It’s All Good was based in Blackheath, South London. Rachel and Greg needed to allow at least forty-five minutes to get there for their three o’clock meeting, so the plan was to leave just after two.
Rachel caught up on emails until it was time to go, then packed up her stuff and made her way over to Greg’s desk.
‘With you in a jiffy,’ he said. ‘Jack’s meeting us in the foyer.’
FUCK.
Shit.
No!
‘Jack …?’ Rachel choked out. ‘As in, er, the new guy?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Greg’s attention was on an email he’d decided to scan before closing down his laptop. Rachel’s face felt hot and her stomach – unhelpfully full of potato – rolled over. She realised she was clutching the edge of Greg’s desk for support and urged herself to calm down, fearful the spud would make a comeback.
‘Right … DONE,’ he announced. He shut the lid of his MacBook Air with an unnecessary bang, swept it into its foam sleeve and deposited it in his leather satchel. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, pulling on his coat and giving Rachel a gentle push towards the door. ‘What’s up with you, by the way? You look like you’ve just been served a shit sandwich and told to take a bite.’
They left the office and entered the building’s large, sparsely furnished lobby. Next to the security desk, which Frank was still manning, sat Jack. He was perched on a stiff-looking black leather sofa, leafing through today’s The Times and drinking coffee from a collapsible KeepCup.
Rachel felt a surge of loathing rise up and fill her, wrestling for release. How dare he lounge around, languidly sipping his latte? How could he be so utterly unbothered by this unspeakably grim situation?
He stood up and smiled his best smile: a soft grin that radiated warmth and wry humour. Rachel averted her eyes.
‘Can I carry anything for you guys? You’re pretty laden down … Laptop bag?’ he asked, pointing to Rachel’s bulky case.
Damn him.
‘No, thanks,’ she mumbled, secretly wishing she could offload the thing.
Greg frowned at her. ‘Jack, this is Rachel Ryan – pretty much the best copywriter we have, though she seems determined to hide her light under a bushel. I’m sure you’ll get on famously.’
Before she could feel too flattered – or annoyed – by Greg’s introduction, Jack was smiling again and opening his mouth to reply.
Rachel looked right at him, eyes widened in alarm. She shook her head slightly, trying to warn him: Don’t say it.
Too late.
‘Rachel and I actually know each other already, from years back,’ Jack said. ‘We were at university together. I remember her being very clever, though God knows we probably killed a few brain cells with all the cider we used to drink. I’m not at all surprised she’s one of your top people.’
Damn him to hell.
Greg’s light-brown eyes looked rounder than usual. Rachel could almost hear the cogs and wheels of his brain clunking and whirring, processing this new information.
Jack, as Rachel’s dad might say, had dropped a massive bollock here. Telling Greg that he and Rachel had had a prior relationship meant Greg would start reading all sorts of (probably true) things into the tension that was beginning to simmer between them. This was why Rachel hadn’t mentioned it earlier – but now her decision to say nothing looked weird and suspicious. Greg would assume she had something shameful to hide, which was simultaneously inaccurate, unfair and infuriating.
Rachel’s eyes met Jack’s, square on. She gave him a look that she hoped he knew meant: Well played, you smug idiot.
‘Well,’ Greg said after what felt like an ice age, ‘it’ll be great for you two to get reacquainted, I suppose!’
‘It certainly will,’ Jack agreed, treating them to another winning smile.
Rachel was silent, her mouth clamped shut so it wouldn’t hang open in horror.
‘Shall we?’ Jack said, and gestured towards the exit.
They walked the short distance to Angel Tube station. Rachel was grateful that Greg had decided to give Jack a full and detailed explanation of where they were going, who they were about to meet and the work they’d been doing. She plodded along saying nothing, privately praying for a sinkhole to appear in the pavement and swallow Jack whole.
A busy Tube carriage saved Rachel the indignity of small talk on the way to London Bridge, and she decided to give her copy a final read-through after they changed for the train to Blackheath, feigning diligence as she stared down at the A4 sheets she’d brought with her. She felt Greg’s curious eyes on her as words swam, meaningless, across each page.
