‘I think you should take a few days to process everything,’ Maxine says, kindly. ‘I can understand why this place might not be the best for you right now. Go see your dad for a bit, or spend the day watching Netflix. Or go see a film on your own. Do something just for you for a couple of days. We’ll manage.’
* * *
Carlina walks to the station with me.
‘It wasn’t you people were talking about,’ she says, as soon as we’ve crossed the road outside the building. Suddenly she’s strangely jittery.
‘Are you sure? I really think it was.’
‘It wasn’t you,’ she says, more firmly. ‘And the reason I know it wasn’t about you and Ollie is because I know it was about me and Lee.’
‘Eh?’
‘We had a one night stand that night. We were pissed and ended up snogging at the party, and it went from there. Everyone saw us leave together, everyone knew he was coming back to mine. So that’s what you heard people talking about. And that one night stand has since turned into a nine month relationship. You’re not the only one with secrets, Fran.’
‘I realise I’m going to sound like a massive hypocrite, but why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I wanted to. I started to. When we got back from Christmas and you sort of guessed I’d been seeing someone. But you’d just broken up with Lucas and I felt like it wasn’t the right time. And then you had all these shit dates and I didn’t want you to think I was rubbing it in your face.’
‘I’d never have thought that,’ I say, taking her arm. ‘But that explains why you’ve been getting to work early then.’
‘Yeah,’ she laughs. ‘When I stay at his. He gets an early train into London. It makes sense. And when you went to Lydia’s party, I wasn’t really hungover, I was with Lee.’
‘Oh my god. Yeah, fair enough.’
‘We’re really happy, Fran. We have such a lovely time.’
‘Does anyone else know about this?’
‘Not officially. But, of course they do. Lexi has seen us walking in a few times, but, you know, she can’t talk.’
‘You’re a dark horse, you know that? I’m happy for you. God, our office is a total boink fest isn’t it?’
‘I know, right? And thank you.’ She beams and her whole face is lit up. ‘I think we might talk about getting a place soon.’
‘Housewarming?’
‘You bet!’ We walk on a little more, and then Carlina says, ‘Hey, you know you were talking about secondments?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Pretty sure I saw a six month stint going in New York. You should check it out. It’s on the internal job site.’
‘Ah, I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I just said that in the moment. Not sure I’m ballsy enough to actually go.’
‘Rubbish! Girl, you’re hella ballsy. You posted a cheque for a penny to a bad date and made his humiliation go viral. You documented a real and frank account of trying to find The One on the internet for the world to see. You made some unsuspecting Americans eat a pie with fish heads sticking out the top of it. You have no fucks to give and you just get on and do stuff. Trust me, you’re ballsy.’
‘I guess,’ I say, still unconvinced.
‘And it’s not for long. You’d get a break from all this crap, and an exciting adventure.’ She grabs my shoulders and gives me a little shake. ‘Think of the content, Frances.’
‘Yeah, but… loads of people will go for it. I’d probably have to pitch. I’d miss you, what if everyone out there sucks?’
We stop on a street corner and Carlina rolls us both cigarettes.
‘Stop looking for reasons not to try. I’ll come and visit. You can ask Suze to put me on a standby flight. I’d be there in a heartbeat. No one out there is going to suck. Not that I’m trying to get rid of you, but, just think about it. Maxine already said we’d manage.’
‘For a couple of days,’ I say. ‘Not half a year.’
‘We’d manage,’ Carlina insists.
* * *
For the next forty-eight hours I deliberate putting in an application for the New York trip. I talk it over with Suze, who, like Carlina, shuts down all my excuses and says she’d put my room on a short let, and Lydia, who tells me an adventure is just what I need to put this binfire year behind me, and Dad, assuring him I won’t do a Mum and leave for good, and it’s his blessing that gives me the push to go for it. On Friday night, exactly a week after the Ollie debacle, I put in my application for Digital Content Manager – Viral Hive NYC (six month secondment).
And two weeks later, I’m offered it.
