Rachel Ryan's Resolutions

by Laura Starkey

  ‘Wow. So it’s a schmaltzy popularity contest, like something from an American teen movie. It’s making me feel ill and it hasn’t even happened yet. It’s a miracle my food is staying down.’

  ‘Mock all you like, but people are going to love it. And it gets better: who d’you think Toby has put in charge of this whole thing?’

  ‘Oh God … No,’ Rachel sighed as she reviewed the most likely candidates and arrived at the obvious, ominous conclusion.

  ‘YES!’ Greg grinned, delighting in Rachel’s dread. ‘Donna will be taking payments, keeping track of who’s ordered what and making sure all the balloons make it to their rightful owners. I wouldn’t put it past her to steam open all the envelopes before the cards are attached to them, while she’s at it.’

  ‘Ugh. Nor would I,’ Rachel said. ‘This is madness: she’s already far too interested in other people’s lives. Letting her do this is like licensing her to be Chief Office Gossip. Toby might as well have given her a plaque for her desk.’

  Greg laughed. ‘Yep. But there it is.’

  ‘I’m not looking forward to this,’ Rachel said. ‘I’ve always hated Valentine’s Day, but at least in years gone by I was safe from it in the workplace.’

  ‘What are you more afraid of?’ Greg asked. ‘Getting a balloon from Jack or not getting a balloon from Jack?’

  Rachel mashed at her drink’s limp mint garnish with her straw before meeting his eyes.

  ‘Honestly?’ she said. ‘I’m afraid of caring either way.’

  15

  ‘Happy Valentine’s Day!’ Greg yelled at Rachel as she strode across the office on Thursday morning. She grimaced and threw a sarcastic thumbs up in his direction, ignoring his sniggers as she fought her way towards her own desk, wading through the sea of pink and red that obscured her route.

  R/C’s open-plan workspace was a hellscape of tacky romantic paraphernalia. In addition to the hundreds of balloons tied to the backs of her colleagues’ plastic swivel chairs, vases of flowers sat on desks, large glass jars of chocolate hearts were strategically placed near every workstation and glittery, bright-pink bunting that spelled out LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE had been suspended from several ceiling-height bookcases. Bleuch.

  It appeared that around half the people here today had also followed Donna’s mandate to ‘get into the spirit of things’ by wearing red, pink or otherwise festive clothing. Rachel spotted Kemi leaning against Ivan’s desk, reading the card that had been attached to a balloon he’d been sent. She was wearing a red denim miniskirt and a bright white T-shirt with a gigantic heart emblazoned across the boobs. She’d even adorned some of her braids with red beads.

  Rachel was pleased that, along with her black skinny jeans, she’d put on a blue-and-yellow star-print shirt this morning. It would have pained her to comply with one of Donna’s ridiculous diktats accidentally.

  Feeling almost traumatised by the office decor, Rachel arrived at her desk and dumped her stuff. Opposite her, Jack was barely visible inside a cloud of balloons. His desk and chair were festooned with them, some tied to his seat and others – presumably those that wouldn’t fit alongside the rest – placed around his computer monitor, weighted down with heavy plastic hearts.

  ‘Urgh,’ she sighed, searching for his face among what seemed like a hundred inflated orbs. ‘It’s not exactly subtle, is it?’

  Jack batted a pink balloon aside and grinned at her. ‘We did this every year in Manchester. I think it’s rather sweet.’

  ‘You would,’ Rachel grumbled. ‘You’re always voted prom king.’

  Something like jealousy squirmed inside her as she surveyed the evidence of his Office Heart-Throb status. No doubt the majority of these balloons were from Kemi’s gang of Jack fans. He looked as if he neither knew nor cared who’d sent them – and also, infuriatingly, as though he wasn’t in the least surprised to have received many more Valentines than anybody else in the room.

  ‘Do you think it’s safe to approach the kitchen?’ Rachel asked. ‘Or will I be required to recite a sonnet before I’m allowed across the threshold?’

  Jack’s smile widened. ‘Could you recite a sonnet if someone … I don’t know – say, me – decided to bar your way?’

