Bancroft’s jaw tightens as we drift with the group to the next painting. “How come you didn’t tell anyone when you got back to London?”
“Because even just my family knowing what happened was so humiliating. My parents have a beautiful love story and I literally went from engaged one day to single and homeless the next. The break-up was tough enough and I couldn’t hide it from people in the office. We work at a company that preaches soulmatesand true love; I didn’t want people pitying me even more... so I just left out theactualreason we broke up. I couldn’t talk about it. It was too much.”
As the truth flies out of my mouth I can’t help but feel a burning sensation in my pocket where my phone is sitting. Where William’s texts are waiting.
I see the question trying not to leave Bancroft’s lips; it’s one I’ve asked myself too many times:If he’d asked you in private, would you have said yes?
“I get why you didn’t want to tell anyone...” Bancroft says instead, stepping in closer and touching my forearm, forcing my eyes up to meet his. “... but I need you to know I would never have pitied you. I just... didn’t realize it was that bad.”
He briefly glances back to the art and we move in unison to the next sculpture: a hammered metal sheet turning our reflections into shadowy figures. I shrug, staying put as the rest of the group moves to the next piece of art.
“It’s not like you and I were on speaking terms at that point.”
Hastings is a clingy psycho... not worth going there.
“No, we weren’t,” he confirms.
I hold my breath, waiting for the air to leave my brain so I’m dumb enough to ask, “What would you have done if we were?”
He huffs an empty laugh and stares at us both reflected in the carved, distorted surface. “Made sure it didn’t destroy you the way it did. Protected you from it. Triedmy hardest to make sure you didn’t fall apart, and if I failed... kept the pieces safe until you were strong enough to put yourself back together.”
My entire body covers itself with goose bumps like a chameleon trying to blend in with the pointillist painting next to me. Eyes stinging, I turn to face the wall.
A hand lands on my shoulder as he takes a deep breath, the heat from his body radiating through my thin cotton shirt as he comes in closer to whisper, “Grace, I—”
“Everything OK in the back there, folks? You’re lagging behind!” The tour guide laughs as the entire group turns around to inspect and glare at the stragglers.
“Uh-huh!” I reply immediately, wiping the moisture from underneath my eyes.
Bancroft’s hands slide into his pockets and he takes a half step backward, his head down. “Just so moved... by the work!”
I laugh nervously and nod, confirming Bancroft’s cover story.
“Oh!” The guide waves a hand and laughs gutturally. “Not the first time—take as long as you need.”
“It’s fine. I think we’ve recovered now.” Bancroft gives me a tight smile as we follow the group to the next painting.
16
My heels click on the travertine marble floor as I step into the ground-floor lobby. I wave and say “Happy Monday” to Dave the security guard as I head out in the heat to pick up Susie’s lunch from the upmarket Asian-fusion restaurant around the corner. I don’t particularly enjoy going there, as it reminds me of all the times Bancroft and I used to order takeout during our late nights working together in the office last year.
“If you believe in Fate so much, you should act on whatever the fortune cookie decrees,” Bancroft announced one winter’s evening after two pints of miso soup and a mountain of dumplings.
“Of course,” I agreed. “I would never disrespect cookie law,” I said, cracking open the sugar-coated parcel and pulling out the white paper ribbon.
I held it up to read it in the dimmed office light: “‘The usefulness of a cup is in its emptiness.’”
Bancroft nodded and stroked his chin. “You know what, I’ve always said that.”
I laughed. “What does it mean, then?”
“I think it means...” He took an old plasticwater-cooler cup from my desk and topped it with a measure of the room temperature vodka, which at this point had become a staple for our after-hours meetings. “... you have to clear this cup.”
I chugged the contents, shivering from the aftertaste as though a ghost had just paced straight through me, then I placed the cup upside down like a paper crown on my head. “Your turn.”
He cracked open his cookie and cleared his throat. “‘Follow what calls to you.’”
“Very deep. Pray tell: What calls to you currently?” I leaned forward like a producer interviewing someone for a heart-wrenching documentary.
