There’s just no way that’s true, is it? That he thought it was me. She had long blonde hair, and I know it’s dark in here, but that’s about where the similarities start and stop.
‘She’s like a foot shorter than me,’ I reply.
‘You’re taller than usual,’ he says. ‘Nice shoes. Want to try them out on the dance floor?’
‘I just bumped into Elle Shaw,’ I say, raising my eyebrows.
‘Ahh, you heard, huh?’ he replies, running a hand through his hair. ‘I didn’t think you’d be happy.’
I laugh angrily.
‘We’ll make it work,’ he reassures me.
‘Are you serious?’ I clap back.
‘It’s not a big deal, come on, let’s get a drink,’ he says.
‘I’m good,’ I tell him. ‘I’m going to the bathroom.’
‘We’re still on for dinner later, right?’ he checks, sensing something is wrong.
‘I’m going to have to pass,’ I say plainly, trying to keep my nerve and my cool.
‘What? Why?’
He sounds genuinely baffled. Is he that deluded? I know, we’re nothing to each other, and generally anything goes at these parties, but how could he think I’d be happy with Elle Shaw worming her way in?
He reaches out to me but I sidestep him before he can say another word.
I can feel his eyes following me as I walk away but I don’t look back. I can’t. Because all I can think is: I was about to trust him. I was about to let him in.
How could I be so stupid? I’d let myself believe, for a moment, that there was something real underneath all the sparring. That maybe, if I let him in, it wouldn’t be a disaster.
And now here I am. Humiliated. Angry. Disappointed – I think that’s the worst one.
8
Airports – a transitional place, a waiting room as you head from A to B. How you’re feeling can very much shape how you see a place. To some, airports are fun places. You can drink, relax, buy yourself a giant Toblerone while you wait to take off. Or… it’s limbo. A place that suspends you in time while you wait anxiously to get your long-haul flight over with.
I’m not usually an anxious flyer – I’ve done this one a bunch of times now – but it’s not the flight I’m worried about, it’s the company. Plans were in place before Lockie showed me his true colours, so I was happy for the two of us to sit together. Speaking of being stuck in no man’s land…
I’m just waiting. Sitting underneath a flickering fluorescent light that seems to follow me wherever I go. I’ve been through security, had a few coffees, made sure my devices are charged up for the flight ahead. Because when you’re feeling anxious, if all else fails, you can always bury your face in your phone, right?
I feel scruffy and tired already, like the cost of travelling is being stripped of your dignity. Well, you get searched, treated like a potential criminal, made to wait, you get tired and scruffy and sweaty dragging your stuff around.
And yet – of bloody course – I’ve just spotted Lockie and he looks like a jacked Ralph Lauren model. He’s impossible to miss, looking like an England rugby player on his way to an important game. He’s standing in front of the aftershave counter, spritzing tester bottles on his wrists like he’s in an advert. Two sales assistants are watching him like he’s the answer to all their prayers. He tilts his head, offers them a smile, and it’s enough to set them off, giggling like teenagers. Look, I get it, he’s a good-looking man, and the last thing I need is for him to smell even better, but knowing what a creep he is goes a long way to dampening the initial attraction I had to him. Even when I realised he was my work rival, I still had that attraction to him, but now, ugh, now he turns my stomach.
I duck behind a display of sunglasses, hoping he won’t catch me staring, but I knock a pair to the floor and it makes just enough noise to grab his attention – because of course it does.
He doesn’t wave, doesn’t call out. He just smirks at me – amused to have caught me peeping at him.
We don’t speak but we’re barely more than a few metres apart as we go through the motions, eventually arriving at the gate, ready to board.
Just look at him, leaning against the pillar near our boarding gate like he’s secretly posing for the paparazzi, but trying to look like he isn’t. He’s got his shirt collar open, giving him a sort of considered but casual vibe, his jacket is slung over his shoulder, and he’s got one hand sitting just inside his pocket. And of course his sunglasses are hooked on the neck of his shirt – frankly, I’m astonished he doesn’t have them on, if he thinks he’s sooo cool.
Two women in the queue glance his way, whispering to each other. I don’t have to lip-read to know it’s probably something about his jawline or his broad shoulders or how perfect his hair is.
Meanwhile, I feel like a toad. Hair scraped into a bun that’s already coming undone, mascara smudged because I rubbed my tired eyes, and I realised my hoodie had a mark on the sleeve just too late to do anything about it.
