4. Forget that Laurence even EXISTS (despite usefulness of overblown ‘romantic’ gestures for creating illusion of deeply devoted boyfriend. Try not to spin any more tales re ‘boyfriend’ though – don’t want story to get too complicated … ) – situation is already quite complicated enough.
5. Try to remember Mum means well, even during phone calls where she implies I am doomed to a lonely life of penury because I am thirty with no partner, hardly any savings and no mortgage insists on talking about the babies/breasts of people I went to school with.
6. HOWEVER, do not (!!!) speak to Mum when suffering PMT. Set phone alerts for likely spells based on period tracker intel.
7. Try to address ‘hardly any savings’ situation. (If promoted, set aside extra earnings for future house deposit instead of spaffing it all on ASOS.) (Do not spend entire pay rise on ‘cheer up’ treats to distract from heinous ex-boyfriend mess.) hot new outfits for work – see 3c.)
8. Try to eat my five-a-day. (Remember horrid rule that potatoes do not count.)
9. Start using proper night cream with retinol. SERIOUSLY. Regularly apply retinol cream purchased from Boots in pursuit of perfect, Dev-style skin.
10. Do the best possible job helping Tom with exhibition. Be supportive and discreet re Oscar. Avoid arguing with Tom about Jack. Sort things out with Tom somehow.
11. Be a good friend (and bridesmaid) to Anna. Help with wedding organisation and keep selfish, sad worries about how much I’ll miss her to myself.
12. Find a way to end fake boyfriend pretence before it causes any more problems.
30
As Greg had predicted, Jack didn’t come into work the next day, or the day after that. Rachel knew that stories about them were still swirling around the office; every time she walked into the kitchen it went eerily quiet, and if she was a moment late to a meeting her entrance was typically accompanied by a sudden, uncomfortable hush.
Somehow, though, it had got through to a few of her colleagues that the situation was more complicated than initial reports implied – that Rachel wasn’t some formerly scorned woman out to steal back her married ex-lover during a rough patch in his relationship. While she was sure he’d said nothing to break her confidence, Rachel assumed she had Greg to thank for this.
When she arrived at the office early on Thursday, she was shocked – yet not surprised – to see Jack at his desk. She looked at him without flinching, taking in his tousled chestnut hair, razor-sharp bone structure and bright, dancing eyes.
Rachel felt almost as though she were seeing him for the first time. It was as if he were empty: a beautiful shell that she knew was hollow inside. He was a luxury Easter egg.
‘I guess you’ve heard some pretty unflattering things about me over the past few days,’ Jack said, eyeing her across the divide between their workstations. No one else from their team was in yet, and he’d apparently decided to seize this opportunity to speak to Rachel alone – to try to countermand the bad press he’d received in his absence.
‘I’m not sure that’s how I’d describe them,’ Rachel said, taking care to sound as detached as possible. ‘Unflattering implies that you’ve been misrepresented in some way.’
‘Clara – my soon-to-be ex-wife – has gone out of her way to make trouble. To make me look like the bad guy who’s responsible for our break-up. I’m sorry you got mixed up in that. I didn’t intend to start pursuing you, Ryan … It was more that I couldn’t help myself, especially as we were thrown together so much.’ He stared at her through his thick, dark lashes and flashed her a rueful smile worthy of an Emmy Award winner. ‘You’re a special kind of irresistible, you know. You always were.’
‘D’you know what I’ve realised, Jack?’ Rachel asked. ‘You’re an arch-manipulator partly because you’re never entirely dishonest. There’s always at least a shred of truth in whatever story you spin – you manage to convince even yourself that what you’re saying isn’t a lie, that what you’re doing isn’t deceitful. It gives you a very light touch. You’re credible even when you’re deliberately distorting things, because you feel no guilt.’
‘Ryan, look at me. I’m not spinning anything right now. I’m telling you honestly that, in spite of what you may have heard, my feelings for you are genuine.’
