I don’t say a word to his cat-got-the-cream face.Instead, in a move that is way more ballsy than I’m used to, I pick up the receiver of my phone and call the extension for Martin Catcher’s office. Pressing the speaker button to slice through the silence in the room with a high-pitched jarring ring.
A now familiar, chirpy voice picks up with a pleasant singsong tone: “Mr. Catcher’s office.”
“Hi, Harriet, it’s Grace.”
“Hi, Grace who?”
I falter. “It’s Grace... Hastings? I saw you this morning?”
“Oh, from your meeting with Eric.”
He raises an eyebrow at me and my ears burn in frustration.
“Yes. That one,” I say through my clenched teeth.
“How can I help you?” she chimes.
I lean on my elbow and look Bancroft dead in his squinting, icy eyes. “Please pass the message on to Mr. Catcher that I’msoexcited to get started on this project and already have ideas for some amazing... um... test runs.”
“OK, Grace... Hastings... excited about... the project. Test runs,” she says slowly, writing it down. “Got it!”
“Thanks, Harriet,” I say, pulling the phone away from my ear and slamming it down dramatically to end the call.
Bancroft unfolds his arms, takes a seat at the empty desk next to mine and places a leather Armani brogueon the white surface. “You’ve finally become interesting, Hastings.”
I would tell him to put his feet down but Hannah, the owner of said desk, would swoon that any of his body parts have been where she sits all day.
“Interesting? I think Mr. Catcher preferred the word ‘vital,’” I say in my best attempt to match his easy confidence as I swing my chair to face him, cross my bare legs and rest my chin in my hand. “We both know he doesn’t trust you to do this without me.”
His jaw twitches as he glances down. I internally celebrate hitting a nerve. I still know all of his tells. Unfortunately, that means he probably still knows all of mine. I subtly move from an insecure forward lean to a relaxed lounge in my chair, resting my hands in my lap triumphantly.
“Let’s not speak too soon, OK? You don’t know the full breadth of this project yet.” He runs a tense hand through his sandy hair, leaning back to match my position.
I gesture to him with a sweeping palm. “Please, enlighten me.”
He picks up a multicolored ball of elastic bands from Hannah’s desk and throws it into the air, catching it with one hand as he explains: “I... Well,weneed to partner with companies to create sponsored date packages for the Ditto users, based on a range of lifestyles and interests. Creating the dates is one task, but we have to convince brands and companies to work with us. Thelaunch won’t land without backing from a handful of strong partners.”
Dread lances into my stomach at the idea of taking on such a task on my own. For a second I’m impressed he was already in the process of doing it but shrug off the feeling. He throws the ball higher with one hand and catches it with ease.
Bag over her shoulder, Yemi walks past the glass wall outside the marketing team’s portion of the office, most likely to come and pull me from my work trance and force me to go home. But when she notices who I’m talking to, she shapes her hand into a loose fist and shakes it back and forth at the back of Bancroft’s head, mouthing the word “Wanker.”
Bancroft notices my smile and cranes his neck around just as Yemi resumes walking past the glass wall toward the elevator. He turns back to me, clearing his throat and placing the elastic band ball back on Hannah’s desk with a thunk.
“I have something booked with a major hotel chain in a few weeks, enough time to gather a strong list of complementary brands beforehand. And I’ve already had an initial meeting with a hiking trail company, but I was going to test the route this weekend.” He sighs. “So I suppose you will have to come with me.”
He’s relenting. He knows I’m right: there is no way Mr. Catcher would leave this project in Bancroft’s hands alone; the dates would probably end up at a high-end strip club or pheasant shooting at a country estate.
“And, like Catcher said in the meeting, we need to write a brief report for each experience to collate our data. I’ve already created a spreadsheet with him so he can track our progress. Can you get a date lined up soon, or have you got too much of Susie’s work to do?”
A sly smile that reaches all the way to his eyes scans me for outrage. Patronizing prick.
“Of course I can!” I lie again, gesturing to the Google doc littered with a chaotic assortment of vowels and consonants.
He blinks. “Hmmm, sure. We should organize two or three each, to split the workload.”
“That’s great because I already have at least three potential leads.” Tapping the vacant screen with my pen.
“Well, I look forward to whatever they are. But on Sunday morning, we’re going hiking. Please wear something... appropriate.”
