I shudder through a smile as my teeth start to chatter. “Well, if you are, then I guess I must be, too.”
—
Back at the beach hut a few minutes later, once we’ve toweled off and got dressed, Caleb lights the gas fire, then whips up some hot chocolate on the little stove.
“I think this might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever done,” I say, as we huddle together under blankets on the banquette, sipping our hot chocolate and looking out to sea. Next to our toes, the gas fire roars like a furnace.
Caleb leans over, sets his lips to my neck. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Fancy making it even more romantic?”
“Yes.” I shiver, turning my head to kiss him. And in the next moment, our still-chilly fingers are seeking out warm skin, eliciting laughter, then quiet shocks of pleasure. Outside, the sea twitches and glimmers like a mirror tilted to the moonlight, the blackness above it festooned with a finery of stars.
Go
“Hello,” the photographer says. “Sorry I’m late. I’m—”
“Oh my God. Hello.”
I’m halfway through my first day at Supernova. So far, I’ve attended a brainstorming session on a new business pitch for a major cosmetics brand and presented my portfolio—such as it is—to the entire creative team in a breakout area so they could “get to know me,” which alsoinvolved random people pausing unnervingly to watch as they passed. I’ve been shown around the office by Phoebe, my deskmate and fellow creative, who is five years younger than me and was named as the industry’s “one to watch” two years ago by a broadsheet newspaper. She also happens to be a well-known influenceras a side hustle. My line manager is Zara, who’s super-smart, with a vast and intimidating talent. She’s seemingly come up with every famous strapline UK commerce has ever known. I was convinced at my interview that she’d instantly weed out my inferior creativity with the ruthless cool of a neurosurgeon. Her dark hair is cropped close to her head, and she has the kind of face that looks like she’s giving you permanent side-eye. She’s wearing a black knee-length dress that appears so effortless and comfortable, I can’t stop staring at it. Or her. Zara is just the kind of person who draws you in, makes you desperate to occupy her orbit. A little like Max.
And though it’s been hectic, all morning I’ve been unable to wipe the smile off my face, to the point where I started to worry people might think I’m a bit odd. I just can’t quite believe I’m here, at one of the country’s biggest ad agencies, and that this time, I’m actually a proper creative, getting paid not for my research and organizational skills but for my ability to write. The job Georgia kept promising but never delivering. I’m here. I’ve made it.
I’m getting these headshots done just before lunch, after which I’ve got a sit-down with Seb, who’s the designer I’ll be paired with for the majority of my initial projects. I want to make a good impression: I know how much emphasis they put here on creative chemistry.
But first... the strangest thing. The photographer taking my headshots is Caleb—the guy I abandoned in the pub, the night I saw Max in Shoreley. Who slipped a beer mat into my coat pocket with his number on it.
It’s clear he’s recognized me too, and for a couple of mortifying moments, we stand face-to-face without saying anything further.
Eventually, I find my voice, feeling my face flare with color. “I’m so sorry. You gave me your number, and you—”
“No, please,” he says, laughing, as if he couldn’t feel more awkward. “That was the cheesiest move I’ve ever made. It didn’t deserve a response.”
“It wasn’t anything... against you, I promise. It’s just that that guy I saw out of the window... It was my ex, Max, and...”
He smiles. “You absolutely don’t owe me an explanation of any kind, Lucy. It was always going to be a long shot.”
I release a breath to try to soothe my embarrassment, as I attempt to work out whether he remembers my name from that night or if he’s been told it in advance of today. “Still. I should have messaged you, to explain.”
“Hey, not at all. We talked for a sum total of what—two minutes?”
I smile, thinking a change of subject might help. “So... what are you doing here?”
“Supernova’s one of my corporate clients. I’m based in Shoreley, though. Hence my tardiness, sorry. Trains were a nightmare.”
It turns out we went to different schools, on opposite sides of town. As he’s setting up, we chat about our lives in Shoreley—he describes a childhood mostly spent on the beach, then gaining a place at art college despite flunking his exams, before promptly dropping out of his course.
We must have talked for nearly twenty minutes before he checks the time with a grimace. “Sorry. Better get cracking. I’ve only been given half an hour.”
“They are pretty hot on timing here,” I say with a smile, recalling the lecture I was given by Zara earlier about billable hours.
“Let’s try over here first,” Caleb says, motioning behind me to a hot-pink wall. “They want a pop of color in the picture.”
“Do you want me to look serious, or...?”
Caleb leans down to shunt a table out of shot, flush against the nearest wall. As he does, his T-shirt falls forward to reveal his toned stomach.