‘I don’t doubt that they are, on some level. But following them was also pretty useful for you, right? Stirring up a little office-romance drama allowed you to keep your hand in at home. You expected that, eventually, Clara would cave in and ask you to go back – or I’d cave in and agree to have you back. You were hedging your bets, and you thought you’d win either way. Your big mistake was underestimating Donna, wasn’t it? She embellished too much – spread more stories full of out-and-out lies than you ideally wanted. More than you realised. Then you played the Instagram card and your wife totally flipped – but not in the way you expected. She made you go back up there to finalise the split, didn’t she? Not to call off the divorce. My guess is that’s the only reason you’re back here.’
Rachel turned her face away from him and began typing an email.
‘It isn’t like that,’ Jack said – but his teeth were clamped together and his eyes had darkened. He looked uncomfortable. Defensive.
‘Oh, I think it is,’ Rachel said coolly, still focused on her laptop.
Jack was silent for a few minutes, as if he was trying to regroup – reviewing the situation before he chose his next tack.
The moment she sensed he was ready to launch a new charm offensive she said, ‘Do you want to know the one thing that I’ll never forgive you for? It isn’t that you cheated on me, or tried to convince me it was somehow my own fault. It isn’t that you showed up here knowing I worked for the agency, then claimed it was all a big surprise. It’s not that you had a hand in us being put on the same team. It’s not even that you came so close to making me fall for you again. What I will never forgive you for is lying to me about Lighthouse. I remember you promising me that you didn’t “engineer” the situation – that you didn’t ask for us to be put on the account, or play any part in how Isaac decided to staff it. But that’s not true, is it? Something felt weird about that first day Olivia came in, and it wasn’t just that she was early. You were uneasy – and when you first went over to speak with her, you sent me off to fetch Isaac and Greg. I remember seeing you with her and thinking, How has he managed to get her chatting so easily? She’d barely said two words to me. Then, when Greg and I met her on Monday, she asked after you. That struck me as pretty odd since she’s such a cold fish. I spoke to your boss that evening, you know.’
Jack’s lips fell apart at this, and his green eyes flickered with reluctant understanding.
‘I told him how things had been between us since January – about how you’d won my trust by being there for me while we worked on a project I found challenging. He let slip that you’d been key to even getting a pitching slot for Lighthouse, not to mention winning the account; something about a family connection. And it fell into place then. My guess is, she’s your aunt.’
Jack clenched his jaw, unwittingly emphasising its resemblance to Olivia Mason’s. ‘Yes, she’s my father’s sister. I helped to bring her in, but we both wanted to keep things professional – not difficult as she’s hardly the touchy-feely type. I didn’t know for sure that I – we – would end up on the project if we won the pitch, but of course there was a good chance.’
‘Congratulations, Jack,’ Rachel said, nodding at him in approval that was half-sarcastic, half-sincere. ‘That might be the first completely honest thing you’ve said to me in more than six months.’
Jack’s face, usually so inscrutable, betrayed his displeasure. He looked defeated, and Rachel couldn’t find it in herself to be sorry.
‘Morning, Jack – I didn’t know you were coming back today. Morning, Rachel,’ Donna said, from behind Rachel’s chair. ‘Isaac’s just called the main switch. He’s asked you to pop around the corner to Java Jo’s, Jack. Soon as you can.’
Jack’s eyebrows floated further up into his forehead than Rachel had ever seen them go before. He breathed a loud, exasperated sigh, pushed his chair back with a clatter and stamped away.
‘So,’ Donna hissed at Rachel once the office door had swung shut, ‘not content with trying to get your claws in while he and his wife were on a break, you’ve gone and got him sacked.’
She looked almost deranged, her eyes tight with contempt.
‘I’ve no idea what Isaac’s going to say to him,’ Rachel informed her. ‘But everything I’ve told him and Jack’s boss is true – and therefore nowhere near as exciting as the version of events you’ve been sharing with anyone who’ll listen. What did I ever do to you, Donna? Did I tread on your foot at some point while we were queuing for the printer? Did I accidentally steal your biro during a meeting? Or do you just hate anyone who seems a little less miserable than you are? I’ve actually had a stupendously shit year so far. But unlike you, I don’t delight in making other people feel crap. I could never feel better for making someone else’s situation worse. If Jack ends up leaving, I want you to know, you had a far greater hand in losing him his job than I did. In fact – you’re going to love this – your relentless shit-stirring has actually helped me out enormously. So thanks, Donna. You go and have yourself a lovely day.’
