He’s not keen, he’s just being friendly,I text back. It’s a highly annoying Midwestern trait.
Go on then, what do you have to lose?
A perfectly good hour of my life in which I could be meeting an actual prince.
Listen to yourself …
What?
Love you babes but your expectations are way too high.
No they’re not,I fling back bitterly.It’s good to have high standards.
They’ll make you bloody unhappy.
If I’m being honest with myself, I probably do have something of an addiction to the poetic arc of disappointment. I’m self-aware enough to admit that I may possibly have theslighttendency to build things up a little too much and then feel sorry for myself as they come crashing down around me.
Not just with Alexander. I did it with Mateo too. Idolized him as The One. After our magical eye contact moment at The Spaniard, we exchanged “I love you’s” within two weeks. And the next four years were a steady downward slope from the summit where we’d begun, a far cry from the carriage ride into the sunset that I’d pictured.
I refuse to settle for a mediocre relationship, or a mediocre career, and I’m usually proud of myself for this. It means I know my worth and my potential. But today I wonder if it just makesme a juvenile fool. If my perfectionism destines me for nothing but perpetual misery.
A wave of inspiration hits to clean the flat, and I act on it before it passes. Wielding the vacuum like a weapon, I suck up the cereal bits and crusty peanut butter globs that have flattened into the floorboards. I wash all the dishes in the sink, and though I don’t bother to dry them (why waste the effort when the air will do that for me?), I line them up on the drying mat. Fanatically dusting the window, I try to brush away all memories of Alexander.
In the end, I decide to text Rory back. Technically speaking, it’s not his fault that he’s not an English prince, and I suppose I don’t really have any grounds to punish him for that, as much as I’d like to.
Still, I keep my reply noncommittal so I won’t feel so bad if I bail, which I most likely will.Hey Rory! Yeah coffee could be good—maybe next weekend?
He replies within sixty seconds, which feels aggressively eager.Works for me! Do you have a favorite coffee shop?
I, too, reply right away because there’s zero point trying to appear more desirable to someone I don’t actually desire.Gail’s on Upper Street?I suggest, trying to minimize the effort that I have to put into this.
Yeah that’s great! What day/time is best for you?
I’m not thrilled that he’s pinning down specifics, but I can always use the “So sorry, had to work this weekend!” excuse.Maybe 11 am next Saturday?
Brill! (Just learned that expression!) Can’t wait!!
His enthusiasm is really getting under my skin, as if it wasn’t already. I know he just moved here and doesn’t know many people,but still, there must be something wrong with a guy who so happily arranges his schedule around me. Someone who seems so excited about the prospect of spending his Saturday morning with me at a coffee shop.
I add the event in my phone calendar, scheduling it for thirty minutes, then draw shut the sitting room curtains so I don’t have to see the buses go by. I don’t need any more rude, red reminders about how far yesterday’s events diverged from my dreams.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I start going into the office every day. Mostly so I can see Harold and the Turpi team more, given the feedback from my performance review. But commuting also helps because I can’t bear to think about the alternative—working from the desk in my flat, watching the 4 bus stop right outside. I know I wouldn’t be able to keep from checking for Alexander, and seeing Rory would just crush me all over again.
One afternoon the next week, Harold sends an email around to a few of us. There’s nothing in the body of the email, just the subject line:Annabel’s tonight. Meet at the lifts at half five.
I’m used to ignoring these kinds of notes, since socializing with work people is much more of a chore than a treat, but today I reply, determined to play the game.Winthe game.Thanks, Harold—lookingforward to it.
Outside the office, we flag down a couple of cabs. Harold beckons me into one with him and the CFO and COO, while Oliver and the juniors get in the other one.
London cabs have two benches of seats in the back, facing each other. I take a backward-facing seat so I only have to look at Harold, rather than sit next to him.
It’s a long drive from Canary Wharf to The West End, especially at rush hour. The narrow streets twist and turn in that classic English way that make you lose your sense of direction within five minutes, if you’d managed to have one at the start.
“Mad traffic,” Harold grumbles as the cab crawls through the queue of cars. “Reckon we can do pre-drinks in here, hey?” He pops a bottle of Dom Perignon that seems to appear out of thin air. The CFO passes around champagne flutes as casually as if they were red Solo cups.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask, taking a champagne glass.
