His hand curls on the table. “A couple of months after Alice, actually.”
Mere months ago, yet he did not mention him at the group. I sense there’s more to this story than he’s letting on, but Jack’s demeanor—so easy and relaxed thirty seconds ago—has shifted, and I don’t push. That’s the thing about me: I’m tactful to a fault. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.” I wonder if now might be the time to take his hand. To close the gap—both physical and metaphorical—between us, bolstered by the items on my checklist and the fact that Jack—with his eye contact, questions, body language—is ticking many of them.
But I don’t want to come across as too forward on our first meeting outside the group, and I’m trying to maintain my slightly aloof air. It’s always tricky finding the balance at this stage. I fix my face instead, drawing my eyebrows together in concern, mouth downturned. It’s a look Mick is very good at, actually, and one I borrow liberally.
“Don’t be. We didn’t get on,” he says shortly. “Though I have to say I have begun to feel like something of a bad omen. You need to be careful around me.” Interesting. Where a minute ago his face was set, now his eyes are soft, playful. It feelsalmostlike flirting.
So I respond in kind. I look up at him through my lashes. “I’ll take my chances.”
The next pause is thick with promise, and I let the seconds tick down, allowing my words the space to breathe. The implication to settle. And then I press my advantage. I’m ad-libbing now, but I know, somehow, that it’s the right question to ask. “Have you—” A brief look at the floor, as though I’m aware my next question is a touch transgressive.Don’t be too forward. Allow him to come to you.“Ever considered moving on?”
I catch the way his eyes flick toward me. So subtle I could have missed it.
“I haven’t yet, if that’s what you mean. But if the right person came along…” He leaves the sentence hanging. I consider my response: toomuch too soon, and I might smash right through the delicate connection forming between us. But if I don’t register my interest, he might think I’m still too caught up in thoughts of Freddie, which is categorically not the case. I’m ready. Only now am I realizing just how ready I am. “What about you?” he asks. “I’m surprised you haven’t been snapped up already.”
And there is no pussyfooting around it now. That was definitively an advance.
I shrug casually, though it goes against every one of my instincts, which are screaming at me to grin, lean over, kiss him, even. I keep my eyes fixed on his as I respond. “Same. If the right person came along.”
He swallows, and then there’s a flash of something in his eyes. Something that looks almost like fear, as though something—or someone—has just crashed into his mind, short-circuiting the electricity between us. He swallows again.
“Well, Iris,” he says, and his voice is husky. This time, he doesn’t meet my eye. “This has been a very happy coincidence. I’ll see you at the group on Tuesday, assuming I don’t bump into you again before that.”
It is a monumental effort to maintain my calm expression. I can’t believe that’s it. After the intimacy—the suggestiveness—of the conversation, I’d expect some kind words of encouragement and a promise to look out for each other at the very least. Has he forgotten how circumstance brought us together? Partners taken from us too soon—on the same day, no less. The twist of fate that landed us in each other’s laps. I make a fist, breathing heavily, as Jack pauses, his arm halfway into his coat sleeve. He closes his eyes briefly, like a priest might before doing something he knows he will have to ask forgiveness for later.
“Actually, perhaps it’s best if we exchange numbers. Just so I can check you haven’t succumbed to my curse, too.”
That’s more like it. Hedoesremember. I allow him the ghost of a smile as I tap my number into his phone.
“See you soon, Iris,” he says, and it feels like a promise.
I’m in such a good mood that, later that afternoon, I just come straight out and ask Mick for more shifts. It requires practically no dramatic effects at all. No cajoling, no tears.
To my surprise, Mick nods, smiling. “It’s nice to see you looking so happy. Of course. I’ll amend the rota.”
Eight
I’m still feelingpositive when I arrive home that evening. I don’t bother to remove my shoes in the hallway—more dirt from outside is hardly going to make a difference, and I don’t like the thought of my socks touching the floor. I go straight through to the kitchen in search of something to eat. I’m ravenous. This part always makes me hungry: the thrill of the chase, the first flicker of interest, the adrenaline that pounds through my veins. It was just like this with Freddie.
Freddie suggested our first date so casually I thought I’d misheard him. It was just over a week after I’d started, and we were in the kitchen together, discussing plans for the next month’s edition of the magazine.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“Drinks at the pub round the corner on Friday. Only if you’re free and keen, obviously,” he repeated. I noticed that he lowered his voice slightly, as though he was aware that he was crossing a professional boundary. As though he did not want our colleagues to overhear.
I touched the lobe of my ear, tried—and failed—to hide my grin. I didn’t need to refer to any checklist for this. This was it. A sign he felt the same.
“I’d love to,” I said, and I didn’t have to feign the breathiness to my voice. The slight catch of anxiety.
I’d never been on a date before, and it sent me into a spin of worry. I practiced hard. Responses to possible questions he might ask, trawling through my memories of Marcie to ensure I said the right thing, maintained the correct tone. She was always so good at knowing exactly what to say.
Freddie and I had limited contact for the rest of the week, as though he was trying to throw our colleagues off the scent of any untoward relationship between us. We kept it strictly professional—our meetings brief and functional. But I kindled the knowledge of our date and grew ever more anxious as Friday drew nearer.
I spent hours blow-drying my hair that morning, tonging it into the soft waves that Marcie had favored. I could barely do my job that day, less so when I received a message from Freddie:We still on for later?
I risked a glance at him across the office, and—seeming to sense my gaze—he looked up, the question still on his face. I put my thumbs up over the bank of desks. I was sure I saw his face redden, just a little.
I don’t have high hopes for the selection in the fridge. Usually, I try to eat out of the house—God knows what I might contract from the kitchen—but tonight I want to be here in case Jack messages. So that I can give him my full attention, when it comes. He must have finished his meeting by now. I allow myself a brief, glorious moment of remembering the intensity of his gaze, the way it made me feel. Like I was the only person who mattered in that tiny café. I picture him walking home, crafting a message in his head, waiting the appropriate length of time to send it. Games we must all play when in pursuit of something special.
