by Abigail Mann
‘I know. I’m sorry, it wasn’t because of him, or the golf,’ I add, lamely. Rhea pushes her ponytail over one shoulder and folds her arms.
‘Well, you’d better stick around for the next one, okay? The guy’s all lined up, but I’ve had to pull some serious strings at the O2 Arena and we’re using a fair bit of what little capital we have left to—’
‘You don’t need to, Rhea. I’ve got the date sorted.’
‘You have?’
I nod furiously. By ‘sorted’ I mean ‘will sort’, because I can’t let this campaign fall any further from my original idea. At this rate, it’ll look like every other novelty night out advertised in Friday’s Metro supplement. Yes, last night was a disaster, but I’ve got to step up now, because I can’t bear the thought of admitting to Annie that I let someone else take credit for my idea and then pulp and pound it into something I don’t recognise.
‘Yeah, there’s this charity thing in Mayfair. I’ll send you the details in the week.’ That’s it, Elissa. Keep it nice and vague so you don’t have to describe a non-existent date.
‘Well, you better let me know soon, because I’ll need to tell Oliver. Or Niko. I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Any chance I can choose them this time?’ Rhea makes a noise partway between a goose honking and air leaving a balloon.
‘No. Not with something this important. I’ve got your profile, anyway, that’s more than enough to work with.’
‘You wrote my profile.’
‘Look.’ Rhea twists her hand, inspecting an immaculate French manicure. ‘You do the venue and I’ll find the man.’ Coming from someone shagging Mitchell, who looks like the love child of Steve Jobs and a chicken egg, this doesn’t fill me with hope. ‘Anyway, there’s a potential new investor in today, so if they ask you about the new app, say that it’s going really well and throw in the word “community” a lot. I know Rodney’s still working on the coding for the new matching algorithm, but they don’t need to know that it’s essentially me making the decisions at the moment. Got it?’ She squeezes my forearm and for a moment I think she’s going to give me a Chinese burn, but instead she laughs and flashes me a smile so toothy I can see her invisible braces.
‘Got it.’
As Rodney finishes sticking loose cables to the skirting board with masking tape, Mitchell bursts through the door, laughing and slapping the back of a man in a crisp open shirt and light grey blazer, followed by two others.
Bismah springs up and stands beside her desk, hands clasped behind her back as though she’s about to meet the queen, whereas Rodney has wheeled the whiteboard half a foot to the side, which is the closest he’s come to greeting a stranger. Mitchell jogs into the workspace and the others follow the line of his arm as he motions towards each of us. Rhea nods, arms crossed, and Bismah holds out a hand even though they’re much too far away to shake it. Adam brings up the rear of the group, wearing suit trousers, a T-shirt, and sockless boat shoes. Ah, he’s tried. I refresh our Twitter feed and try to look focused and purposeful, but a clip of a racoon attacking a broom starts playing and I slip into a goofy smile.
‘Working hard?’ a voice says from behind. I exit the browser with lightning speed, but it wasn’t quick enough. Grey blazer man is smirking at me from the air hockey table and I feel warmth rush into my cheeks from the pit of my stomach.
‘Haha, yeah, it’s research. I’m looking for a way to—’ I pause and lean forward. ‘Hang on, we’ve met, haven’t we?’ Chiselled jawline. Soft eyes. Cropped hair.
‘How’s the training going?’ he asks, slipping his hands into his pockets, smiling.
‘Heath man! Er, man from the Heath. You got me some water,’ I garble.
‘I did,’ he says. ‘Nice to see you again.’ Thank God I’m in normal clothes today. I tap my cheeks to see if they’ve returned to a normal colour and they burn under my fingertips. Ah, still as red as the last time we met. Wonderful.
‘I haven’t seen you about. Are you still running?’ He glances down at his shoes and scuffs them softly against the carpet. Has he been looking out for me?
‘Yeah, yeah, but I got an injury. In my leg. So, I’ve been more into swimming recently,’ I lie.
