I guessthisis the punishment for this morning then.
I wipe my clammy face with an equally clammy hand and mull over Susie’s words. She gave me this opportunity. She is the reason I’m here. She took a chance on me when I was nothing but a lowly Fate marketing intern on minimum wage with a weekend job waitressing at a chain restaurant. She brought me under her wing, always giving me the work of a higher-paying role because she knew it would give me the experience I needed to get further in this industry. Susie is the only person I can credit for me getting this far, so I do the grunt work for her, I cover for her. Sometimes I forget how much our relationship has soured over thepast couple of years, ever since Catch Group acquired the company. Her brilliant, fiery spirit and powerful but approachable energy was the reason so many people wanted to work for her when she first launched Fate out of a studio apartment in East London. Her willingness and enthusiasm to champion anyone she saw who had “potential” was a rare trait in the male-dominated, nepotistic tech industry. She was an amazing mentor to me and so many others—until she wasn’t.
Maybe this project will convince her that I can run things on my own. That I can be trusted, as she used to trust me. I heave the pile of printer paper from Susie’s office and drop it onto my desk. If I won the Ditto promotion, I’d never have to work in a tiny overflowing cubicle again. The thought of not being in constant competition with Bancroft is also something to consider. I’d be burning one bridge in exchange for clearing the rubble of another.
A few hours later a brisk melodic knocking sound startles me so violently I give myself a paper cut on the stack of reports.
“Shit,” I say under my breath and squeeze my finger until a small edge of blood emerges from the cut. I glance up to find the source of the sound. My eyes adjust from the lamp-lit white pages to the warm sunset glow flowing through the Fate office’s windows, gliding up until they perform a full eye roll at the tall figure standing in the dimly lit doorway.
The early-evening light frames Bancroft’s shouldersas he appears at the glass entrance. He isn’t wearing his glasses, so his eyes are even brighter, and they carve through me as he leans against the doorframe. In his hands are two black coffee cups with “Wilfred’s Cafe” printed across them in embossed white letters. I watch in silence while one of them lifts to his mouth.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he says in a soft, unfamiliar tone. How long have I been sitting here? And when did everyone else leave?
“Yes, you are disturbing. What do you want?”
I type something extremely important out on my keyboard, staring intently at the random series of letters appearing on the computer screen. He doesn’t respond, just steps into the room and paces toward me, gauging my reaction to his every step. As he approaches, I spot the copy ofSocieteur Magazineopen on the page about him. The devil horns and a big arrow pointing to his smiling face with the word “prick” written in thick black ink clearly visible. Leaning over the magazine to hide it from his viewpoint, I use my elbow to slide it off my desk. It lands in my bag on the floor as I shuffle papers to cover the sound. He immediately surveys the desk like a wild cat looking for mice. He looks briefly disgusted as he examines the crumbs, paper balls and old Kind bar wrappers littering my desk before landing on a picture frame showing a Fate success story: a couple posing with their newborn baby; he grins in patronizing amusement. I flip the frame over and scowl in his direction.
He counters with a smirk. “Working late again?”
“No, I just like to stay here for the fluorescent-lit ambience and sounds of Ronnie the janitor singing along to heavy metal,” I reply, thudding the rubber end of a green Fate-branded pencil on the desk impatiently. “What do you want?”
He looks so out of place in this fluffy, feminine office. I’ve never been to his, even when we were friends. I always try, whenever possible, to avoid walking via Ignite’s letchy Product team who haven’t seen an actual in-the-flesh woman for months. You can always tell when they have recently been in the building’s lift because entering the space after them is a full-on assault on the nostrils. Thankfully, when Catch Group acquired Fate Susie fought to keep the two offices separate to “preserve the magic.” I used to think Bancroft liked working here with me, and that getting away from the Ignite bubble was for his own sanity. But whenever he comes here now, instead of our late-night must-meet-deadline-panic reporting sessions, it’s clearly with the sole purpose of tormenting me. I’ve never been in his office, but I’ve always imagined it looks as though Matthew McConaughey’s office inHow to Lose a Guy in 10 Dayshad an interior-design child with Don Draper’s office inMad Men. Overtly masculine but classically styled, vintage Playboy covers on the walls, quilted leather chairs and smelling like that cologne he wears every single day. Not overwhelming but a distinctive scent that lingers after he leaves the room, as though he wants you to think abouthim for hours after he’s gone. The complete opposite of the developers. Some of the girls in the office have had a bet going on what cologne he wears for close to a year now. Eau de Lucifer most likely.