Chapter Forty-One
April – Six Months Later
My stint in New York flies by in a blur of bright lights, working hard, playing harder and a couple of Tinder dates, which I justified to myself by reasoning that I was new in town and American men might be different. In some ways they are, and in others it’s the same old shit, different continent. Not to mention a six-week fling with the brother of a coworker from Brooklyn, interspersed with a visit from Suze, where we hit bars and went for brunch on the Lower East Side, and another, from my dad, where we went on a boat down the Hudson and he told me a story about coming here with Mum, before I was born. I said those memories must be nice for him, and he squeezed my shoulder and told me these ones will be better.
‘I’ve met someone, Fran,’ he’d said, as the bitter December air whipped around our faces, pinking them up so we looked ruddy. ‘Got myself on the internet. Met her on a website. Name’s Janet. When you’re back perhaps you’d like to meet her.’
I told him I’d like nothing more and my eyes became very shiny very quickly, and when I blamed it on the wind, he squeezed my shoulder again.
New York is exactly the tonic I need. It’s the soothing balm to my ravaged ego and fractured heart. It’s the reset button to my short-circuiting mental health. People say it doesn’t really matter where you go, you always take your problems with you, but I needed to take myself out of London, and all the bad dates and memories that would still make my heart contract if I let them. I needed to spend time in a studio where nobody knows me, or Ollie. To them, we are just names on credits at the end of video shorts, and the work I do here will always just be for me. No one knows we ran deeper than just being colleagues, or how I kicked him forcefully out of my life on that Saturday morning in September.
I don’t think about it, really. And I don’t spy on his social media, the way I did when we first met. Now he’s just a name on a list of people I try not to think about.
Lydia and Jeff visit, too. And we go for a fancy Italian meal together. Lydia declines the wine I order, and neither of them can contain their excitement as she pulls an envelope out of her bag to explain why – as if an explanation were required. She shows me photos of her twelve-week scan. Their baby looks like a blob on a fuzzy screen to me, and I’m not totally sure what I’m looking at, but this, to them, is magical, and I revel in it with them.
Jeff apologises, stiffly, about everything that happened with Tim, from taking his side after he’d lied, to spilling the beans about ‘Swipe Right’, and I don’t have it in me to tell him he tried to follow through on his threat. What good would it do?
‘Just let me know in advance if he’s going to be at any of your parties,’ I joke. ‘So I can pretend I don’t remember who he is whilst being fabulous.’
‘I shouldn’t think he’ll be invited,’ Lydia says.
And all too soon my six months abroad wind to a close. My secondment is over, and it’s time to pack half a year’s worth of belongings into my suitcases and hand back the key to my apartment. In a marvellous twist of, if not fate then exquisite planning, Suze is cabin crew on my flight home, and when I check in at JFK, the agent smiles broadly and tells me I’ve been upgraded to business class, ‘courtesy of the airline’, which could only have been Suze. On board, she tops up my complimentary champagne and serves me my dinner before anyone else, and brings me an extra pillow and connects me to the Wi-
Fi without charging me.
I’m pleased to be home, and I get an overwhelming bubble of excitement as we descend over the city. All the landmarks look like tiny model replicas of themselves, the river a ribbon of silver slivers of reflected sunlight and shadows of bridges and white, foamy wash from boats. We’re driven home and I dump my bags by the door and flop on the sofa and pull the chenille blanket around me. Nothing in the flat has changed. Nothing has even been moved. It’s all exactly the same as when I left. The daffodils and tulips are in bloom down in the communal garden and a few children are playing on the swings. Suze and I get a curry for dinner, and she reminds me of the time we celebrated my job offer with the same food. I’ll be back there on Monday morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and raring to go with sparkly new ideas for things I can write, and things I can film. Fran Two Point Zero. Fran Reloaded. Fran, Fran, The Girl Who Can.
* * *
Walking back into the Viral Hive London studio, it feels like I’ve never been away. It’s similar in decor to the New York studio. The same yellow and black striped sofas. The same industrial feel to the workspace, even the same branded appliances in the test kitchens.
Mindy rushes around from her reception desk to squeeze me, and she helps me carry the six dozen Krispy Kreme donuts I’ve bought to the kitchen. Carlina’s here, and her reaction to my return is as I’d expected. Loud and enthusiastic.