With that, Rachel swung her chair around and resumed work.
It was over a fortnight now since Tom had gone to Belfast, and Rachel had only heard from him once. She’d messaged him to apologise for their fight after the photo shoot and said there was more she wanted to tell him, if he was prepared to listen.
He wasn’t.
Tom: I can’t get into this right now … Can we talk when I get back?
She’d sent two texts after that – casual ‘how are you getting on’ messages that weren’t really casual at all. He hadn’t responded, which was agonising. He was due back in London in less than a week, and Rachel had no idea what happened then. Giving her the silent treatment would be pretty difficult for Tom if they were sitting opposite one another at the Hope – so would he go out of his way to avoid seeing her, never mind speaking to her, once he was home?
The exhibition press event was scheduled for the night of his return, and Rachel didn’t want to ruin it for him by turning up with things still unresolved. She was planning to stay away, but the thought of missing it made her feel sick. Missing Tom was making her feel sick.
Since they’d first met four years ago, they’d never gone so long without seeing or speaking to one another. Rachel hadn’t realised how much she relied on his calm, steady presence in her life – how much she looked forward to Friday evenings, or how much she valued her certainty that, if she needed him, he’d find a way to be there for her.
She hadn’t appreciated how much she enjoyed being with him either – how interesting and clever he was, or how well he understood her, how many times a week she messaged him just to share things she knew they’d both find funny.
Rachel had no idea whether she’d ever been more to Tom than a friend, but she was increasingly certain that – even if he’d harboured deeper feelings at one stage – she’d screwed things up beyond redemption.
As her dad lugged a box full of books towards the flat door, he groaned aloud, ‘Where’s that nice tall friend of yours with the glasses, Rachel? This is a young man’s job.’
‘He’s in Belfast, Dad. Away for work.’
‘You’ll have to make do with me, Mr Ryan,’ Will put in as he heaved Rachel’s chest of drawers along the corridor. ‘Though you can rest assured I will berate Tom for not being here for this – as soon as I can.’
‘Ach, call me Paddy. Mr makes me feel ancient.’
‘How much more stuff is there?’ Anna called from outside.
‘Just the wardrobe,’ Rachel yelled.
‘Cool, there’s a space in the van for it. We’re good.’
Ten minutes later, Rachel’s room in the Stroud Green flat was bare. There were dark patches of paint on the walls – rectangles of deeper colour where she’d had furniture or hung pictures. In the place where her bed had been, the carpet was an inch deep in dust.
‘Rachel Margaret Ryan, that’s a disgrace,’ her mum had said when they took the bed apart to put it in the van. Rachel couldn’t disagree.
As she stared around the home she was leaving, Rachel felt as choked with emotion as she’d thought she would. But blended with the pain of going away was the knowledge that this was necessary; this was right. Anna and Will needed to move on, and so did she. It was sort of like taking a plaster cast off a long-broken leg, Rachel thought. The skin that had sat beneath it might be pale and the muscles a little withered – but the cast had done its job. The bones it had protected were mended now, and it was time to put them to use again.
Much to her mother’s delight, Rachel was moving in with Conor, a second cousin of hers who was coming over from Dublin to take a job at a North London architectural firm. They were the same age, and as children they’d spent many summer holidays together – often ending up in scrapes that Lizzy had had to get them out of. Rachel hadn’t seen Conor in person since Christmas a couple of years ago, but they’d stayed in touch online and she had no doubt they’d rub along well as housemates.
Their new place was near Archway, just a few minutes’ bus ride from Anna’s flat. Rachel’s dad drove the van over there, followed by Anna and Will in his Mini, the back seat of which was packed with overstuffed bags of clothes and shoes.