‘Swapped the Heath for the ponds?’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
‘You and Theo know each other?’ I swivel my chair back round to face Mitchell, who’s resting his forearms across the top of my computer screen. He’s joined by the other investors, who now hover around my desk.
Theo jumps in. ‘A bit. We’ve spotted each other running.’ Crikey, he’s being very generous.
‘Running, Elissa? You’ve kept that one quiet, haven’t you! You should be out there with The Butcher Works Run Club! We like seeing our employees getting involved in the social side of a community work space,’ Mitchell says over his shoulder to the crowd. ‘Rhea over here never misses a week, do you, sweetheart?’ he adds, as Rhea pushes through the doors with a plate of fruit in one hand and macarons in the other. Theo’s eyes widen at the comment and he turns to look out of the window. Honestly, when you hear it so often, it’s mad how much of Mitchell’s throwaway sexism becomes white noise.
Laughing and entirely oblivious, Mitchell steers the group away from my desk and stands with his hands in his pockets, his gaze tracing Rhea from behind as she arranges the lunch nibbles. Disturbingly, this public perve must have triggered a thought about me, because he turns on his heel just as Theo leans down to speak in my ear.
‘Oh, nearly forgot! Elissa is our social media manager, but she’s also heading up the trial for the app’s rebranding. We’re taking beta testing to another level here. I tell you, if you want anyone’s job here, fellas,’ says Mitchell, ignoring the two women stood either side of Theo, ‘it’s Elissa’s.’
‘Why’s that, then?’ asks Theo. His eyes are green, cat-like, and bright. I swear it’s impossible to look good under fluorescent strip lighting, but somehow he manages it.
‘Well …’ Mitchell rubs his hands together as though he hadn’t expected anyone to ask. ‘Elissa isn’t only on the team here at Lovr, she’s one of our users too.’ Noises of curiosity come from the group and I swear I lose the ability to use two senses at once. I’m concentrating so hard on the blinking cursor of an empty blog post that all I can hear is a rushing noise throbbing in my ears. A hard rapping of knuckles on my desk breaks the feeling that a high-pressured balloon is about to burst beneath my rib cage.
‘When’s the next lucky bloke getting a chance for an “experience” with Elissa?’ Oh God. Not only has he used air quotes for ‘experience’, but he’s addressing me in the third person.
‘Er, Saturday. Yep, I’m pretty sure it’s Saturday. I’ll have to check the app. All the details will be there,’ I say, tilting the iPad up so the gang can’t see that it’s broken. Theo drifts to the back of the group, just out of Mitchell’s eyeline, and rolls his eyes in mock scepticism, grinning. Is it that obvious I haven’t planned anything yet? He’s obviously seen through the defunct iPad, but he also seems … on my side? Great for me, terrible for the pantomime that Lovr is attempting to perform.
‘Okay, folks. We’ll take lunch upstairs in the Cleaver Room. Leave these guys to hold the fort. Rhea, get Rodders to help you carry the plates. Make sure to take him on the outside staircase, though. The little fella could do with seeing the sunlight at least once today.’ Mitchell laughs and shakes his head, leading out the group, who are tittering along a lot less enthusiastically than they were earlier.
I spend the afternoon in a distracted haze, in which I attempt to write a blog post for the site. Fifty per cent is exaggerated and 50 per cent underplayed to try and level out my ultimately disastrous date with David. I could have had it finished in time for a good read around the ‘Love & sex’ section of the Guardian website before I head to back to Hampstead, but every time someone passes the glass doors I nearly pull a muscle flicking my head round in the hope that Theo will come past.
Ultimately, it’s pointless. I know his type. I fancied someone like him at school – a guy who shared a packet of Maltesers with me under the table in Maths but laughed when I asked for his number. He seems nice, but the power balance is all wrong. If he knows he’s good-looking (which he must if he’s ever looked in a mirror) he’ll have a Rolodex of girls he’s talking to, ones with eyelash extensions who holiday in Bali. I won’t register on the league table.
With Mitchell elsewhere in the building, I pack up just before five and step into the stream of commuters heading down Clerkenwell Road. A voice message pops up on my phone. It can only be from Suki. She constantly fires them off, and not always to the right person. I’ve had more than one message so explicit my morning coffee turned sour.
