“How was the flight?”
“Flights,” she corrected. “Long, but I managed to work, so the time wasn’t completely wasted.”
We both sat down. She had a bottle of red wine and sparkling water on the table already.
“The valuation was good.” I decided not to waste time with small talk. “Were you happy with it?”
She nodded. “It was better than I expected. Pleasing. How are you?”
“Good.” I nodded, pouring myself a glass of water.
“I’m sorry things ended with your girlfriend.”
That woke me up. “I’m sorry? You’ve lost me.”
“Otillie. The actress. I saw a photo of her today with her new boyfriend.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You have split up, right?”
“No. But we’re not here to talk about my relationship.” I didn’t like where she was already taking this.
“I’m sorry, Ryan. I didn’t mean to pass on news like that. I’m genuinely sorry though if things weren’t working out. I know you really liked her.” She picked up the contract and signed it, pushing it over to me. “We’ll actually need to do this again at a solicitor’s office where we can have an appropriate witness, but it feels significant to do it here.”
I swallowed, feeling as if I’d just had all the wind sucked out of my lungs. Lotte had always been on the cool side, but she’d become arctic recently, as if she was spending far too much time with just computers rather than people. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you’d agree to buy me out.”
I was just going to focus on that right now.
Lotte nodded. “There is something I do want from you though.”
“What’s that?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“A baby.”
CHAPTER20
Otter
January in New Yorkwas cold. It felt even colder because I’d just arrived back from L.A. where the sun was still shining and I didn’t need to wear fifty-seven thousand layers, which was nice.
I sat down on the sofa in my apartment and picked up the book I’d been dipping in and out of. My focus was poor; I was struggling to find anything to hold my interest, whether that was meals out in fancy restaurants or even shopping trips with Lila, who was now back in London.
Since Christmas, I’d tried burying myself in work. I’d been to more events that I’d usually bother with. I’d caught up with friends I hadn’t seen for a while, and even escaped for a long weekend of skiing with Gulliver Steed, who was sulking because he hadn’t gotten a role he’d desperately been craving, which meant the dickhead decided to try and kill himself on a black run when his skiing level wasn’t much better than a five-year-old.
We’d been papped while we’d been there of course. Gully was news at the moment; he’d had a high-profile fling with a singer who was at least two decades older than him, and the media were eating him up. I knew there were photos of us doing the rounds, but I hadn’t been trawling through the internet to find them. Ryan hadn’t mentioned seeing anything when he’d texted me, and I hadn’t brought it up.
I checked my phone. It had become easier, the communication between us. Lila had suggested that it would peter out, that as the weeks went on with no plans for us to see each other, we’d stop having anything to talk about, but that hadn’t happened. He’d still phone me around his lunch time, which was just as I was usually having breakfast. I’d text when I was getting lunch, sending him a photo of whatever it was today, and he’d always responded with something about what Neva would say about its nutritional value, taking the piss.
He knew I’d gone skiing. He knew about the parties I’d attended. I’d sent him selfies of me wearing dresses, hair and make-up all done, and then sleepy selfies when I got in bed for him to see when he woke up.
We didn’t talk about us. We didn’t make plans to see each other. After the Oscars, I was back to London, my next two projects being filmed in the UK, and after that, I had a six month stint to do on stage in the West End, which I was massively excited about.
Me: How’s your hamstring?
He’d mentioned it had been niggling him. I checked the time; it was after eight in England, and it was a Tuesday, so there was every chance there was a game on.
I turned on my TV, my book falling to the floor, and fiddled with the remote until I found Tuesday night football, something I might’ve subscribed to just because of Ryan and not because I’d developed a sudden love of the game.
Manchester Athletic were playing and the game was televised. My chest suddenly felt painful. When their games had been on recently, I’d not been in to watch them. This afternoon was the first time I would see Ryan since he’d flown back to Manchester. Since I’d stupidly opened my mouth and said words I wished I could’ve taken back.
They were one-nil up, Danny the scorer. I knew enough to know it would’ve been a scrappy goal, as Danny was a defender and had only ever scored with headers and often by chance.