  She glanced at him, managing to look disdainful despite the playful glimmer in his green eyes. ‘Of course I could.’

  ‘You remember more from our Shakespeare module than I do, then,’ he said with a shrug, referring to a ten-week stint they’d spent studying poetry, plays and performance in their second year of university.

  ‘That’s hardly surprising,’ Rachel huffed, remembering how reliant he’d been on her research when they were writing their final essays. She stood up, brushing off the memory of his head bent close to hers, poring over The Tempest at a lamplit table in the library. ‘Do you want anything to drink?’

  Jack shook his head, his mouth twitching, teasing her with another smirk. ‘Surely you’re not going to pretend you can’t see those three balloons tied to the back of your chair?’

  ‘Of course I can see them. I’m doing my best to ignore them.’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t have that,’ Jack said, shaking his head. ‘As your resident man from Mountaintop, I insist that you try a bit harder to participate in today’s carefully planned fun.’

  Rachel curled her fingertips, making air quotes at him. ‘“Carefully planned fun”. The clue is in the name. Forced jollity is never actually enjoyable – it’s a law of nature, like gravity. What goes up must come down, and organised merriment is awful.’

  Jack laughed and shook his head again. ‘Who pissed on your Coco Pops this morning? And don’t change the subject. Don’t make me stand in the kitchen doorway and demand to be paid for passage in poetry, Ryan. Open the bloody cards.’

  Calling her by her surname was a clear manipulation – he was crossing a line and they both knew it. It had always been his way of signalling endearment, oddly laced with a reaffirmation of distance; evidence that she was just another mate, but also proof that she was different from the short-lived ‘girlfriends’ whose surnames he never learned. He hadn’t dared to try it again until now.

  At the same time as Rachel’s eyebrows shot up in shock, she felt herself thrill at the sheer cheek of him.

  ‘Oh, fine,’ she sighed, sitting down dramatically.

  The first balloon – a cerise-pink one – was clearly from Greg. The card that came with it read:

  Roses are red, hedges are green, you’re DEEPLY sarcastic but still Copy Queen. PS: Yoga again next Thursday – no excuses.

  She smiled at it and propped it up against a pile of paperwork.

  Rachel’s second balloon was red, with a card that was obviously from Kemi.

  Thx for all your support over the past few years with work (also for always getting me home when I’m hammered, ha!). Put a word in for me if you’re still determined not to go for it yourself … YKWIM ;-) xxx

  Rachel made a face, then slid the card across her desk until it disappeared beneath a notepad.

  Balloon number three was a pale rosy pink. Rachel felt Jack watching her as she fumbled to open the note that was stuck to it. The message was written in graceful, looping handwriting she recognised immediately.

  I’m better when I’m (working) with you. Thanks. J x

  Colour crept up her neck and into her face. She had no idea what to say – no clue what this even meant.

  ‘Coffee,’ she blurted, shooting up out of her seat. ‘I still need a coffee. Are you sure you don’t want coffee? Tea?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Jack said, a small smile settling on his lips.

  Rachel turned away, afraid to look at it, and scurried in the direction of the kitchen.

  A couple of hours later, Rachel was lost in the life of Lady Sarah Latymer, once resident at the flagship British House and Garden Heritage property, Hartwell Abbey.

  Lady Sarah had been the darling of the late-nineteenth-century literary set; a patron of novelists, poets, playwright
s and artists. She’d had passionate affairs with both male and female writers, controversially championed universal suffrage and home rule for Ireland, and had given over most of the abbey for use as a convalescent home for injured soldiers during the First World War.

  Her husband, Lord George Latymer, was dull as ditchwater by comparison but, aware of their client’s flagrant misogyny, Rachel took care to include him in the narrative she was currently weaving around Hartwell: the story she wanted to tell about Sarah’s life through the building she lived in, the clothes she wore and the letters, images and objects that had survived her.

  The sample content on Hartwell Abbey was a core part of the proposal Rachel and Jack had been working on ever since last week’s breakfast at Cyril’s Kitchen. They’d be meeting with Humphrey tomorrow to present their vision for BHGH’s new digital strategy, and it would be the first test of her skills since Greg had recommended her for promotion – as well as the first time she and Jack would be jointly responsible for a pitch.

