Cecily:JESS!!!!!
Cecily:Answer your bloody phone!
My stomach drops, my thumb slicing over the barrage of messages to get to whatever has gone wrong. Did Malcolm do something? Did he expose us? Maybe he went straight to Dominic after he saw me leave the party?
As the elevator dings open at my floor, I freeze. Hands shaking, I finally reach the source of the texts.
Spencer:WE’RE GOING TO VIENNA BABY!
Chapter 21
Business Account (WYST) BALANCE: £2,158.68
Personal Account BALANCE: -£1,857.10
Recent transactions:
Car rental fee: £162.95
Instead of working on our Eurostar back to London, I spend the majority of that time in a daze with Spencer lightly snoring on my shoulder. At passport control, I sheepishly asked what he was up to tonight, in the hopes of avoiding my final destination, but he’s meeting friends for drinks and to discuss a new show. I played it off, too embarrassed to acknowledge that I was so desperate for someone to talk to about the last twelve hours. A turgid pavement greets me as we step out of St. Pancras. Spencer waves goodbye, rolling his suitcase down to the underground. I pull up Citymapper on my phone and for a moment forget I gave up my flat. A plan that felt much more sensible when sleeping on the sofa in the conference room was still a week away.
Waiting for the bus outside the station, a cold wind bites at my cheeks as I watch a young couple quietly chatting and giggling under the lamplight, holding each other for warmth intheir own little world. My mind drifts to kissing Oliver, how quiet the street was compared to the roaring of London traffic. He’s still in Paris but I can’t help but feel him here.
You can have him or the truth, not both.
Flicking on the light switch in the office brings everything into focus in one fluorescent, squinting glow. I stare at the four identical desks, only distinguished by the individual knickknacks and photos identifiable to the three of us who occupy this space full-time. Spencer has a few things but not for decoration. An empty notebook, a Burt’s Bees lip balm, and an Owala water bottle were left behind while running in for a few days, cashing the check, then hauling out in the direction of his latest project. In a way, his life seems quite nice. Not having to rely on yourself for a paycheck, instead floating in and out of jobs, not letting anything affect you because you’re not truly responsible for anyone or anything other than yourself.
I head into the meeting room to hunt through my moving boxes for some fresh underwear. At least I had the foresight to wash almost all my clothes before spending an entire night folding them into neatly organized boxes. Sometimes being type A is a good thing. My finger presses the dimmer switch, and I scan the room with a downturned mouth. Maybe the building’s cleaner has moved them? I deliberately labeled them things like “merchandise” and “printer paper” in thick black Sharpie pen so to not arouse any suspicion that this is my new place of residence. My feet pad around the table, leaving my carry-on suitcase by the door. No boxes anywhere. With panic rising, I check one more time. I’m tired. My brain probably just didn’t register them. Finally, my eyes land on a neon-pink Post-it note stuck to the middle of the conference table.
Call me if you ever want to see your boxes again.
C x
The rising panic is immediately subdued and replaced by confusion.
“Why do you have my stuff?” I ask down the receiver.
“I needed a bargaining chip,” Cecily says. I can hear an oven fan whirring in the background.
“And what are your demands?” I say, a smile creeping across my face.
“My only demand is that you get in the Uber that will be pulling up in...” I hear a series of taps against the phone. “...six minutes.”
“So you’re holding my clean underwear hostage and now you’re actively kidnapping me?”
“Yes... but in a friend way,” she clarifies, the sound of a popping cork punctuating her statement. “We’re celebrating Paris, and the other bottle of champagne is chilling in the fridge for you.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, the guilt rising up my throat.
“Too late, Isaac is on his way in a Fiat Punto. Au revoir!” She hangs up before I can protest further.
Thirty minutes later I’m on the outskirts of central London, staring at the exterior of a fancy town house. Ivy runs the length of the thin five-story building, making the city home feel like you’re stepping into a countryside manor. I’ve never been to Cecily’s parents’ place, but by the looks of things, my dirty jeans and T-shirt with a mystery stain are probably not guestappropriate. Before I have a chance to pull back the wrought iron lion-shaped knocker, the door swings open.
My eyes sting as I embrace Cecily, the scent of roasted chicken wafting through the entryway. “Smells amazing.”
She smiles and takes my suitcase before shouting over her shoulder, “Please hold all praise untilafteryou’ve tried my cooking.”
I laugh as I follow her through the quiet black-and-white tiled entryway into the midnight-blue kitchen lit by antique sconces. “Where are your parents?”
