He cocks a brow. ‘Like my job?’
‘Yes,’ I nod, feigning extreme patience. ‘Like your job. Your employment. Go on.’
I learn that he has been working as a trainee solicitor for nearly two years at one of the largest firms in London. I listen to him speak with my face impassive as I try not to imagine him in a suit. I’ve never understood much about the industry and I’m not about to pretend I do.
‘Explains why you’re so good at arguing,’ I note, my eyes narrowed.
‘With all due respect, I’m not the one starting the arguing,’ he counters.
‘That’s an interesting argument,’ I say lightly.
‘I’d call it a perspective.’
‘God help the people you work with,’ I mutter, taking another sip from my glass.
He tilts his head to the side as he assesses me. ‘So you studied… what, maths?’
I rear back in surprise. ‘What gave me away? My pi tattoo isn’t even visible.’
‘Am I right?’ He sounds pleased with himself.
‘Almost. Physics.’
His brows lift in surprise. ‘Cool. And where’s the pi tattoo?’
‘I was kidding.’
His face doesn’t change. ‘So was I.’
I nod, keeping a laugh at bay. ‘Ah. If I kept up I would’ve joked it’s on my ass. Left cheek.’
A grin breaks across his face. ‘So what do you do now?’
‘Data science,’ I say. ‘Perfect job for people who like to solve puzzles and be busy.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’
‘Yeah. It’s stressful sometimes, tedious other times. But it’s always interesting. And I work fully remotely, which is a bonus for someone who prefers being indoors.’
We talk more about my job and what my days look like, Elliot firing me question after question. He’s very curious about it for some reason. Perhaps he’s considering a career pivot.
Conversation flows without a hitch until he finishes his drink and puts his glass down with finality. And when he looks at his watch and I follow suit, I can’t believe an hour has gone by. ‘We should go.’
By the timewe’re approaching the Pulse tent, which somehow seems even busier than before, I’m sporting a pleasant buzz from the gin. I’m mercifully grateful that I’m not inside when I see that the entrances to the tent are both full to the brim with moving bodies; it makes me feel ill to even look at it.
‘Looks pretty chaotic in there,’ Elliot mutters. ‘Let me see if I can get in touch with them.’
I reach for my own phone in response, noticing what little battery power I have left. I find Hennie in my recent calls and tap her name. The line is quiet for a few seconds before it takes me straight to her voicemail.
‘She must not have signal in there,’ I sigh.
Elliot seems to have the same problem. I watch him tap a message into his phone one-handed when neither Owen nor Josh answer.
‘I hope they’re okay,’ I wonder aloud.
‘They’re fine. The reception is just terrible here.’ His gravelly voice sounds solid and sure. I know he’s probably right, and this is confirmed when Hennie’s name lights up my phone screen.
IMPOSSIBLE TO GET OUT OF THIS TENT
