His eyes squint for a second. “Right, well. That’s fine. I’m not that attracted to you anyway; not a fan of brunettes.” He sits back in his chair. “Especially when they don’t look like their profile picture.”
It takes everything in me not to question why he even came here, but I don’t want to continue this conversation.
His eyes crease curiously. “It’s weird because now I’ve seen you in person, you do seem quite familiar. You went to business school, right? Do we have any friends in common?”
“No,” I say on reflex. A champagne cork popping makes me jolt out of my skin as a familiar dread rises in my stomach, curdling the wine into vinegar. “No,” I repeat quietly.
He leans in, scanning my face. “Are you sure? You went to Goldsmiths, right? I have a few mates who went there.”
The blood draws from my face, metastasizing into hives across my throat. “Probably not, it was a big school.”
He clicks his fingers in front of my face, eyes wide. “Wait,I know what it is. You worked at Graystone. Were you there when that grad scandal happened? That was crazy. I can’t believe the poor guy got fired over a couple of photos.”
My chair scrapes against the terra-cotta tiles. “Excuse me, I’m gonna use the bathroom.” My mouth forms a tight smile as I leave the table and meander through the crowd to the back of the bar.
The moment I close the bathroom door my chest begins to heave.
My brain is throbbing so hard it feels like a computer lagging and overheated. Flashes of memory appear as black dots in my vision.
Walking into the office, everyone staring.
My friend’s face as she pulls me aside.
Seeing the photos, my world imploding.
The sex was consensual, but not when Malcolm took those photos. He convinced me after that they were just for him.
Heart racing, I check LinkedIn for William Salter. My hand freezes on the screen, my skin cold and clammy. He was right; we have seven mutual connections. Four through university, but my three former colleagues at Graystone bash alarm bells against my skull.
Eyes stinging, I sit on the toilet seat and put my head between my legs, breathing through my nose like the YouTube videos taught me, and stare blankly at the upside-down layer of dust accumulating around the bottom of the porcelain basin and count to sixty—the world’s most efficient panic attack. After my breathing’s normalized, I wash my hands, roll my fingers across my bottom lashes and then through my hair.
Before I exit the LinkedIn app, my eyes snag on a post byOdericco Investments, one of my dream investors at the top of my funding spreadsheet.
Open call for start-up pitches, ending tonight at midnight GMT.
Due to scheduling conflicts, a space has become available for this year’s TechRumble competition.
A link to an application form sits below the post. The original deadline for this year’s TechRumble finalists was months ago, back when I was in the final stages of talking to another investor. The deadline passed, and our investor called me “petal,” then ghosted me. I bookmark the post, mentally steeling myself for the more pressing issue—getting back to this car crash of a meeting. As I swing open the bathroom door and head back to the table, William has vanished, along with his coat. All evidence of our “meeting” gone, except the unpaid bill sitting on a small silver tray in the middle of the table.
Chapter 2
Business Account (WYST) BALANCE: £13,216.57
Personal Account BALANCE: -£1,960.63
Recent Transactions:
The Withering Vine London: £150.00
Transport for London: £2.90
Thirty minutes later, after a mortifying amount of “your card was declined” attempts at the bar, I shove through the heavy office door with a half-drunk bottle of wine in hand. The draft guard hisses against the carpet as I see Cecily’s and Pacha’s heads pop up from behind their computer screens. The familiar scent of lit TK Maxx candles that, according to Cecily, “smell just like the ones from Anthropologie” hits me as I nearly trip over a box of promotional T-shirts to get to my desk.
“How did it go?” Pacha asks, his green Adidas tracksuit looking particularly neon today.
“Have you not told him?” I ask Cecily.
She shrugs. “He’s been locked in for the past few hours.” Pacha is fluent in JavaScript, not in office small talk, but we soon found his no-nonsense ways the perfect antithesis to myand Cecily’s ability to talk about literally anything for hours on end.