I plug my earbuds in, careful not to fall out of step with the silicon roundabout workers. Her voice kicks in: ‘No, I never said that. Tomorrow night? Baby, come on. I didn’t know she was going to be the flippin’ instructor, did I?’ There’s a pause as a woman’s shrill voice filters through, obscured by fabric rustling and soft, soothing words that are clearly failing to de-escalate the nameless woman’s anger. ‘It was my form! I’ve never been good at the downward dog. Well, not in certain situations … Babe! It was a joke! Babe!’ A pause. ‘Hi! Sorry, about that. Jazz just flipped her shit. She’s stormed off somewhere, but she’ll be back. Pffff, women, eh? What was I gonna say? The auction! Next week! You’re coming, right? You can bring Annie if you want, but if you fancy a night off, that’s cool. The bar’s open from 6, so I’ll meet you there. It’s got a fancy dress-code, so a tie, or dress, or some shit like that. Pain in the arse, but dem’s the rules. See you then!’
Suki might be able to seamlessly switch between pop-up bars in Hoxton and drinks receptions on the Google campus, but I’m not like that. She can turn up, find three or four people she pretends to know, and five minutes later they’re swapping numbers and taking selfies in the toilets.
As fun as it is, something about the event sits a bit awkwardly with me. The idea of watching the eye-wateringly wealthy residents of West London fling more money at artwork than I’ll ever earn in my life will do that to you. I’m trying not to be cynical. Apparently, the gallery donates the commission fees to charity, but I’m sceptical as to whether that’s the real reason behind the event, or whether it’s because the publicity they get from one night of overblown extravagance means they don’t have to be nice to poor people for another year.
Chapter 22
‘Why don’t you bring this new bloke to the auction?’ says Annie. I peel the lid off a strawberry yoghurt and slide the pot across the table on Annie’s bed.
‘I can’t. Rhea just sort of … springs these things on me. If I had more time, I’d try and use some of the charity contacts I’ve been working on, but it’s early days to get on the phone and say, “Oh, I know we only spoke yesterday, but is there anyone who needs a perennial border planting in your community?”, you know?’
Annie side-eyes the patient in the bed next to her before licking the yoghurt lid. ‘Terrible habit, but I can’t stop now.’ Her eye is less bloodshot than it was right after the accident, but her brow and cheekbone have bloomed bright purple from where she hit the kerb. ‘I can’t wait to get home. I knew this weren’t going to be the Ritz, but I’m not sure how many more of these watery puddings I can take. I miss that lovely Greek stuff with the curd on top.’
‘Spoken like a true Hampstead woman,’ I say with a grin.
‘Only by postcode,’ she replies, licking strawberry puree from her little finger. ‘So, what are you going to do, love?’ I lean back in the plastic-covered chair and puff my cheeks out. I’ve made enough difficult decisions in the past month to cover the next decade, surely. I don’t know why, but choices have seemed so … monumental recently. In the past I’ve kept my head down, because at least if something went wrong, it can’t have been my fault.
‘Look, I’m not going to pretend that I know how your job works,’ Annie continues, ‘but fancying someone has been around since time immemorial and so has the idea of doing good deeds for those who ain’t got as much as we ’ave. Stop over-thinking it, love. You can spend too much time wondering about the whats and wherefores, then before you know it, time’s moved on and you’ve lost your chance.’ I look up, not quite sure if Annie’s still talking about my upcoming date. What is she going on about? ‘People are different. They want different things. See different things as being right or wrong.’ Annie folds an empty muffin case into a triangle and smooths out the edges with her thumb.
Now, I could be wrong, but I’ve overheard enough episodes of The Archers round Nanny’s house to know when someone is talking in double-entendres. The more I’ve thought about Annie’s box of illicit letters, the more confident I am that her tangents about Arthur the Abominable Shit and ‘life’s second chances’ are directly related to ‘H’. The language, the writing, the passion … it just doesn’t add up. There’s isn’t even a photograph of her and Arthur in her house. If there was, I’m sure he’d be scrawny and milky white with a waxed moustache and mean little eyes. So, who is ‘H’?
