Cyril – trying and failing to stifle a snigger – informed Laurence that his hot drink options extended only as far as a cup of Tetley or Nescafé Gold Blend, neither of which were available to take away.
Moments later the bell tinkled again as the cafe door shut.
Rachel’s breath left her lungs in a rush of relief. She didn’t dislike Laurence, but nor did she want to see him. She felt guilty for breaking things off with him; she worried that she’d hurt him. Even though she had never given him cause to believe they were destined for the altar, he’d been horrified – disbelieving – when Rachel had said she didn’t think they had a future together.
As she shovelled forkfuls of buttery, cheese-topped baked potato into her mouth, Rachel reminded herself that she’d had good reasons for finishing with him. Laurence was inoffensive: nice-looking, tallish, a decent enough dresser. He was a pensions actuary and therefore earned good money. Laurence was what Rachel’s mum called ‘a solid prospect’: the steady sort of man who’d never miss a mortgage payment or absent-mindedly put petrol in his diesel car.
But after five months of casual dating, Rachel had realised that Laurence had begun making plans for them. He’d even started bookmarking properties on the Rightmove app. While she wouldn’t have minded living in a million-pound pad, Rachel couldn’t see her toothbrush sidling up to his for the next few decades. The fact that he was mapping their lives out had actually made her blood run cold.
The thing was, Rachel had never pined for him when he wasn’t around. If they’d gone a week without meeting up, she hadn’t suffered for not seeing his face or struggled with the urgent need to touch him.
And while Rachel had been wise enough to know that the stage when you can’t keep your hands off each other always ends – either painfully or because it gives way to something deeper – she hadn’t been able to help thinking it was one you probably shouldn’t skip altogether. That was the bit that reminded you why you were withthisperson, even if they were crap at stacking the dishwasher or kept forgetting to put the bins out.
Rachel tipped her Coke can to her lips, shaking out the last of the fizz. She wondered if Jack was any good around the house. Somehow she couldn’t imagine him dealing with dirty plates or lugging black sacks of rubbish outside. He was too celestial-looking for grubby tasks, she thought sourly – not to mention charming and rich enough to have found someone else to do them for him.
It was time to go back to the office. Rachel stuffed her magazine back into her handbag and shrugged her coat on. She wore a vintage houndstooth Crombie – probably a man’s in its first life – and she loved it despite its frayed lining and tendency to absorb, rather than repel, rain water.
‘Cheers, Cyril,’ she said. ‘See you soon.’
‘See you, darlin’. Keep on smilin’.’
It was what he always said, but today Cyril’s standard farewell felt pointed – like he was issuing Rachel with a challenge.
Her near miss with Laurence had rattled her; she still needed to confess the break-up to her mother; her job might be at riskandher heartbreaking ex was R/C’s new office totty.
She nodded at Cyril as she left, lifting the corners of her mouth into something she was sure looked more like a grimace than a smile. For now, it was the best she could do.
5
It’s All Good was based in Blackheath, South London. Rachel and Greg needed to allow at least forty-five minutes to get there for their three o’clock meeting, so the plan was to leave just after two.
Rachel caught up on emails until it was time to go, then packed up her stuff and made her way over to Greg’s desk.
‘With you in a jiffy,’ he said. ‘Jack’s meeting us in the foyer.’
FUCK.
Shit.
No!
‘Jack …?’ Rachel choked out. ‘As in, er, the new guy?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Greg’s attention was on an email he’d decided to scan before closing down his laptop. Rachel’s face felt hot and her stomach – unhelpfully full of potato – rolled over. She realised she was clutching the edge of Greg’s desk for support and urged herself to calm down, fearful the spud would make a comeback.
‘Right … DONE,’ he announced. He shut the lid of his MacBook Air with an unnecessary bang, swept it into its foam sleeve and deposited it in his leather satchel. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, pulling on his coat and giving Rachel a gentle push towards the door. ‘What’s up with you, by the way? You look like you’ve just been served a shit sandwich and told to take a bite.’
They left the office and entered the building’s large, sparsely furnished lobby. Next to the security desk, which Frank was still manning, sat Jack. He was perched on a stiff-looking black leather sofa, leafing through today’sTheTimesand drinking coffee from a collapsible KeepCup.
Rachel felt a surge of loathing rise up and fill her, wrestling for release. Howdarehe lounge around, languidly sipping his latte? How could he be so utterly unbothered by this unspeakably grim situation?
He stood up and smiled his best smile: a soft grin that radiated warmth and wry humour. Rachel averted her eyes.
‘Can I carry anything for you guys? You’re pretty laden down … Laptop bag?’ he asked, pointing to Rachel’s bulky case.
Damn him.
