“No, you should come, too. Please,” I plead.
Having just gone through such an event together, I suddenly feel bereft at the idea of him leaving me.
“I’ll meet you there. I can walk, it’s really not far.”
We look on as Isabella is transported out of the cab to the ambulance, and I nod toward our driver, who is dabbing at his eyes with a tissue that a fellow motorist has offered him.
“We need to tip heavily on this fare,” I whisper to Ryan.
“Don’t worry. I’ll expense it. Cosmo will love this story,” Ryan laughs. “Go on, don’t let her be alone in the ambulance.”
“I’ll see you at the hospital?”
“Promise.”
Tearing myself away from him, I hurry to climb into the ambulance and we set off, meandering through the traffic. I sit at the side, trying not to get in the way of the paramedic while beaming down at Isabella and her baby.
“Can you believe it?” she says to me, her eyes filled with joy and wonder. “Can you believe that that just happened?”
“No,” I laugh as tears start spilling down my cheeks again. “Iguess it’s proof of what we talked about—when it comes down to it, you really can’t plan everything.”
“That’s true,” she says, gazing at her little boy, now wrapped in a proper towel. “I wouldn’t change a thing. It was absolutely perfect.”
“I’ll say,” I nod. “Very Hollywood.”
She tilts her head up at me. “How so?”
“It was outrageous and extraordinary,” I say, before flashing her a grin. “And you gave birth wearing Versace.”
AUGUST 2012
After my interview, I plan to head home but find Ryan waiting in reception. He jumps up when he sees me, coming over with an apprehensive smile on his face.
“How was it?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Terrifying. What are you still doing here?”
“I thought we could go for a drink, maybe,” he says quickly. “It’s been a pretty stressful day, so we’ve earned it. Only if you don’t have any plans.”
It has been averystressful week, really, trying to focus on our usual intern tasks but secretly prepping for the interviews that were cruelly scheduled for Friday afternoon.
The interview was conducted by one of the senior editors, Martha, and Celia was in there, too, mostly making notes, but every now and then asking a less grueling question than the ones Martha was firing at me. I have no idea how I did, but Celia whispered, “Well done,” as she opened the door for me at the end, and right now I’m just so relieved it’s over. I spent the last two weeks practicing interview questions and studyingThe Daily Bulletin.At least I can rest assured there was nothing more I could have done.
“A drink sounds great,” I say, and his expression brightens.
He suggests a pub in North London, since we’re both heading that way home anyway. We get the tube together, talking about the interviews and what questions came up, before we both agree we shouldn’t discuss it any further because it’s boring work chat and we deserve a night of fun.
It’s busy at the pub Ryan chooses—the only rule I had was that we don’t go to the bar I work at—as there’s a large group of smartly dressed friends who must be going on to a fancy black-tie event. We manage to bag a couple of chairs and a small table inside, which I’m grateful for because I’ve been wearing smart heels all day for the interview and, even though it’s late August, it’s threatening to rain. As soon as I sit down, I cause Ryan to wrinkle his nose with disapproval as I use the sleeve of my jacket to give the table a quick wipe.
“What?” I sigh. “It’sfine.”
“I’ll get some napkins from the bar. White wine?”
“Yes, please.”
His phone starts vibrating with a call, and he tells me he’ll be back in a moment, answering and ducking back outside the pub. I shrug off my jacket, leaving it on the table before heading to the bar myself and ordering the drinks, just in case his call takes a while. When he reappears, he makes a beeline for the bar, but I call him over and gesture to the bottle already waiting in a wine chiller with two glasses.
“Sorry about that,” he says, taking a seat on the stool next to me.