‘She’s back!’ she yells across the studio.
‘And she’s brought donuts,’ I add, pointing to the stack of boxes in the kitchen. People whoop. Imagine! I feel genuinely loved. It’s probably the donuts.
‘There have been changes,’ she says, as we’re making coffee. ‘Sinjin’s replacement started getting on for, ooh five months ago now, I guess. His name’s Dan. He’s funny, as it goes.’
‘Oh, I did know, actually, Maxine emailed me about it. Funny is good. Is he nice, too?’
‘He’s young and impressionable,’ Carlina laughs. ‘Looks a bit like Zayn Malik, so as you can imagine, the Slack channels have gone bananas.’
‘Have you found out who his Disney character crush is?’ I ask.
‘Of course. Queen Elsa,’ she says. ‘Actually he looked confused when Mickey explained everyone has a non-human Disney crush. But it’s fine. He’ll learn.’
I spend the morning with Maxine, getting up to speed on what’s been happening at the studio in my absence, and she tells me I seem in a much better place than I was last autumn.
‘I am,’ I say, meaning it. ‘I really needed to get away from everything for a while. Put myself back together, you know?’
She nods. Neither of us expand on it. Neither of us needs to. What’s left unsaid speaks volumes.
Later, the four of us, Carlina, Mickey, Not So New Boy Dan, and I go to the Chinese buffet for lunch, and we stack aluminium containers so high that the lids barely fit, and take them to the park to eat, the same way we did on my first day, all that time ago.
‘This is a thing we do when new people join the team,’ Mickey explains, earnestly. ‘We’d have done it when you started, but it wouldn’t have been the same sans Fran.’
‘Twice, babe,’ Carlina laughs, lighting a cigarette. ‘We’ve done this twice now.’
‘Traditions have to start somewhere,’ Mickey sulks. ‘Eat your noodles.’
‘You know how I like my Chinese.’
‘Yes, yes, the cooler side of warm,’ Mickey says. Not So New Boy Dan looks bemused.
‘You’ll get used to us,’ Carlina says.
It’s the following week before Carlina and I have the opportunity to eat lunch alone and have a proper catch-up. She was seconded into my position and we messaged a lot whilst I was in America, but the time difference between London and New York is inconvenient and hardly conducive to regular contact. I was arriving at work as she was leaving, and neither of us were around much on weekends.
‘So,’ she says. We’re poking around in Pret, and both settle on falafel and halloumi wraps. ‘How was it, really? An adventure? Or just six months of escapism?’
‘Eighty percent adventure, rising to ninety-five after the first month,’ I say. We pay for our food and settle into seats in the corner of the shop.
‘And the other five?’
‘Well, a little bit of homesickness, and a lot of self-reflection. It was great though, you should definitely think about it, especially now you’ve got team leader experience.’
‘I’d like to go to Brazil,’ she says, thoughtfully.
‘And how are things going with Lee? How’s the flat?’
I bite off a piece of halloumi and it squeaks between my teeth.
‘Great. We’ve spent a fortune in IKEA,’ she says. ‘All those things you’ve never even heard of before but suddenly can’t live without. I’m sorry you missed the housewarming, but, in all fairness, you were in the Big Apple.’
‘You win some, you lose some,’ I say.
Carlina opens her can of Diet Coke with a fittzz, and sips.
‘You know what we should do,’ she says, one eyebrow raised. A glint in her eye. A smirk on her lips. ‘Have a cheeky lunchtime swipe.’
I’m about to say no. Absolutely no way. That ship sailed, and subsequently sank and all aboard were lost, but then I think, yeah, go on, why not. What harm can it do? And I take out my phone and open up the app. Carlina claps her hands gleefully and drags her chair to my side of the table.
‘Just today,’ I tell her, firmly. ‘Just this lunchtime, and then we’re forgetting about it, alright? I’m not resurrecting the blog.’
‘Fine, fine,’ she says, flippantly. ‘I hear you, I understand. Let’s go.’
