I meet his stare, eyebrows raised. “AndIthink we can both agree that I was the one who won Christoph over.”
“I had the contact,” he says.
“You wanted to back out of couples’ yoga,” I say back.
“Don’t you have work to do for Susie tonight?” he guesses.
“Don’t you literally live five minutes away in a gorgeous apartment?” I guess back.
Bancroft holds his hands up. “OK! Neither of us isgoing to win. So, in the spirit of our truce... maybe neither of us should take it.”
I consider for a moment and then nod. “Equal misery—seems fair.”
“It famously loves company, so I think that works with the friends thing.”
We both step out of the glass revolving doors onto the gray-speckled pavement, and I watch Bancroft walk away for a few seconds before a rumble from the sky tells me it’s time to go home. Dark clouds loom like marshmallows forgotten on a bonfire, spitting tiny droplets of rain on my cheeks as I descend the slippery stairs into the tube. My post-yoga thighs shake lightly as they hold my weight down each step. Commuters lower their umbrellas as we hit the cover of the station, causing a torrent of liquid to spill onto the cracked and faded tile floor. The smell I can only describe as fresh mildew wafts around the turnstiles. Water has already seeped through the mesh side panels of my trainers; I hope I can get home without contracting trench foot.
There’s a weird sort of camaraderie in weather like this; instead of fighting the sweat and heat everyone lets it wash over them and we all become one giant breathing organism, arms intertwining and grasping for purchase. For a few minutes a day, we’re just cells tucked in tightly and swaying in tandem, hurtling through the city bloodlines.
When William and I first moved to the city we would commute together for half the journey and then separate, him joining the suited masses while I continuedwith my bright, patterned peers. I loved spending time imagining everyone else’s lives.Where are you going? What is your job like? Do you want to add a redhead with self-esteem issues to your friend group?
I didn’t have friends, but when I was with William, I felt as if I didn’t need to create space for those kinds of relationships. Of course, that idea was brought to a screaming emergency stop when he left me. When I realized he liked me needing him and only him.
My phone dings with an email notification.
ERIC BANCROFT MADE EDITS IN THE FOLLOWING DOCUMENT:
“DITTO PROJECT REPORTING.”
How does he do these so damn quickly? I fling open the document to add my feedback before I lose signal on the tube, quickly glancing at his section.
I enjoyed participating in this experience:
Strongly agree.
Additional comments:
He left the comment section blank. So hestronglyenjoyed the experience but doesn’t care to comment? Or maybe he just hasn’t completed it yet? My hand fumbles around my jacket pocket for my debit card. I mindlessly pull it out and slap it onto the yellow sensor, moving forward with the queue like a sheep being herded into a muddy field. My body bumps against the closed barrier and I slap the card again. The barrier beeps and I look down to see not my card, but a shiny bronze card in my hand, the overhead lights of the underground bouncingoff its slick surface. It’s one of the key cards Christoph left us for the penthouse suite.
“Miss, if your card’s not working, you’ll need to buy a ticket,” a large bald man in an official-looking vest says to me in a monotone voice.
“Sorry,” I mumble instinctively, squeezing back past the hordes of nine-to-fivers boxing me in. I wind my way through the crowd, the wordsstrongly agreereplaying in my mind as I scowl at the card—until the realization dawns on me. We never declined the reservation, and I left with the key card in my pocket. The empty room is still there. Standing in the middle of the moving crowd like a boulder in a raging river, I stare at the thin piece of plastic. Parts of a plan fall into place like a Jenga tower going in reverse.
Would Charlie Bucket just hand back his golden ticket if one of the other kids renounced theirs? Bancroft’s words after the cooking class swirl around my head like lukewarm vodka in the bottom of a paper cup.
“You’ve just got to grab an opportunity when it presents itself.”
If he didn’t have a quiet, comfortable, luxury apartment with air conditioning and an ice machine in his fridge, would hereallyhave gone home? He is used to that kind of lifestyle, so it probably means nothing to him. It’s barely a special occasion for him to stay in a penthouse. For me, this opportunity is presenting itself in the form of the words “TAKE IT” repeating over and over in flashing neon lights.AndChristoph wouldprobably be upset knowing he’d booked us his “favorite place in the world” for the night and neither of us took him up on it. Really, I should stay there for the good of the partnership. Go above and beyond to accommodate the prospective client’s requests.
Maybe I’ll bump into Christoph and continue some individual discussions to add to my presentation. The idea stews inside me as I mull over my options and the consequences.
Door Number One: spend thirty minutes wedged in a hot tube carriage until I’m coated in a stranger’s sweat, drink rosé in my tiny bedroom and trawl through Susie’s emails and go to bed too drunk for a Thursday, feeling bad about myself.
Door Number Two: spend the night alone in one of the most beautiful hotel rooms I’ve ever seen, with prepaid room service and a giant bathtub, possibly adding to my growing black book of contacts by making a good impression on a powerful and influential hotel-owner.
Spinning on my soggy trainers, I run out of the tube and back to the hotel.
By the time I arrive, the rain has subsided. Lances of summer are trying to break through the rolling clouds, and I’m taking this as a sign from the gods I made the correct decision. The evening sun warms my face as I stare out over the city from the gold-soaked penthouse balcony: the sounds of beeping horns, scuffling feet and commuters talking about their day rising like ivy up the edges of the building. Blues, oranges and pinks pile uplike a Rothko painting in the sky. The hotel room, or I should say the series of interconnected hotel rooms, is a glorious meld of cozy patterned cream rugs, buttery brown leather sofas and shiny onyx surfaces. I hadn’t truly appreciated the space when Christoph gave us the tour, but now it’s all mine for the evening I could cry. Padding through from the living room to the bedroom I resist the urge to jump onto the crisp white sheets like Macaulay Culkin.