  Rachel knew that, if all went well, she and Jack would cement senior management’s view of them as a talented, well-matched team – but despite her ambivalence about providing proof that their pairing could work, she couldn’t bring herself to root for failure. As a half-Irish state-school-educated woman, she wanted to wipe the sneer off Humphrey’s florid face by showing him a plan so compelling he couldn’t spurn it. She and Jack were due to review one another’s contributions to their presentation one last time this afternoon, then run a final version past Isaac, Greg and Toby.

  As Rachel read through her copy, deleting the odd word and replacing others with clearer alternatives, she heard Donna’s reedy voice ring out from the other side of the room. ‘Rachel Ryan? Seriously? Well, if you’re absolutely sure. She’s over there.’

  A young man bearing an obscenely oversized flower arrangement was following the direction of Donna’s pointed finger. When his eyes found Rachel, he started moving her way.

  ‘What the actual fuck …?’ she murmured under her breath.

  Jack didn’t hear her, but emitted a whistle as the vast bouquet sailed towards their workstation. His lips had parted in astonishment at the sheer heft of the thing, and his eyes were wide and full of questions.

  ‘Sign here, please,’ the delivery guy said to Rachel as he deposited the flowers at the foot of her desk. The arrangement was way too big to fit on top among all her work stuff. Rachel scribbled her signature on the proffered tablet and wished that everyone would stop staring at her. Donna was eyeing her with frank disbelief.

  Close up, Rachel could see that there must be a hundred red and cream roses here. They were elegant and lovely with richly coloured velvet-soft petals. The dozens of stems were tightly packed into a circular container a little like a hatbox, which bore the florist’s name and King’s Road address in neat gilt letters. A thick cream envelope was nestled amongst the blooms, and Rachel’s fingers trembled slightly as she reached for it. She couldn’t think of anyone who’d send her such a lavish, expensive gift on a day she didn’t even like. That mystery aside, the sheer spectacle of all this was mortifying.

  She tore open the card and read it, shock and disbelief giving way to furious anger within seconds.

  The roses were from Laurence.

  Giacomo’s, tonight at 7.30. I’ll have champagne on ice. You know it makes sense. L x

  Jack cleared his throat loudly as Rachel looked up from her flowers. He was rolling his shoulder blades back as though to release some tension between them. If the rage that had seized her was written on Rachel’s features, Jack apparently couldn’t read it.

  ‘And there was me thinking I was popular,’ he muttered, perhaps less playfully than he’d intended. There was an edge to his voice that sounded almost resentful.

  Jack isn’t happy that someone else has sent me flowers. Rachel recognised her enjoyment of this immediately, choosing to acknowledge it but not analyse the reasons why her bouquet should bother him.

  Right now, it simply felt satisfying that – probably for the first time – Jack was realising he might not be her dream date. Rachel let the idea settle around her like a cool mist, soothing her ire. She stayed silent, staring in awe at the roses, contemplating the bizarre truth: in being such an arrogant, flashy idiot, Laurence may just have done her a favour.

  ‘Er … Wow,’ Jack said. ‘I didn’t know you were attached.’ The words came out formal and forced, almost petulant.

  ‘Well. Why would you?’ Rachel replied, all innocence. ‘I never said.’

  It wasn’t exactly a lie, she told herself. More like economy with the truth: a careful dance around the facts. Besides, she didn’t owe Jack anything – he hadn’t mentioned his wife in the whole time they’d been working together. He had zero right to any knowledge of her personal life.

  Rachel pulled her mobile out of her handbag and snapped a photo of her massive bouquet, as if she were about to post it on Instagram. She took care to smile into her phone as she pretended to type out a gushing caption.

  In reality, she was texting Laurence.

  Rachel: Hey. The flowers are lovely. But you really, REALLY shouldn’t have, and not just because I hate Valentine’s Day. I think we said all we needed to say last time we met, so it’s a no re tonight. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear. Please, take someone else out for dinner and fizz. I hope it goes well if you do. R.

