It’s a strip of photos of me and him from the Catch Group Christmas party six months ago. A missing memory of pulling him into the cramped photo booth bursts through my mind as I run my finger down the images, homing in on the last one. Me, gleaming at the camera, glassy-eyed. Him, looking at me with a softness that makes my stomach do a backward flip off the side of the building.
I hastily shove the photo strip back into the book andslam it shut. “Listen, I have to go. I promised my flatmate I would help her with her dissertation today,” I lie. After a few seconds of silence, a freshly showered Bancroft appears, wearing a short-sleeved white cotton T-shirt and blue jeans. Ignoring his still-damp chest, I inspect my ankle for swelling, lowering it with a wince onto the oak floor.
“Let me check how the swelling is doing.” He leans down over me; his chest smells like soap. His usual sandy blond hair looks darker when it’s wet; the short curls fall over his forehead like little helter-skelters.
“It’s definitely feeling better.” I fake a smile. “So, we don’t need to do this wholeMiseryact anymore.”
A flash of something glints across his eyes and then disappears; he clears his throat and says, “At least let me help you to the door.”
I give him a light nod, trying not to make eye contact as my cheeks begin to burn, thinking about the photographs.
His arms wrap around me and I feel his hands hold me lightly but firmly. His scent envelops me like a warm duvet on a cold morning.
“Thanks...” I half whisper, as though being grateful to him must be kept quiet “... and thanks for the health sludge too—I feel like a new woman.”
He lets out an awkward, breathy laugh. “No problem.” He’s stepping away from me and running a hand through his wet hair. Before any stupid questions come tumbling out of my mouth, I grab my bag, and my pride, and hobble out of the door.
7
“I knew this wasn’t going to end well...”
I pry my sleep-crusted eyes open to locate the source of the voice above me. Yemi is looming above my bed with crossed arms and a frost-covered bag of peas hanging from her hand.
“I didn’t think they’d end up physically injuring each other this early on,” replies Alice from down near my ankle with a concerned look on her freckled face. The bed creaks as I sit up, bending my leg to inspect the swelling. It’s turned from pink to purple since I last looked at it but at least the swelling has gone down.
“It was just me who got hurt,” I confirm in a gravelly voice, rubbing my face in an attempt to wipe my brain clean of this morning. “What time is it?”
I look out of the window at the late-morning sunlight streaming through the blinds; I must have only been asleep a couple of hours.
“Oh my God, what did he do to you?” Alice asks, mouth agape, eyes darting in question between Yemi and me.
“Hedidn’t do anything.” I sigh, wincing at my ankle.“The headline is: I fell; he carried me down the hill and then into his apartment; it was humiliating.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have a bag of frozen vegetables for your pride,” Yemi consoles me, trying and failing to hide a smile as she places the bag on my ankle.
Instinctively, I reach for my phone to check my emails and watch the spinning loop as the inbox refreshes. Sometimes, when I close my eyes I can still see the little circle going round and round, like my thoughts loading for the next day’s long list of inane tasks. As usual, there are a bunch of emails from Susie, a few cc’s from various colleagues, a newsletter fromAdWeekand...
ERIC BANCROFT MADE EDITS IN THE FOLLOWING DOCUMENT:
“DITTO PROJECT REPORTING.”
My stomach drops. Whatever he has written can be seen by anyone who has access—including Mr. Catcher. My ankle throbs as I drag my laptop out from my bag at the side of the bed, flinging it open and frantically clicking through.
I enjoyed participating in this experience:
Disagree.
Additional comments:
The trail is not for unserious people or those who do limited exercise.
So much for waiting for me to heal so I can be a worthy opponent.
My mind clings to the photos in his apartment. Whatif he planted them when I wasn’t looking with the intention to throw me off my game? I mean, they were right there, sticking out of the top of a coffee-table book, almosttooconveniently located.
He doesn’t think about me at all. That’s what he said on the trail. A single strip of pictures doesn’t change anything; the person who put them in the book is also the person who is willing to throw me under a bus for a promotion. If I want to win this job, I need to be cool, calm and collected. Serious. The exact opposite of a person who freaks out about one set of planted photographs or replays overheard words over and over until they shred into mental confetti. Perversely, I need to be more like Bancroft if this is going to work.
My fingers slam against the keyboard as I type:
