‘It’s only half past eleven,’ Rachel answered. ‘Bit early, isn’t it?’
‘Not if you’re hungry. Which, as you know, I always am.’
This was true. Jack could eat for England, yet stayed slender – almost skinny – in the way top fashion designers seemed to like. He wasn’tmanlyat all, when Rachel thought about it: not solid or muscular or outlandishly tall – particularly in comparison with Will or Tom. Jack’s appeal was in how he held himself: how he moved and dressed. And in his face, which was all eyes and cheekbones and perfectly proportioned lips.
‘Come on, Ryan,’ he said. ‘Let me take you out to brunch, if that’s what you’d prefer to call it. Let’s go back to that charming place with the eighties decor and heart attack sandwiches. You did well with Olivia this morning, and I know it was hard. Allow me to buy you a mug of builder’s tea in celebration.’
‘Fine,’ Rachel said, knowing it was a bad idea but powerless to resist the promise of a crispy, ketchup-smothered bacon butty. ‘I’ll get my coat.’
By the end of the afternoon, the tight ball of anxiety that had been sitting in Rachel’s stomach had begun to unwind. Brunch with Jack had been good fun.Toomuchfun. They’d talked about work but also books, politics, films they’d seen and people they’d known at university. Trying to keep her distance from him felt more and more like swimming upstream: exhausting, and ultimately pointless. Being swept away in some manner was probably inevitable, she knew; the only question now was whether or not she’d drown.
He’d asked about her faux beau again: How had they met? How long had they been together? Panicked, Rachel had mumbled that they started out as friends four years ago, only becoming something else more recently. She felt strange and uneasy about misrepresenting her relationship with Tom – because it was him, now, that she thought of when Jack tried to wheedle information out of her. Tom wouldn’t like being drawn into a lie, and she couldn’t bear to think of him finding out she’d been fibbing about what they were to each other. The very idea made her toes curl up inside her boots.
At around 4.30 Jack announced he was going to Pret to pick up a proper coffee. ‘Want me to bring you one back?’
‘Oh, yes – that would be great. Cappuccino?’
‘Done.’
He shrugged his jacket on and wandered away as Rachel heard her laptop chime, announcing the arrival of new emails.
Several messages had downloaded to her inbox – a few CCs on projects she was consulting on, an all-staff message from Donna that Rachel suspected would be a (justified) rant about the state of the communal fridges … But there was also an email from Isaac, with the subject lineLighthouse – we did it!
She didn’t open it. Her attention had been caught by a message from Laurence.Myles@clarencefairbankfutures.com.
No, no, NO. What could he wantnow?
Rachel dragged the message to her trash folder without opening it. She crossed her arms over her chest.
It was a long while since she’d heard from Laurence. Maybe he’d simmered down and realised what an arsehole he’d been. Perhaps he was sorry. Maybe this was an apology email … In which case, it wouldn’t hurt her to read it.
Rachel opened the trash folder and then the message, which was simply titledHi.
Her jaw dropped. This wasnotan apology email – in fact it was the furthest thing from an apology email Rachel could imagine.
This was a gloating missive about some new woman Laurence was seeing; a smug announcement that Rachel had missed her chance with him, as he’d predicted that night in the wine bar.
Given that the email made clear he’d only been seeing his new girlfriend for a few weeks, Rachel couldn’t help feeling Laurence’s tone might be prematurely triumphant.
Last time we met I told you I wouldn’t be on the market for long – so in the interest of being straight with you, as of halfway through last month I amtaken. Cassandra isamazing. She’s an accountant at one of our sister firms – super-bright, well educated and successful. Gorgeous too: tall and blonde … My usual type. You were a bit of an anomaly, to be honest.
Ananomaly?! Rachel let out an angry breath. What anuber-twat this man was. How had she ever let him anywhere near her?
She read on.
Cass seems like she might be the jealous sort, so I’m telling you this in order to avoid any incidents. My suspicion is she won’t take kindly to competition, so don’t be tempted to call or text me. Cass and I are spending a lot of time together, and she’d almost certainly find out if you started sniffing around.
This was too much. Rachel hadn’t initiated any contact with Laurence sinceDecember. The man was delusional. And the phrase ‘sniffing around’ made her so mad she could punch her laptop screen.
Laurence’s parting shot was as inflammatory as the rest of his message:
In spite of how badly you hurt me, I wish you a happy future. I hope you won’t be lonely for too long.
Rgds, L.
Rachel had to hand it to him: Laurence took passive aggression to a brand-new low. This email could probably be studied by psychology students; it was a masterclass in how to be highly offensive while claiming tobeoffended. It was the literary equivalent of stabbing someone in the back and then complaining that their blood had stained your knife. It was unbelievable.
Rachel clickedReply. She was raging, and she wanted to have her say – not least because (as if to conclusively prove his idiocy) he had abbreviated the wordregards. What atosser.