It’s All Good’s head office was within a large, elegant Victorian terrace round the corner from the station. It had a small outdoor porch stacked with shabby-chic wooden crates, all of them full of (presumably organic, locally grown) produce. Inside, shelves lined the walls of the entrance hall, proudly displaying a variety of vegetarian and vegan recipe books – plus what Rachel assumed must be every celebrity ‘wellness’ guide published in the past ten years. There were framed supposedly motivational quotations in every room, including the toilet.
While Rachel had been to It’s All Good HQ several times before, she couldn’t help feeling newly accused every time she stepped across the threshold. TREASURE YOUR BODY – IT’S THE ONLY PLACE YOU HAVE TO LIVE, admonished a cream-and-rose-gold poster at reception. Standing next to it, Rachel self-consciously sucked in her marshmallowy stomach.
As she, Greg and Jack waited to be shown into a meeting room, she saw Jack cast his eyes over a cutesy print that read You gotta nourish if you wanna flourish! He flashed Rachel a surreptitious smile and raised his eyebrows, inviting her to laugh with him.
She felt the corners of her mouth twitching upwards, then forced them back into neutral. As she rearranged her face, Angus, Josh and Heidi – the joint owners of It’s All Good – appeared.
They showed their visitors into a meeting room with a large round table, upon which sat a tray of suspicious-looking drinks. It turned out these were turmeric lattes, made with almond milk. While Rachel decided hers was quite palatable after a few diffident slurps, she was pleased to see Jack practically gagging as he took polite little sips out of his.
‘Heidi, Josh, Angus,’ Greg said, perhaps aware that the more he spoke, the less he’d be expected to drink, ‘this is Jack Harper, a new addition to the client services team at R/C. He’s shadowing Rachel and me this afternoon just to get a sense of how we do things.’
Jack stood to shake hands with them all and Rachel noticed that, on her turn, Heidi seemed to grip his fingers for just a moment longer than necessary. He smiled widely at her as he sat down again, and two pink spots appeared on her cheeks.
With some effort, Rachel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Jack was shameless, and she pitied the women who fawned over him.
‘Well, guys,’ Heidi said after taking a few seconds to collect herself, ‘this is a brilliant realisation of the brief – thank you. The tone is spot on. There are a few minor changes we’d suggest, just in terms of making sure we’re a hundred per cent accurate in what we say about particular products … But overall, I’d say we’re pretty much good to go live!’
Greg beamed at Rachel from across the table, as if to concede that she’d been right about the beetroot. She’d always appreciated that Greg’s priority was getting the right result for clients, regardless of who came up with the ideas that made them happy.
Forty minutes later, and with several copy amendments agreed, the meeting was over. Jack shook hands with the It’s All Good team for the second time.
‘Thank you for letting me gatecrash this afternoon.’ He smiled. ‘Though Greg and Rachel clearly didn’t need the extra help. It was a pleasure to meet you all, and no doubt I’ll be back sometime.’
Heidi stared at him through lowered lashes, her face alight again. Oh, he’s good, Rachel thought. No wonder he’s in client services: he could sell a cape to Supergirl.
As the three of them made their way towards the It’s All Good front door, they passed another gilt-framed feel-good poster – this time of a depressed-looking salad, limp and lifeless next to a jolly dancing avocado. The caption read: FEELING BAD? JUST ADD A LITTLE AVO!
Greg sailed by, oblivious, but Jack saw it and bit back a grin. He looked over his shoulder at Rachel, mirth dancing in his eyes.
She froze her face, refusing to smile. I know how you work, remember?
He looked away as he held the door open for her, then walked ahead in step with Greg.
One–nil to me, she thought, staring daggers at his back.
On the train back to central London, all attempts at post-meeting chat had petered out. Rachel, Greg and Jack were glued to their phones, skim-reading emails and checking social media feeds. On the approach to London Bridge they stood to gather their things; time to change for the Tube.
