Go
“So, come on—is this your weirdest birthday ever?” I ask Max with a smile.
“Christ, no. When I was a kid Brooke dropped me off with this random family down the road and I spent the day watching back-to-back episodes ofBottom.”
I stare at him, regretting my flippancy. “Oh. That’s... awful.”
He laughs. “Ah, it’s all right. They let me eat my body weight in crisps.” He glances around the ballroom. “And things are looking up now, right?”
It would be hard to argue with that. Max and I are at the bar in the ballroom of a swanky Hyde Park hotel, attending the London Rising Star Awards—40 Under 40. The awards, run by a national newspaper, name forty peer-nominated under-forties living and working in London, and flying high in their particular industry. Mortifyingly (certain business journalists have gone wild for this story, which makes me think they need to get out more), Max and I are both on the list.
Max’s award recognizes his fast-growing reputation as one of London’s fiercest property litigators, due to his recent work on a numberof high-profile cases. Well, I say high profile: unless you subscribe toThe Lawyerand have a niche interest in property disputes, you’re unlikely to be up on them. My award was for my contribution to “A Whole New World,” the climate-change fairy tales campaign I worked on with Seb for the wildlife charity. (He’s here somewhere too, with his girlfriend.) The reward of a promotion at Supernova has so far eluded me, but then again, I have only been there six months. It seems a little early to be demanding a pay rise. Though Zara’s pleased with the positive publicity and the uptick in client inquiries off the back of the work, I’m pretty sure she’d say I’ll need to do a lot more than create one decent campaign before she’ll consider me for promotion.
“So,” Max says, pulling me close. “I think we should take a moment to appreciate the fact that only six months after starting at Supernova, you’re already winning awards for your writing.”
“Stop,” I say, mock bashfully.
“No, I’m serious,” he whispers. “You’re smashing it, Luce. I’m so proud of you.”
“Well, it’s better than being a starving novelist, I guess.”
He smiles. “Yeah, I reckon.”
I think about my long-abandoned notebook, how tough it would have been to ever make that idea pay. I smile back up at Max. “Yeah, I’m pretty happy with how things have worked out.” In the middle of the crowded bar, I pull him into his millionth happy-birthday kiss of the day, prompting someone nearby to mutter, “Oh, get aroom,” in an upper-class accent.
Max laughs. “Nowthatis an excellent idea.”
“That wasn’t me,” I say, out of the side of my mouth.
“No—I actuallyamgoing to get a room,” Max says, gray eyes sparking with mischief. “Back in a sec.”
I grab his hand. “Wait, what? The rooms here probably cost—”
“I’m sorry,” he says matter-of-factly, cutting me off, “but that dress iswaytoo incredible for a twenty-minute cab ride home.”
—
In the end, the dress only stays put in the lift up to our room because I keep swatting Max’s hand away and laughing. “Don’t! Someone might come in.”
He leans his head back against the lift wall and groans. “Why. Is. It. Stopping. On. Every. Floor?”
“See? A cab would actually have been quicker.”
Max exhales dramatically, though the way he catches my eye in the mirror as he does so makes my stomach tug with lust. He’s in black tie tonight, and though I’ve always admired how he looks in a suit, I have to say the extra level of suave is really doing it for me.
The hotel’s been decked out for Christmas—all baubles and garlands and oversized foil bows—even though it’s still only November. There was a Christmas tree the size of a national monument in the ballroom, and they’re playing carol instrumentals in the lift.
“Imagine if we got trapped in here,” Max says, “and the last music we ever heard was the pan pipes cover of ‘Frosty the Snowman.’ ”
“Oh, don’t.”
“I can just picture the headline:Britain’s Smuggest Couple Perish in Festive Lift Tragedy.”
I know he’s joking really, but I find myself wondering if he might actually be right—if we are in danger of becoming just a little bit smug. Dressed in our finery, clutching our awards, dropping hundreds of pounds on a hotel room for the night, just because we can.Is this the life I’m supposed to be living?I think to myself, as I stare at the sight of us in the lift mirror. The thought arrives unbidden, out of nowhere. Suddenly, we seem to look like strangers—a couple I don’t recognize at all.
The lift pings for our floor. “Finally,” Max murmurs, feeling for myhand, our key card between his teeth. I shake off the sensation of unease, allowing the heat of anticipation to spread through my stomach instead.
What was that all about?I think, as we make our way along the corridor.
