He pressed his lips together. “Despite whatSocieteur Magazinethinks, I don’t really ‘date’ anyone anymore. Casual sex is a lot simpler.”
My lips curved into a sly smile. “Well, then you really are the perfect face of Ignite.”
We locked eyes again, a silent challenge in them.
The question leaves my mouth like a bullet. “So, what is your type? For casual sex, I mean.”
His eyes moved over me. A quick dart to the left, then the right, as if he was taking a quick mental snapshot of my face. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth and a swooping sensation fluttered through me, warming my core and staining my cheeks.
“Oh. I didn’t mean me. I have a boyfriend,” I blurted. “Partner. Person. William.”
My cheeks flushed hotter as I tried to avoid physically cringing in front of him.
He smirked, clearly trying to suppress a laugh. “Don’t worry. I know.”
My shoulders relaxed. I wondered how he knew, but before the question could fully form in my mind he continued.
“People who readSocieteurand their idiotic posts aren’t the only ones who know how to online stalk, you know.”
Another pause, this one more weighty than the last. I was on the verge of asking an embarrassing follow-up question when he pulled his phone out. “Are you hungry? I could kill for some dumplings right now.”
We lingered in the Fate office for two more hours, picking at cold dim sum and talking about how Eric’s first few weeks had been going. I gave him the rundown of all the best people to know at Catch Group, (Yemi ranking number one, obviously) who to avoid (Jeffrey, the Product developer, but Eric had already picked up on that one) and showed him a few other ways of finding good marketing data on the internal software. We eventually dragged ourselves away from our seats at 11 p.m., and I realized on the way home that this was the only late night at work I’d ever enjoyed.
6
It’s 6 a.m. on Sunday and I never in my wildest nightmares thought I would be here.
Here, at the bottom of a members-only hiking trail no doubt owned by some private equity firm trying to look eco-friendly, waiting for Eric Bancroft. The warm morning air tracing my bare shoulders is comforting but not worth waking up at 5 a.m. and getting the same tube as the Saturday-nighters just coming home.
Fiddling with the fraying hem of my charity-shop bike shorts, I take in the pristine scene around me. There are kiosks dotted at the mouth of a winding trail selling freshly ground coffee, pressed juices and small glass pots of overnight oats. My mouth waters: maybe I could get into this part of hiking if it was at a reasonable time of day. The greenery bracketing the path is wild and full, but well landscaped, and frames the ticketed turnstiles that grant access to the hiking trail. This place is the Soho House of hiking trails. I watch as other early risers start their ascent. They look so at ease at this time of day that it’s as if they rise naturally with the sun, wearing matching Lululemon workout sets and carrying the latestexpensive status-declaring aluminium water bottles. A few of them give me the side-eye as I drink out of a plastic bottle of Volvic I bought from the twenty-four-hour corner shop on the way here. The last time I exercised was over a month ago, running for a bus that I ended up missing anyway. I buy an overpriced oat milk latte and pain au chocolat from the trendy coffee cart and sit cross-legged on a decorative boulder, already worn out.
“Good morning, Hastings.” My body stiffens at his fake-chirpiness. I was almost enjoying myself in the brief chocolatey moment when I forgot the reason I’m here.
Bancroft sports an all-black outfit and Ray-Bans. Matching Nike shorts, fancy trainers and a quarter-zip hoodie all in pristine condition with perfectly tousled hair, looking alert and at ease, as though he’s been up for hours.
“You’re late,” I say, still chewing the last flaky bite of my pastry. It’s as though he loves to be the last one to enter a room, creating the illusion that everyone is waiting for him.
“I thought I’d give you enough time to take care of your sugar and caffeine addiction before we got started.” His gaze runs over me and lands on the empty grease-stained brown paper bag in my hand.
I glare at him. “It’s research,” I say, crumpling the bag into a ball and lightly throwing it at him. An old man dressed like a marathon runner tuts at my faux-littering in between pants for air.
I brush the pastry crumbs off my chest and he starts stretching his toned calves on a beautifully carved, moss-covered wooden bench.
“Look, I’ve already locked in discounted access for users, so all we need to do is check out the trail itself.” Bancroft picks up my bag and launches it at a bin several metres away. Of course, it lands perfectly in the center. I’m slightly impressed but feign disinterest as I slide off the boulder.
“Let’s just get this over with so I can go back to bed.” I place my worn baseball cap on my head for dramatic effect.
“That’s the spirit!” he says, patting me on the back as I stand up.
We hike in silence as the summer sun slowly begins to bake the ground below us. The trail fills with more versions of the 6 a.m. women, then the 6.30 a.m. fitness couples in matching skin-tight sportswear, followed by 7 a.m. friends with iced coffees and strollers.
We try to stay out of each other’s way: me walking a few meters behind him, huffing sarcastically every time someone checks him out; him keeping a steady pace just ahead of me, which I’m sure is some sort of dominance mind game he’s attempting. I try to regulate my breathing as my thighs burn their way toward what I hope is the end of the trail, but each breath makes my head grow heavier.
“You OK back there?” he asks over his shoulder after the first half mile uphill, the sun glistening off the sweat lightly coating his forehead.
“Never. Better. Thanks.” I strain between each word.
My legs, my chest and my forehead are all on fire. It would be fitting to die here, like this: she died how she lived, trying so hard to get somewhere but not quite reaching the peak.