Greg turned to face Jack and Rachel as the train slowed. ‘Right. It seems I have a last-minute meeting to get to this afternoon – potential new client on the South Bank. Rachel will see you back to the office from here, Jack. And great work again today, Ray; you smashed it as always. Have a good weekend, guys.’
He threw Rachel a searching look that made it clear he’d noticed something was up, but he was halfway to the train door before she could protest at being left in charge of Jack. She groaned inwardly.
This was hideous: the last thing she wanted was to be alone with her awful, smarm-oozing ex. To boot, there was now no doubt she was going to have to confess at least some of the truth to Greg next week.
Greg waved as he disappeared onto the platform. He was soon swept away by a surge of travellers heading for the station exit. There was pushing, shoving and grumbling from the carriage, and Rachel realised she was standing in people’s way. She looked down to see Jack watching her expectantly, already off the train.
‘Come on, Ray.’ He grinned, offering her his hand.
‘You can stop the performance now, Jack. I am not your audience.’ Rachel held her palms up as if to ward off an evil spirit, then pushed past him.
Something inside her had snapped: her voice was icy and more confident than it had been all afternoon. Now they were alone, the sheer nerve of his friendly cajoling was glaringly in focus – and with Greg gone, so was Rachel’s willingness to tolerate it.
She sidestepped him on the platform, then began walking towards the Tube. She didn’t bother to make sure he was keeping up.
‘Rachel!’ He was suddenly next to her. ‘Rachel, please.’
‘Please what?’
She turned to face him, aware her eyes were blazing. She was livid with him for being so smug, so him – for being there at all. At the same time, she felt the sting of impending tears and cursed her treacherous eyeballs.
They were standing in the centre of a moving crowd, obstructing other people’s progress towards the Underground. Before she could stop him, Jack placed a hand on Rachel’s arm and steered her towards the tunnel wall. She felt as though she’d been burned, despite the layers of clothing separating his skin from hers.
‘Please listen,’ he said, looking less than sure of himself for the first time all day. It was as if Rachel had managed to sneak backstage at the Jack show: this was his face, minus the sheen of self-assurance it usually wore.
Rachel slumped against the concave tiles, signalling that she had no intention of running off again.
‘Okay,’ he said, pushing his hands through his hair. She knew he was working out what to say next. ‘I didn’t know. I had no idea. You have to believe I was totally unaware you worked here until today.’
She didn’t reply. It seemed too obvious to ask why she should ever believe a single word out of his mouth.
‘And then – when I saw you – I just … I was shocked. I was happy. I was confused … I didn’t know what to do. So yes, I reverted to type. I guess it seemed easier to turn on the charm than give a big speech about what a dick I was to you all those years ago.’
Rachel’s stomach flip-flopped at the thought that he was pleased to see her, and she immediately felt compelled to punish herself for such feebleness. If she were Dobby the house-elf, she’d whack herself in the face with a frying pan right now.
‘I was stupid,’ Jack went on. ‘Cowardly. I should have found a way to talk to you properly this morning, before you were stuck with me coming along to that meeting. I should have been more respectful of your feelings instead of trying to slink out of dealing with them. I can understand why you’d never want to see me again after what happened … And now here I am, turning up in your workplace.’
He paused for a few seconds that seemed to stretch on interminably.
‘Rachel. I’m sorry.’
He looked right at her, determined to maintain eye contact even though Rachel said nothing.
‘Not as sorry as I am,’ she finally replied.
He looked for a moment as if he was going to try to take her hand in some grand gesture of contrition, so she shoved it in her coat pocket.
‘When I say I’m sorry … I don’t just mean about now. About today.’
He sounded sad. Sincere. For a split second, Rachel softened.
Then she stood up straighter and picked up her handbag from between her feet. It was time they were getting back.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘at least it sounds as though you mean it this time.’ She loaded the words with all the contempt she could muster.
They sat in silence on the Underground from London Bridge back to Angel. The air between them was sour and Rachel found that the longer they sat there saying nothing, the angrier she felt. She imagined plumes of fury emanating from her like poisonous fumes from a fire.
