deliver the same message as her mother.
‘More booze,’ Tom said, handing Rachel a glass.
‘Thanks,’ she replied. ‘Much needed.’
‘I’m sure. And I got these too,’ he said, extracting several bags of crisps from his back pockets before sitting down.
‘Prawn cocktail! You’re the best,’ Rachel sighed, snatching up a packet and hugging it in delight.
‘Just keep them to yourself,’ Tom laughed. ‘They’re vile – I don’t know how you can eat them.’
Anna and Will nodded their agreement. The three of them tore into two packs of cheese and onion, leaving Rachel to devour her own snack without sharing.
‘I have something else that might cheer you up,’ Tom said once everyone had stopped munching. ‘How do you fancy helping me out with some copywriting?’
‘Really?’ Rachel asked. ‘How come? What d’you need?’
‘Well, as of today I’m working on a photography exhibition for a PR agency – I got the green light this afternoon. They want me to take the images, but also help curate the thing … We’re calling it #NoFilter, and the idea is that it’ll feature celeb types, body positivity campaigners, mental health experts and so on – all in pictures that haven’t been retouched or manipulated. The idea is to explore hidden stories, peep beneath the surface at what’s real. Or at least as real as the PR people will let things get … The exhibition is really about helping some of their clients seem a bit less, er, two-dimensional.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Rachel said, meaning it. ‘But what d’you need me for?’
‘Well, the budget’s pretty tight but there’s scope for me to get some help with the words that will appear next to the portraits. I’d far rather work with you than some random writer, if you’re up for it. Basically, you’d be rewording material sent to us so it sounds cleverer, or in some cases meeting the celebs to find out what they’d like to say on the theme of the exhibition.’
‘Wow. I mean, I’ve never done anything like that before …’
Exasperated, Anna cut across her. ‘She’ll do it. She’s in.’
Rachel threw her a dark look.
‘Oh, come on, you’re well capable. It’ll be fun. Plus, you need a distraction from the disaster zone that is your actual job, after today.’
‘That’s true,’ Rachel said. ‘But I’ll have to make sure nobody at work objects. I don’t want to be accused of moonlighting.’
‘On the money I’ll be paying you, you won’t be,’ Tom assured her. ‘Look, let’s meet up tomorrow and I can explain a bit more. Then, if you decide you’re not up for it, I promise I won’t be offended.’
‘How can I say no? You bought me pink crisps in my hour of need.’
‘Yep – I’m a regular hero.’
Anna glanced at Tom, then said, ‘Shall I get a final round?’
‘For sure.’ Rachel nodded. ‘Let’s drink to The Worst Ever Day At Work, TM.’
‘Your worst ever,’ Anna said. ‘But let’s not forget the day Rajesh Bains in Year 10 set fire to his GCSE poetry anthology five minutes into my perfectly planned lesson on Robert Browning. Little rat.’
Rachel broke into raucous giggles, remembering Anna’s story of a hastily scrambled bucket of water, an abandoned lecture on ‘My Last Duchess’, several soggy teenagers protesting that the incident had waterlogged forbidden iPhones, and her subsequent, irate phone call to Rajesh’s parents.
‘We’ll drink to that too, then: to Rajesh, and his hatred of randy dukes who execute their wives. Best make them doubles.’
7
Rachel woke just before eight on Saturday morning, immediately grateful that she wasn’t more hung-over. She felt a little grotty, but experience told her this low-level ickiness was nothing a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea couldn’t cure.
Then she remembered why she’d sunk so much gin in the first place. The company takeover. Jack. Her argument with Jack.
Bleurgh.
Rachel curled into a ball and pulled the duvet over her head. Even a Cyril’s full English wouldn’t be comfort food enough to soothe her now.
She heard the fzzzz-fzzzz of her phone vibrating on her bedside table and extended a hand from beneath the bluebell-patterned bedclothes. After a moment’s groping, she had it.
A WhatsApp from Tom.
Tom: Morning! You still up for meeting today to chat about the exhibition? x
Gah, she’d forgotten about this too – but it seemed churlish to back out now, even though she’d only said yes thanks to a combination of Anna’s strong-arming and Tom’s strategic snack selection.
Besides, Tom had been typically sage and su
pportive last night; he’d done Rachel the service of saying things that were genuinely helpful rather than just what she might have wanted to hear. It was definitely her turn to help him for a change.
Rachel: Yep. When and where? (FYI, am still in bed … ) x
Tom: Of course you are, it’s early. Just didn’t want to give you the chance to overthink this and back out
Rachel, still cocooned in bed, emitted a muffled moan. She always felt like an impostor in Soho – not young, attractive or arty enough to hang out in the same spots as narrow-hipped twenty-somethings wearing cropped tops and ironic trainers.
As for meeting Tom’s colleague … The last thing Rachel felt capable of this morning was making nice with a complete stranger, let alone a PR type who probably specialised in blowing smoke up the backsides of C-list celebs.
But she wasn’t going to let Tom down – not least because he’d already called her out on the temptation to bottle this.
She tapped out a reply.
Rachel: Me? Overthink? Never. See you there x
Rachel arrived at Janssens with five minutes to spare. She had on her skinniest jeans, black hiking boots and an oversized eighties-style teal jumper she’d recently snapped up on Depop. Her freshly washed hair was pulled into an unruly bun, high on top of her head.
She glanced at herself in the reflective surface of a craft beer tap. She’d looked pretty good when she left the house, she thought – but after her short walk here from Leicester Square, the tip of her long, straight nose was bright pink with cold. It gave her a rabbity air.
She felt a hand on her shoulder.
‘Hey,’ Tom said. ‘Thanks for coming. You find it okay?’
She smiled and nodded. ‘Google Maps is my friend.’
Rachel Ryan's Resolutions Page 6
