“Paul Mescal?” Yemi says in disbelief.
I shrug in reply, a small smile on my lips silently admitting itisridiculous but refusing to back down.
“It’s numbers, smart arse. Numbers that might actually help you with yournot-a-dateproject.” She says the last part quietly through gritted teeth to stop nearby gossip hounds from picking up a scent.
“Pray tell, O wise one.” I lean in eagerly, sipping my coffee.
She looks at me with a coy smile. “You need pre-packaged date ideas, so I took the self-reported lifestyle data from the top one percent of our most active users and cross-referenced it with the basic three-point profile info to create a tight dataset for you to pull from.”
Scrunching my eyebrows, I ask, “In non-computer-genius language, please?”
Yemi scoffs a laugh and crosses her arms. “I made a list of serial-daters in the city and their favorite hobbies for you to use in your presentation.” She glances around, then she leans in and whispers, “I also got an intern at Ignite to send me their data too.”
“Oh my God!” I gush, wide-eyed, flicking through the pages. “This is amazing, thank you so much!” I push the remaining half of my croissant across the desk, shaking my head in awe. “You deserve the whole thing.”
Yemi let out another mouth-full laugh. “I do.”
“I’ve needed something to give me a leg-up against Bancroft’s Black Book of Bigwigs, and this is perfect. You, my friend, are spectacular and I owe you massively.”
“Keep regifting me your expensive ‘inside-joke’ pastries and we’ll call it even.”
“If I win this promotion, I will buy you Ladurée every day,” I promise, crossing a finger over my heart to seal the vow.
“Whenyou win this promotion, you will buy me Ladurée pastriesandfancy coffee every day.” My cheeks turn pink at the idea as she saunters back to her side of the office.
I eagerly scan the information on the pages. This is perfect. There’s no way Bancroft would think to attain this sort of ammo. My smugness is briefly nicked at the edges by an aching chest. I want to beat the Bancroft that drives me insane at work, but do I want to destroy the Bancroft I saw on Saturday night? The funny, caring and protective Bancroft? No, I just need to get him off my mind completely. Even with this new data, I need every leg up I can get. Maybe the deal Bancroft suggested at the pottery class, about me getting real date experience, is the best way to get both versions of him out of my head. With a lump in my throat and the feeling of regret already gathering momentum in my mind, I download Ignite.
Making my profile is a lot quicker than my experience with Fate. Ignite asks very little about you, but is incredibly interested in getting you to upload as many photos as possible. I guess Ignite users like to know everything about their matches except what they are actually like.
I upload some recent photos, mostly of me at work events, hoping no one looks close enough to notice arival dating app’s branding in the background to most of the images. The choice to add very little to my bio was partially made out of spite for the brand ethos, but mostly because I wanted to get in and out of this world as quickly as possible. If my world at Fate is fluffy cotton candy clouds in the sky, Ignite is an oil-slick puddle glinting in city streetlights. I hold my breath and click through to complete my profile.
Susie’s muffled voice leaks from behind the door: “I don’t care what the board wants, this is my company, Martin, not yours.” She sounds angry but leaning back in my chair I can see through the glass walls of her office that her eyes are red and prickling with unshed tears.
She purses her lips as she listens to the person on the other end of the line. “If you do that, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” She hangs up and flattens her hair behind her ears.
My head turns back to my desk as I hear her office door click open.
“I assume you received my emails, since your phone is permanently glued to your hand?”
I let out a nervous laugh, holding my immediate response of “It’s glued to my hand because you glued it there,” instead opting for “Yes, I was just about to reply to them. Sorry I had some... um... personal things come up.” I fiddle with my fingers, debating whether to ask: “Are—are you OK?”
She looks at me; her eyes flicker with some semblance of the Susie who pulled me from obscurity years ago. Sheblinks, wiping the slate clean of her old self. “Well, since you’re here now I presume they’ve been dealt with?” Her perfectly drawn eyebrows arch to her hairline.
“Mmm-hmm.” I nod, straightening my posture.
“Great.” She scrunches her nose and gives me a wide toothy smile. “I need everything on my desk by EOD.”
She’s one of those people who like to abbreviate when speaking even if the abbreviation takes the same amount of time as the actual words.
“Not a problem,” I declare through gritted teeth, turning my squeaky chair back toward my computer. Susie stands over my shoulder and glares at the screen for a few seconds, before pressing a long finger on a folder marked EVER AFTER 2.0.
“What is this doing on your work computer?” she asks pointedly.
“Oh, that?” I laugh nervously, clicking her email open to distract her.
“I told you to stop working on that project.” She crosses her arms tightly across her chest.
“Well, after you said it wasn’t the right fit for Fate I may have started developing the idea a bit more when I’ve had time. And maybe I could repitch to you at some point?” I close my eyes, immediately regretting my words.