Once both vehicles had been unloaded, Will suggested that he and Anna give Rachel and her parents a little time to start unpacking and get her settled in. Rachel and Anna’s goodbye was a strange, dramatic spectacle. They both sobbed, clinging to one another as though one of them were about to go to war. As it was, they were meeting up at a pub near Rachel’s new flat for dinner in roughly three hours’ time.
‘Tea,’ Rachel’s mum said, unboxing the new kettle Rachel had bought and fishing a plastic carton of milk from her gigantic tote bag. Once she, her husband and daughter were settled on the landlord’s sofa with mugs in their hands, she said, ‘I’m proud of you, Rachel. And while you think I’m a daft old bat who understands nothing, I know how hard today’s been for you. The only reason I ever worried about this happening was because I was scared you might not cope with it. But now I can see that you’re going to.’
‘I don’t think you’re a daft old bat,’ Rachel said. ‘Just a bit … Mrs Bennet about me still being single. But who knows, maybe I’ll find my Mr Darcy at Anna and Will’s wedding. Weddings are supposed to be good for meeting people, aren’t they?’
‘Mrs Bennet wasn’t the eejit she’s made out to be, you know – she had five daughters and no way to take care of them without marrying them off. Sorting them out with husbands wasn’t needless meddling, it was responsible parenting. And as for you finding a man … I don’t want you coupled up because I’m keen on the idea of a new hat, or because I think the only valid life choices for a woman are marriage and motherhood. I’m fifty-nine, not a hundred. You’re strong and successful, Rachel. I tell everyone how brilliant you are. Mrs O’Shea’s sick of hearing about London and advertising and your arty exhibition … She talks about nothing but how knackered she is now she’s doing two days of free childcare every week for her Helen. But I don’t want you to be alone, Rachel. When me and your dad are gone, I worry about who you’ll have …’
Bloody hell. Jean Ryan was crying.
‘It wasn’t supposed to be this way,’ she said. ‘You weren’t meant to be an only child, and I’m so sorry you are.’
‘Oh, Mum,’ Rachel murmured, pulling her closer. She was tiny and slight – only a little taller than Anna. Not for the first time, Rachel marvelled that a person this small had given birth to her.
‘It’s okay, Mum. I’m okay. We all miss her. And I promise you, I’m not going to end up alone and miserable.’
‘Sure you won’t,’ Rachel’s dad said. ‘Not when
you’ve inherited my stunning good looks. Now come on, the pair of you, and stop your crying. We need to rebuild Rachel’s bed – and based on the amount of nuts and bolts that came out of it this morning, we’d better get started if she’s going to want any sleep before next Thursday.’
Rachel arrived at the Hope on Friday night to find Anna and Will fighting over what remained of a packet of cheese and onion crisps.
‘Er. What the heck are you doing here?’ Anna asked her, bug-eyed.
‘Charming,’ Rachel said, throwing herself into a vacant chair and slinging her bags under the table.
‘I mean it,’ Anna said fiercely. ‘Why aren’t you on your way to the exhibition press night? You worked on it for months – your words are on display in a trendy gallery that, in about an hour’s time, is going to be stuffed full of journalists and celebrities. Not to mention shitloads of free snacks and drinks.’
‘I can’t go, Anna. You know why. We talked about this.’
Will took a gulp of Guinness – he’d developed a taste for it since Conor had started hanging out with them – then shook his head. ‘Have you and Tom still not sorted things?’ he asked. ‘Someone needs to bang your bloody heads together.’
‘What. Are. You. Talking. About?’ Anna demanded. Rachel had sworn her to secrecy about the fight she’d had with Tom, and Anna hadn’t breathed a word.
‘The fact that he loves her and, apparently, she’s now realised she loves him. Facts that nobody – apart from me, now – has actually stated out loud.’
‘How long have you known about this? And why in holy hell didn’t you tell me?’ Anna yelled.
‘Not my secret to tell,’ Will said with a shrug. ‘And … I dunno. A couple of years, maybe? Three years tops.’
Anna’s jaw had dropped. Rachel was staring, not quite able to believe she was hearing this.
‘I mean, he’s never actually made a confession of love or anything,’ Will was saying. ‘I just know.’
Rachel Ryan's Resolutions Page 35
