Back at my desk, I stare at the email I’m drafting to Harold and the management team with an update on our implementation plan. It takes me an excessively long time to type the right words. Maybe because I’ve gotten the feeling that my words don’t mean much, not compared to the outfit I wear when I deliver them.
Just yesterday, I thought I’d land the promotion and the prince. Today, it looks like I’m not getting either one.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“This is bonkers, babes,” Jules says that night as I swivel miserably on a barstool at the King’s Head, gulping down my second pint of Young’s. “Your prince charming is a bloke from your ’ometown? How bloody perfect is this?”
“It’s not perfect in the least, Jules,” I snap, patience gone along with everything good. “It’s the opposite of perfect.”
I’ve spent the past half hour filling her in on the day’s events, and she seems to be missing the moral to the story—that the universe is plotting against me, punishing me for some crime I’ve never committed.
“I can’t believe I got it so wrong,” I lament for the hundredth or so time, brushing the flyaway fringe out of my face. It quickly flops back into my eyes, and I take it as a symbolic attack that I’m unable to see anything clearly these days. “And I can’t believe I let myself believe all that BS I invented. Why’d you let me carry on like a complete and utter lunatic?”
I try to turn it on Jules to deflect some of the blame, even though I know deep down that finding a scapegoat won’t ease the scraping sensation inside.
“Don’t say I didn’t try to bring you back to Earth,” Jules retorts, her green, lash-adorned eyes handing back the blame. “But you weren’t ’aving it. I’m coming ’round to agreeing with you, though.”
“Agreeing with me on what?”
“That fate has brought you and Bus Lad together.”
I exhale an exasperated sigh. “It’s not fate,” I say. “I’ve just told you. It’s theoppositeof fate. Some cruel joke to amuse the charlatans up in the sky, that’s all.”
“Oh c’mon, babes, you’re both from the same bloody cornfield,” Jules says. This is her (not too inaccurate) interpretation of Michigan, thanks to the Google photos she’s looked up. “It’s got to be a sign, innit?”
“If it’s any kind of sign, it’s just a sign that you should never ever let your emotions carry you away down a rom-com rabbit hole,” I say, “lest you discover that it’s actually a black hole that takes pleasure in crushing you to smithereens.”
“Look on the bright side, hey?” Jules says. “Imagine if ’e’d actually been an Oxford prat. Would’ve been insufferable—trust me on this. D’you want my lump of ice?”
“Why?” I growl. “An ice pack isn’t going to fix this headache.”
“Lump of ice means advice,” Jules says, and then prattles on before I can tell her no thank you, I don’t actually want it at all. “My advice is just get to know this Rory bloke. Even if you’re just regular mates, not soul mates, that wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it?”
“I don’t need another friend,” I say, though I know that’s not true. I shouldn’t rely on Jules to provide one hundred percent of myemotional support this side of the Atlantic. “And anyway, I need to focus on my promotion,” I go on. “Which seems to mean buying low-cut dresses and asking Harold if there’s anything I can possibly do for him,anything at all?” I pinch my face at the outrageousness of it, the demeaning and archaic structure I thought had been toppled years ago but apparently is still going strong.
“’Arold sounds like a proper wanker,” Jules says, disgustedly scrunching up her nose—adorned with a crescent moon stud today. “Invite ’im ’ere for a pint, and I’ll serve the ale straight over his shiny little ’ead.” She holds up the nozzle that’s hooked up to the tap and pretends to spray.
Though I’m rather fond of this picture, I don’t allow a smile to sneak out. I’m fully committed to being utterly despondent.
The pub is getting too crowded and rowdy, everyone gathering around to watch a soccer game that’s just starting on the TVs. It strikes me as terribly insensitive that they care so much about something that means so little when all the big things in life are going to shambles. I need to leave, need to be alone, but I’m not done with my pint yet. “Can I take this with me?” I ask Jules, feeling highly attached to the half-empty glass in my hand. “I’ll wash it and bring it back tomorrow.”
“Don’t you want to stick around for the footy?” she asks. She’s donning a maroon West Ham jersey instead of her collarless polo uniform, and I’ll be surprised if, within a few minutes, she’s not leading the pub in those obnoxious soccer chants that the English love so much.
My scowl says it all.
“Righ’o, then,” Jules says. “Let’s top you up before you’re off.” She refills my pint under the tap.
I try to slide a couple tenners across the counter, but Jules pushes them back. “On the ’ouse tonight,” she insists. “And bartenders actually make a living wage in this country, so I don’t need your sympathy tips.” She wags her tongue good-naturedly.
“Alright,” I reply, scooping the money back into my wallet. “After all, it’syourfault that my romantic life has turned to shite, as you Brits say.”
“How d’you reckon?” Jules asks, hands on her hips.
“You’re the one who convinced me to introduce myself to Alexander-slash-Rory,” I slur. “Brilliant plan, that was.”
“It’s a bloody good thing,” Jules defends. “Now you’ve got your eyes wide open.”
“I preferred it when they were shut, thank you very much.”