Even though I’ve been with Annie for nearly a month, I barely know anything about her past. Every time I mention her son or ask her about what it was like to move down to London in the Sixties, she only ever answers as ‘we’, never ‘I’. I’ll work on it, when she’s back home. It would eat you up, having to bury something like that for so long. I don’t know how she does it. I once stole a pair of earrings from a multipack of studs in Topshop and the guilt still plagues me today.
‘You’re right. Of course.’ I tap my toes together and the chunky rubber soles of my boots thud rhythmically.
‘I’m only right because I’ve seen and done all the wrongs before,’ says Annie, folding her hands into her lap. ‘Oh, one thing love. Can you see if Julie can come round next week to do my hair? I look like a choir boy whose dangly bits haven’t dropped. No mirrors up round here, but I can see why.’
I swing my rucksack over one shoulder and tuck a Gardener’s World magazine underneath her pillow. ‘Oh, George asked after you. Margaret didn’t say anything, but she sort of … nodded when I said you’d be back in a couple of days, so that’s good, right?’
‘Oh, right. That’s nice,’ she says with a furrowed brow. ‘We haven’t said much to each other for – Christ – must be years now. George has always been kind. He’s done a good few favours for me in t’ past. Thought it rude to stop with paper swapping now, since Arthur died, though I don’t think too much of the paper he buys. I still collect them off George at the gate in t’ garden. Another old habit. Arthur didn’t like him coming in the house when he were out.’
‘What was wrong with George coming over when Arthur wasn’t about?’ Annie blankly smiles and looks ahead, her focus on the middle distance.
‘I don’t suppose I remember.’
***
I’m sure I’ve had more messages in the past two hours than I have in the past two years. I’m going to have to move onto a different price plan at this rate. Earlier, when I drained the saucepan of boiled noodles, peas, and sweet chilli sauce, a little emoji of a hand waving appeared as a Lovr notification on my phone along with
Hey, it’s Freddie
I checked all the doors were locked and window latches shut before I risked looking at my phone again. It’s only the second time I’ve slept home alone in the past decade, so naturally I’m on high alert for robberies and abductions. Or creepy Craig popping up at the kitchen window – the more likely scenario. Seconds later, my phone pings again:
Sorry, should have made it clear! Rhea (your colleague?) has told me about the app and it sounds great. Looking forward to meeting the brains behind it all.
Oh, and he’s finished it off with a winking emoji. That’s suggestive, isn’t it?
It’s pushing ten o’clock and I’ve moved from the kitchen to the living room, where I’ve slipped so far down the sofa that my boobs have f
ormed a shelf of sorts, against which I’ve propped my phone. David Attenborough’s breathy narration on an old episode of Blue Planet has a hypnotic effect on my already overtired eyes, and, after nodding off for a third time, I look at my phone to see if Freddie has messaged again. Somehow, I manage to swipe the camera on and the sight is like an injection of caffeine at the back of my eyeballs. Bloody hell. My own quadrupled chin appears on the screen below my incredibly oily nose and a helmet of spiral curls pushed low over my forehead from the tracksuit hood I’ve pulled tight around my head. I need to get to bed.
I swing myself off the sofa and manage to drop my phone as a painful twinge runs up my spine from the awkward position I’ve been in for the past hour. Fuck, is this what being in your late twenties is like? Or maybe it’s living in a house with winged armchairs and rails around the bath; you start assimilating half a century too soon. I bend over slowly, half expecting my back to spasm again, and my phone buzzes, making my stomach lurch.
Freddie seems … normal? The dozen or so messages that we’d sent back and forth hadn’t flooded me with fear or made me want to flush my phone down the loo, which is a novelty for me. He works for a company that organises corporate away days, he looks after his grandparents’ dog now they’re both in an old folks’ home, and he isn’t vegan. Too good to be true? I switch the lights and sockets off downstairs and put my phone on a shelf in the medicine cabinet whilst I scoop my hair up into a bun. A message appears on the screen.