  That should do it, she thought. Polite and kind, but firm. Unambiguous.

  Three dots skipped across the bottom of the screen as Laurence typed his response.

  Laurence: Like I said: 7.30 tonight. I’ll be standing by with the Moet. You know you’d rather drink bubbles with me than eat an M&S ready meal for one. Be there or be … single? L xxxxx

  Rachel felt ferocious – more capable of violence than at any other point in her thirty years on the planet. What the hell made Laurence think she’d be home alone and miserable tonight? That she needed this attempt at a chivalrous intervention? For all he knew she was off out with someone nice – someone who wouldn’t win gold, silver and bronze at the Backhanded Compliment Olympics.

  The fact that Laurence was sort of right about her plans for the evening was totally irrelevant, she told herself.

  Rachel took care not to let the anger burning in her belly make its way up to her face. She smiled gently at Laurence’s message, decided it was pointless to reply and plopped her phone back into her bag.

  ‘Big plans tonight, then?’ Jack asked her, without looking up from his computer screen. He didn’t want to meet her eyes, it seemed – and his evasiveness amused her.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Rachel replied, ‘absolutely.’

  Again, not a lie, as such. Rewatching To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before on Netflix had been on her to-do list for weeks. She was genuinely looking forward to it.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Jack was quiet. Chastened. Perhaps even a little sulky. Rachel couldn’t help taking pleasure in his prickliness – revelling in the knowledge that his ego had been bruised.

  Not only did his discomfort feel like divine retribution for all the time she’d spent pining over him during their uni days, it also sharpened the outline of their relationship, which had become increasingly fuzzy since that Friday trip to Bourton.

  Rachel had already realised that while Jack thought she had a boyfriend she felt safer – though from what, exactly, she wasn’t sure. Maybe from his flashes of flirtatiousness, which, in truth, his own marital status really ought to prevent. Maybe from her own feelings: her growing awareness that she was no safer from fancying him than Kemi’s gaggle of ‘Hot Harper’ obsessives.

  They met to chat through their presentation, trying to ensure they’d anticipated all the awkward questions Humphrey might ask and then taking Isaac, Toby and Greg through the slides. Jack didn’t mention the flowers again, or the plans he thought she had. She deliberately didn’t ask him what he was doing, though she assumed he’d be having dinner with his pretty wife. In wh
ich case, she wondered why he seemed so morose.

  At 5.30 p.m. precisely, Rachel shut the lid of her laptop, unplugged it and packed it away. She’d worked hard enough that she didn’t need to stay late, but she was also keen for Jack to observe her exit from the office – even if, under the weight of a hundred roses, this was less graceful than she’d have liked.

  His ‘Have a good night’ was half-hearted, and Rachel tried not to interrogate why that made her so happy. Only when she was walking from her bus stop back to the flat did she feel her good mood begin to wobble. She was staggering, struggling to manoeuvre her gigantic box of blooms – the sight of which was making other pedestrians point and stare. To many, she knew, she was a Valentine’s Day success: one of the lucky women who’d received gifts symbolic of deep, sincere devotion.

  The truth was that Rachel had almost dumped Laurence’s bouquet in a skip halfway between the R/C office and the nearest northbound bus shelter. In the moment, though, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It wasn’t the flowers who’d insulted her. They didn’t deserve to die unloved, carelessly thrown away amid old vinyl flooring, broken light fittings, empty beer cans and the mouldering remains of kebabs.

  Laurence himself was another matter, of course. If Rachel could have cast him into a pit packed full of rubbish and dubious days-old meat, she’d have done it in a heartbeat. It was curious, she thought, that he could claim to adore her at the same time as making it so abundantly clear he believed she was a charity case. How else could she interpret his certainty that, without him, she’d wind up alone? She’d rather be alone than with Laurence: that much she knew for sure.

  Rachel dropped the hatbox onto the doorstep of her building, searched for her keys and pulled them from the bottom of her handbag. As she pushed her way inside, dragged the flowers down the hall and opened the door to the flat, she tried to ignore the voice inside her head that was saying: Surely you’d prefer secret option number three, though? Being with someone great?