If one user lacks empathy or is more self-involved than the other, the hiking-trail date package has the potential to be disastrous.
Alice joins me on the bed with a bounce and cartoonishly swoons onto the pillows. “So you went on a date with one of the most desired men in London, twisted your ankle like a fragile maiden and he carried you down a hill? Explain to me how thisisn’tthe romcom dream?”
I rub my face, trying to think in full sentences. “Because even if he is as desirable asSocieteur Magazineclaims, he’s only ‘desired’ by people who haven’t had the displeasure of spending time with him.”
“Also, because in a romcom the love interest isn’t theman who calls you a clingy psycho to his colleagues!” Yemi says. “Shit, sorry.” She winces at me.
“No, you’re right.” I sigh.
For my own sanity, I’ve been pushing down thoughts of exactly how our friendship ended six months ago. Even Bancroft doesn’t know the real reason things ended so badly. He thinks it’s because of what happened at the Catch Group Christmas party; he has no idea it was three days later.
I was a mess at the Christmas party so I was going to apologize. When I got to his office door it was ajar and I could hear him talking to someone. I assumed he was in a meeting until I heard my name.
Hastings is a clingy psycho... She’s not worth going there, not even for a quick shag. That kind of desperation isn’t hot. It’s just pathetic.
He tried to talk to me a couple of days later, but I just froze him out. It was too much; I was already dealing with the fallout from William and I simply couldn’t handle any more confrontation. Two weeks later, after he caught me alone, some choice words were said and he stopped trying.
“It’s his loss.” Yemi smiles softly, as though she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
Alice stands up with vigor. “OK, youhaveto beat this fucker.” She flings open my wardrobe. “And I’m going to find you a killer outfit for the next date.”
Yemi nods. “You’re in charge of what you’re doing for the next one, right?”
I nod my head in confirmation.
“OK, where is it?” asks Alice, pushing clothes from one side of my rail to the other.
“A cooking class at that restaurant we went to, El Turo? But I’ve barely got any time to organize it.”
To counter Bancroft’s contacts from big firms and global companies, I’ve been thinking my pitch should have an angle of local businesses and bespoke dates. Working to create unique, intimate experiences with amazing independent brands and companies, instead of with giant cookie-cutter companies that Bancroft will be talking to, might give me the edge I need to win this promotion.
“Babe, you haven’t been on a real first date in literallyyears,” declares Alice. “Even though it’s Eric Bancroft, you should consider these dates, like, practice!”
“Immersion therapy,” Yemi adds with a serious face. “Going on a date with a dickhead will give you the experience you need to handle any future date.”
Alice pulls a dress out of my wardrobe: a plunging seventies-style fire-engine-red minidress I bought from a small vintage stall at a market when I first arrived in London. A purchase made with the assumption that William and I would be living life to the fullest in the city, instead of me being too exhausted from work to ever go out, and him continually expressing his dislike of me going out without him.
I shake my head. “Cute but not appropriate for a cooking class. They said long sleeves.”
Alice continues her excavation of my clothing until she drags a dress from the very back and holds it out to me.
The black velvet dress swings back and forth for a few seconds before Yemi yanks it off the hanger and quietly tells Alice, “Not this one. That’sthedress.”
“Oh shit.” Alice sighs. “Sorry, babe.”
“It’s fine!” I blurt out. They both look at me with puppy-dog eyes. “Guys, it’s literally fine. It’s just a dress...”
I run my fingers over the soft fabric. I spent a lot of money on this dress. I wore it for a couple of hours before it was tearstained and stuffed in a box with the rest of my clothes when I moved.
“You’re right,” agrees Yemi. “Just a dress.”
“If it’s just a dress”—Alice smiles slyly—“maybe I can do something with it to give it a new identity. You look too good in this for it to die a slow death being eaten by moths on a hanger.” My eyebrows lift as she continues, “I’m just going to tweak it a bit and you’re going to make new memories of looking amazing for your date and locking down your first brand partner for your presentation. Just give me fifteen minutes and you won’t even recognize it.”
My lips curve and I stick my bottom lip out, trying to stop my eyes from getting misty. I’ll admit, gaining an aspiring fashion designer for a flatmate is a huge win.
“You are the actual best.” I sigh. “But for the record, this isn’t a ‘date.’ It’s practically a meeting.”
8
