One
“You did what?”
I pause next to the pub’s chalkboard craft beer menu, phone pressed to my ear. “I quit,” I repeat. “Just now. I mean, ten minutes ago.”
“You handed in your notice?”
“More like... stormed out.”
My sister yogic-breathes for a couple of seconds. “Wow. Okay...”
“I couldn’t take it anymore, Tash. It was one time too many.”
I picture her nodding, trying her best to understand.
“Something will turn up,” I say, with a confidence I definitely don’t feel.
“Let me guess: the universe has got your back?”
I manage a smile, but it wobbles a bit. “Here’s hoping.”
—
The bus back to Tash’s isn’t due for an hour, so I’ve taken cover in The Smugglers with a Virgin Mary. I stay sitting at the bar after my drink comes. The Smugglers is something of a Shoreley institution:it’s the first place I ever got served, heard live music, met boys who weren’t school friends.
I’m starting to feel conscious of just staring into space, so I tap absent-mindedly into the horoscope app on my phone. Checking my horoscope has become my latest guilty pleasure, like watching trashy TV, or eating crumpets in bed. The kind of thing you’d never admit to in front of someone you fancied. But it is slightly addictive. A bit like playing the lottery.Maybe this time...
I read today’s prediction, and my heart does a little tap dance through my chest.
Today will see you head off on a new career path. If you’re single, this could also be the day you bump into your soulmate.
And then, as if in slow motion, it happens. As I’m lifting a hand to catch the barman’s attention for another, the person next to me gets up, letting someone new slide in. “Pint of Guinness please, mate.”
The barman hesitates, then glances at me. My new companion turns, and our eyes meet.
“Ah, sorry.” He smiles broadly, the friendliest apology ever. “Didn’t see you there.”
It’s the oddest thing: I feel as though I know him. That we have met before. But I can’t place my finger on when, or how.
He’s the type of good-looking favored by knitwear adverts—all dark stubble and ruffled hair and dewy eyes. His expression as he looks at me—amused and intense all at once—combined with the sweet haze of his aftershave, makes me draw breath.
“Hi. No. You go,” I say.
“What are you having?”
“Oh, you really don’t need to—”
“No, I insist.”
“Well. A Virgin Mary, then. Thank you.”
To his credit and my relief, he doesn’t attempt to tack a vodka shot onto my order, or crack a lame joke about pubs traditionally being for boozing in.
When the drinks arrive, he glances around the room, then shrugs and stays where he is on the stool next to me. “Do you mind? It’s packed tonight.” He raises his glass to mine. “I’m Caleb, by the way.”
I don’t recognize the name.
“Lucy.” I smooth back my beachy mess of hair, wishing I’d at least thought to glance into a mirror before storming out of the office earlier. It’s super-stuffy in here, swarming with bodies between the thick walls and low ceiling, and I suspect it’s only a matter of time before I start wilting in the warmth.