“You really need to get an office of your own,” he declares, his tone back to its familiar sarcastic drawl.
My eyes roll out of my skull into a pile of notebooks and used Tupperware. If it was as easy as he makes it sound I’d have a whole floor by now, instead of this stuffy room with ten white desks slotted together like the most boring Lego set imaginable.
My mouth curves into a sickly sweet smile as I shuffle in my seat, pulling down the skirt of my dress. “When I get this promotion I’ll be sure to ask for one.”
He lets out a deep, condescending laugh and shakes his head. “Listen, about that...” he says, voice softening again, making me instantly suspicious of where this conversation is about to go. “If you’re not actually OK with the...arrangementthen there’s no hard feelings.”
He takes a tissue out of his pocket, wipes the edge of my desk clear of crumbs and places the second coffee cup in front of me, then folds his arms and leans against the glass wall opposite me.
“We don’thaveto do these ‘dates’ together.” His fingers wave in the air, mocking the concept of the word. “I can use my contacts; you can use yours. We don’t have to work together at all.”
I can tell he’s attempting to mask a devious smile with empathy, so I give him a blank expression in return.
“Or...” He drags the pause out, his bottom lip pouting as though he’s pretending to come up with this idea on the spot. “I can just take this project on solo.”
“And why would I agree to that?” I ask in a deliberately innocent tone.
He shrugs. “Because I’m, as you once put it, ‘all gin and no tonic’?” His voice takes on a devilish lilt that gives me goose bumps.
I swallow down the nostalgia. “Sure, being in your presence brings me out in hives, but at least I’ll be promoted at the end of it.”
The one thing working alongside him brings to the table is his family’s extensive black book of founders, CEOs and industry powerhouses. I can’t compete with generational nepotism on my own and if I agree to work apart I’d be handing him a gold medal before the race has even started.
I watch his throat bob as he takes a slow sip from his cardboard cup. When we used to have our catch-up meetings at the chic cafe looking out onto bustling Charlotte Street, he would always insist on paying for mine too. There’s no way in hell I will accept his pity coffee now, no matter how delicious.
“Hastings, you’re obviously uncomfortable spending time alone with me after...” He winces as if the thought of my discomfort causes him genuine distress. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence for me to know exactly what he’s talking about. It hangs over every moment of conflict between us like a guillotine withfraying rope. As though he has an invisible ace he never plays, but we both know is up his impeccably tailored sleeve. The threat of him saying it is almost as great as actually uttering the words.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap back, eyes fixing on my computer screen as though I’ve just been sent an email with the subjectYou’ve won a year of free coffee at Wilfred’s!
Pretending I have no memory of it is my only option of defence against him because he usually doesn’t bring it up directly, just dances around it. He’s bringing out the big guns today, which tells me he must be internally freaking out at the prospect of having his precious project taken from him. Especially by me.
He tilts his head and some emotion I can’t place enters his eyes as he looms over the desk. I look away, trying to force aside the memory of how his breath against my cheek felt as he sheltered me from the cold.
“Hastings.” The slow, sensual way he whispers the word makes me hate my own name. It hasn’t always made my skin crawl. I used to find it almost endearing. Considerably better than the “Gracie” people seem to naturally nickname me. We used to sit at this same desk, scarfing down takeaway Chinese from a place three streets over. Cracking fortune cookies, swapping office gossip and stressing about deadlines. Now, him coming over here always has some nefarious, ulterior motive.
