“Last week,” Mimi says. “I think you were out at your dentist appointment. No, wait… that was the week before. Where were you last week on donut day?”
Rakhee waves her hand. “Doesn’t matter, why did he send you donuts?”
“They weren’t from him, they were from the band. And it’s because I wrote a piece about how wonderful they are,” I laugh. “The lead singer is dating the glamorous actor from that sitcom about the Irish pub in Normandy. I saw them together last night and they looked very happy. I think she might be The One for him, you know.”
“Did you bring Liam to the soirée?” Mimi asks.
“Rakhee asked, too. You’re making me feel bad—what’re the relationship rules on these things? Should I be asking him to work events?”
“I’m not sure anyone would enjoy being your plus-one,” Mimi comments. “You flit round the room at a hundred miles per hour talking to anyone and everyone. It makes me dizzy.”
“It’s myjob.”
“Liam was waiting for her when she got home last night, though,” Rakhee informs Mimi without looking up from her work.
“Ooh.” Mimi smiles wickedly at me. “Booty call.”
“It wasnota booty call,” I tell them regretfully. “He was asleep when I got back and when I left this morning. We didn’t even speak. I should check my phone actually to see if he’s messaged; he said something about dinner later.”
I start searching around my feet for my bag. I spin round in my swivel chair a few times, examining the floor.
“What are you doing?” Mimi asks.
I groan. “I left my bag in the meeting room.”
“I’ll come with you. I want a coffee anyway,” Mimi says, standing. “I’m guessing you won’t turn down a coffee, Rakhee?”
“You know me so well,” Rakhee says, typing away furiously again.
Gabby, our editorial assistant who sits a couple of rows behind, overhears.
“I can get your coffees if you like,” she sweetly offers, glancing up from her screen.
“That’s okay,” I say. “I need to rescue my bag from the meeting room.”
“You’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on,” chuckles Dominic from the picture desk as we wander by.
“Hey! If you still want early screening tickets to the next Ryan Reynolds movie, I’d be careful about your tone,” I say breezily.
“Have I told you lately how amazing you are?” he adds quickly.
“That’s more like it.” I grin, winking at him.
Mimi is waylaid at the picture desk about one of the hotels she’s featuring in an all-inclusive round-up, so I go ahead, swiftly passing Cosmo’s glass office that is situated next to Meeting Room Three. Facing away from the door, he’s on the phone, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk. His eyes are fixed on the bookcase that runs the length of the wall.
I bet he’s not listening to a word of the conversation, instead admiring that ridiculous trophy that’s pride of place in the middle of the shelves.
When Cosmo first moved into his new office, it was the first thing to be unpacked, carefully positioned in the center of the bookshelves. We all assumed it was a journalism award, but when Mimi made the mistake of asking about it, she got a long-winded, blow-by-blow account of how he’d won a bowling tournament the previous year. He drops it into conversation whenever he can, which you’d think would be quite tricky, but he manages it surprisingly often.
I reach Meeting Room Three and spot my bag straightaway through the glass, on the floor under the table.
I’ve already entered before I realize that the room isn’t empty.
A man is standing at the other end of the table, and he glances up from his phone at the sound of my footsteps.
Our eyes meet.
My cheeks burn hot under his intense gaze, his piercing blue stare seeming to look right through me. His brow furrows and his jaw clenches, as though he’s cross and confused at the same time. I wonder what he’s thinking. Whether he’s remembering. My whole face is on fire.