So we sit, huddled together in Pret a Manger, with the scrunched up packaging from our food and my cup of coffee, rapidly cooling on the chrome tray, whilst we make snap decisions on men with the swipe of my finger. Mark, thirty-three. No. Ian, thirty-five. No. Laurence twenty-seven. Yes. No match. Gaz, twenty-nine. Yes. It’s a match! Instant regret and a swift unmatching. Wash, rinse, repeat. Over and over.
‘This is such a dopamine hit,’ Carlina giggles. ‘Keep going. I’m going to get a cookie. Want one?’
‘Okay,’ I say, and I do as I’m told whilst she queues up again. She’s right. It is a bit of a dopamine hit. I can feel myself wanting to carry on. I can feel that same rush I got in the beginning when I match with people. The jaunty It’s A Match text bouncing up on the screen. Something about it feels almost like a reward, but I can’t start relying on it. I will not fall down that rabbit hole again. It really is just for now. I’ll deactivate it on the way back to work. Hide it in a folder so it’s not so visible on my home screen. Carlina’s at the front of the queue now, and the cashier is slipping two chocolate chip cookies into a wax paper bag. She taps her card. I swipe a little more.
And then I see something that makes me snatch my hand away from the screen as if I’ve been stung. A photo so instantly recognisable, a face so familiar that the reaction it provokes is almost visceral. The last time I saw it was six months ago, outside my building on a damp, cold evening in Stratford. I stare at my screen, and my hands tremble a little. Carlina’s back now. She parks herself on her seat and the chair legs scrape across the floor with a jarring screech.
‘Having fun?’ she asks. She takes her cookie out of the bag and bites into it. ‘Oh my god,’ she says, thickly. ‘It’s still warm. The chocolate’s melty. Oh I’m going to have to buy one of these for Lee.’
‘Look,’ I whisper. And I hold the phone in front of her face.
‘Oh, wow,’ she says. ‘A ghost of lost loves past. You know what this means, don’t you?’
‘Old profile?’ I suggest.
‘That Awful Lou’s gone for good.’
‘Old profile,’ I say, more firmly. I’m about to swipe left but she anticipates this and grabs my hand.
‘Oi, not so fast,’ she says, but I notice there’s a slight tremble in her own voice this time. ‘Let’s at least read the info.’
/> ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to. And anyway, I know what it will say. I wrote it, remember.’
‘Okay, well let me see, then,’ she says. ‘If you’re right, I’ll swipe left for you and we’ll call it a day. Deal?’
‘Fine,’ I say, and pass the phone over. She inexplicably clears her throat and I’m momentarily concerned she might read it aloud. I prepare myself to tune out. Take the bag with the other cookie in, bite into its sugary softness. She was right about the chocolate chips.
She’s quiet for a few seconds, and her eyes dance across the screen again and again.
‘Fran,’ she whispers. ‘I think you might want to see this after all.’
Chapter Forty-Two
Carlina hands my phone back and I blink slowly, bracing myself before I look. In the last two minutes I’ve learnt things about myself – mainly that I am not over Ollie Taylor at all. Those feelings for him that I told myself I didn’t have, that I shoved to the depths of me in a fit of abject rage, have resurfaced with such speed and force that if I was a diver they’d worry about the bends. Memories course through my mind, vivid and potent: the moment we kissed outside Stratford station where everything was lovely, trying desperately not to fixate on when his phone rang. Or how I took that pizza box to bed with me that night, ate the lot and cried until I threw it all up again. The images replay over and over, looping in my mind’s eye, the colours distorted, but the feelings as real and as terrifying as they were then.
I look down at the screen. His profile picture is a photo of him sitting in a clog in Amsterdam. One he sent me just after he left, only now it’s zoomed and cropped and you can’t see Lou’s scowling face in the shop window reflection anymore. The next photo is the older one of him sitting on Primrose Hill. And then one taken at work, at the Christmas party, I think, if the lighting and his outfit are anything to go by. The final photo is the one of him and me in the test kitchen with the dish of buffalo cauliflower between us. Where his face is partly obscured by his hair but you can clearly see mine. And now I look at it again, I notice other things as well. His left hand is extended out, as if reaching for me. His posture is open and relaxed.
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