Jack stood behind her on the long escalators back up to street level, then followed her out into the chilly early-evening gloom.
‘Rachel, don’t you think we should try to clear the air before we head back?’ he said gently, catching her by the shoulder before she could walk too far in front.
She whirled round faster than he was expecting. Faster than she was expecting.
‘Clear the air?’
She spat the words out, wanting him to hear air quotes in her tone.
‘I see the years haven’t tarnished your brass neck. You’re an entitled tosser, you know that? Why should I care about clearing the air? If the air is somewhat toxic, that’s on you, not me. Remember?’
Rachel felt brim-full of rage – as though her fingertips and hair must be crackling with it. She struggled to keep her voice even, to stop herself from saying more. She remembered that only this morning she’d sworn Jack would never be allowed to think what had happened between them still bothered her. She’d shut it out years ago, and it wasn’t coming back in.
Rachel swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat as she stared him down. If she let rip at him now, he’d see the strength of feeling he could still stir up – a strength of feeling that shocked and appalled her. Her whole body felt alive with it: heart thumping, blood fizzing with adrenaline, brain struggling to impose logical thought.
‘You’re right,’ Jack said abruptly. ‘Again.’
He stepped closer and Rachel tried not to look at him.
‘That was a stupid thing to say. You shouldn’t have to pretend the air is clear … I don’t expect you to be nice to me. You don’t owe me anything.’
She barked a bitter laugh and hated how it sounded. He flinched a little, as though she’d slapped him.
‘I didn’t plan to suggest to Greg that we were old friends … It just kind of came out. The truth is, when I look back …’
He sucked in a deep breath, then tore his eyes from the pavement to her face.
‘The truth is, I’m deeply ashamed of myself. Of what I did to you. You deserved so much better. All I can hope now is that – if I can stop saying all the wrong things for more than five minutes – we might be able to move on. I’ve changed since the last time we saw each other, and I’m su
re you have too. I’m not the bad lad you remember … Not quite, anyway.’
A smile flickered briefly on his lips, then died. Rachel’s heart beat harder as her memory wound back to kissing them for the first time – knowing deep down, even then, that no good could come of it, and not caring.
She let herself search his face, separated from hers by just a few inches. She stared at him, unabashedly, for the first time all day.
Had he changed? Rachel tried to assess him dispassionately. She looked for features that, by rights, should have aged, degenerated – been rendered less perfect by another decade of life.
Was he shorter than she remembered, or was it just that her (now seriously uncomfortable) boots lent her an extra two inches? Were his lips a little thinner than before? Had she embellished when she’d told herself stories about his eyes: the green-gold hazelly-brown of them, so beguiling that she’d once joked he must be part witch?
The unfortunate truth was that he’d barely changed at all. In fact, he looked amazing. Yes, there were a few more lines around his eyes where the skin creased when he laughed. He also had a little more stubble than he used to wear – probably more than he used to be able to grow. But it suited him.
His hair was shorter now, though still a wavy mass of bronze-tinged brown. He had better clothes: corporate in comparison with what most people at R/C normally wore, but unfussy enough that he still looked more ‘senior person in a creative job’ than bank manager.
‘Come on,’ he sighed eventually. ‘It’s freezing out here and it’s past five. Let’s get back to the office. We don’t have to talk, just walk.’
He was still waiting for Rachel to say something, but she didn’t dare try. She felt disgusted, sick with hating him, but also burning with contempt for her failure to loathe him more.
They plodded along next to each other in the dark, fingertips almost touching. He was too close; it was agonising. But moving might acknowledge weakness – imply she was overwrought. Better to stay put than seem to run away, she reasoned.
It was at this moment that a bus came to a stop alongside them, bearing an image of Jessica that must have been three metres high. In it, her improbably round breasts were squeezed into a pale-pink tank top, and her lips – thickly glossed to a mirror shine – were parted around what looked like a bar of chocolate.
Rachel Ryan's Resolutions Page 5