The wry blade of humor is back in his voice—but as he puts his phone away, he stares out of the window as though trying to rebalance himself. It’s weird, but I feel like I know this guy. Like, I get him. If we weren’t two uptight British people in a London coffee shop, maybe I’d strike up conversation with him.
But we are. And that’s just not what you do.
So I do that traditional London thing of pretending I didn’t hear a word of his phone call and staring carefully into midair in a way that won’t attract his gaze. The guy starts typing at his laptop and I glance at my watch—5:45 P.M. I should go soon.
My phone buzzes with a text and I reach for it, madly hoping it’s Jake saying: Ryan’s here. Or, even better, Ryan texting me himself. But it’s not, of course; it’s Hannah, replying to the text I sent her earlier. I quickly scan her words:
Ryan’s back? I thought he was in L.A.
Unable to stop smiling, I type a quick reply:
He was!!! But he’s here and he’s unattached and he was asking about me!!!!
I press SEND, then instantly realize my error. I’ve put too many exclamation marks. Hannah will see them as warning signs. She’ll be on the phone within half a minute.
I’ve been friends with Hannah since we were eleven and both elected as class monitors. At once we knew we’d found kindred spirits. We’re both organized. We both love lists. We both get things done. Although, to be fair, Hannah gets things done even more efficiently than I do. She never procrastinates or finds an excuse. Whatever the task is, she does it straightaway, whether it’s her tax form or cleaning out her fridge or telling a guy that she didn’t like the way he kissed, on their very first date. (Fair play to him, he took it on the chin. He said, “How do you like to be kissed, then?” And she showed him. And now they’re married.)
She’s the most levelheaded, straight-talking person I know. She works as an actuary and she starts Christmas shopping in July and … here we go. Her name’s popping up on my screen. Knew it.
“Hi, Hannah.” I answer my phone casually, as though I don’t know why she’s calling. “How are you?”
“Ryan, huh?” she says, ignoring my greeting. “What happened to that girl in L.A.?”
“Apparently it’s over.” I try to speak calmly, although a voice inside me is singing, It’s over! It’s over!
“Hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Fixie, I thought you were over him. Finally.”
I don’t blame her for that emphasis on finally. I’ve been spilling my heart to Hannah about Ryan pretty much since the first day we met. When we were eighteen I used to drag her around endless London pubs, just in the hope of bumping into him. She used to call it the Ryan Route. And it would be fair to say that last spring, after Ryan went back to Hollywood, every other conversation we had was about him.
OK, every conversation.
“I am!” I lower my voice so the whole coffee shop doesn’t hear. “But apparently he was asking after me.” Just the thought of Ryan asking after me makes me feel giddy, but I force myself to sound matter-of-fact. “So that’s interesting. That’s all. Just interesting.”
“Hmm,” says Hannah again. “Has he texted you himself or anything?”
“No. But maybe he wants to surprise me.”
“Hmm,” says Hannah for a third time. “Fixie, you do remember that he lives in L.A.?”
“I know,” I say.
“And your whole life is your family shop.”
“I know.”
“So there’s no prospect of you actually getting together,” Hannah carries on relentlessly. “Like having a relationship or anything. It’s not going to happen.”
“Stop spelling stuff out!” I hiss crossly, turning toward the window for extra privacy. “You always have to spell things out!”
Not for the first time, I wish I had a flaky, romantic best friend, who would say, “Oh wow, Ryan’s back! You two are meant for each other!” and help me choose what outfit to wear.
Nicole’s quite flaky and romantic, I suppose. But then, she’s not really interested in my life.
“I’m spelling things out because I know you,” says Hannah. “And what I worry is that deep down you’re still hoping for some sort of miracle.”
There’s silence. I’m not going to say, “Don’t be ridiculous,” because there’s no point lying to your best friend.
“It’s like … a ten percent hope,” I say at last, watching a traffic warden on the prowl. “It’s harmless.”
“It’s not harmless,” Hannah contradicts me with energy. “It means you don’t even look at any other men. There are nice men out there, you know, Fixie. Good men.”
I know why she’s saying that. It’s because she tried to set me up with this actuary mate of hers last month, and I wasn’t into him. I mean, he was nice. He was just so earnest.
“I get it,” Hannah continues. “Ryan’s good-looking and glamorous and whatever. But are you going to give up on finding a proper guy just for ten minutes with Mr. Hollywood?”
“No, of course not,” I say after a pause, even though the phrase ten minutes with Mr. Hollywood has instantly flashed me back to Ryan and me in bed last year, and just the memory is making me damp behind the knees.
“I think you need to draw a line and move on,” says Hannah. I imagine her at her desk, briskly drawing a line under a column of numbers with a ruler and then turning the page, no problem.
But then, Hannah was always immune to Ryan’s charms. In the sixth form she dated all the guys in the A-level physics set, one by one, and ended up with Tim, the second-cleverest one. (She was the cleverest.) They were together all through sixth form, broke up, went to uni and dated other people, then got back together again and married. His kissing has improved a lot since that first date, apparently. They both have good jobs and they’re trying for a baby and they’re basically sorted.
“So what am I supposed to do?” I say, a bit snippily, because I know she has a point and I resent it, even though I love her for caring enough to call me up and lecture me. “What if he’s there tonight, and—”
I break off. I don’t want to say it out loud, because I’ll jinx it.
“You mean, what if he’s all hot and sexy and wants to carry on where you left off last year?”
“I guess.”
“Well.” Hannah is silent for a few moments. “Here’s the thing: Can you sleep with him and not get upset when he goes back to L.A.? Be honest.”
“Yes,” I say robustly. “Of course. Sex is just sex.”
“No, it’s not!” says Hannah with an incredulous laugh. “Not for you. Not with Ryan. He’ll mess you up somehow, I know it. You’ll end up weeping on my shoulder.”
“Well, maybe I don’t care,” I say defiantly.
“You’re saying the sex is so good, it’s worth it even if you do end up weeping on my shoulder?” says Hannah, who always likes to analyze everything into equations.
“Pretty much.” I have a sudden memory of Ryan’s L.A.-tanned body entwined with mine. “Yes.”
“Fine,” says Hannah, and I can hear the rueful eye roll in her voice. “Well, I’ll buy the tissues.”
“He might not even come,” I point out. “This whole conversation might have been for nothing.”
“Well, I’ll see you later,” says Hannah. “With or without Ryan.”
I ring off and stare morosely out of the window. Now I’ve said it, I realize of course that’s the most likely scenario. Ryan must have a million more-glamorous events to be at tonight than Mum’s party. He won’t turn up at all. I’ll have bought all these hair clips for nothing.
“Hi, Briony.” The guy across the table is answering his phone, and I glance round. “Oh, you’ve spoken to Tanya. Right. So— No, that’s not what—” He seems to be trying to get a word in. “Listen, Briony—” He breaks off, looking beleaguered. “Sweetheart, I’m not trying to ruin— No, we did not agree anything.”
Ha. Well, at least it’s not just me with the messed-up love life.
“Is that what you think!” he’s exclaiming now. “Can I remind you that this is my flat, for me to—” He lifts his eyes and suddenly seems to become aware that I’m listening. I quickly look away, but even so, he gets to his feet.
“Excuse me,” he says politely to me. “I’m just stepping out to take a phone call. Could you watch my laptop?”
“Sure.” I nod and watch him threading his way between the tables, already back on the phone, saying, “I never promised anything! It was your idea—”
I sip my mint tea and glance at the laptop a couple of times. It’s a MacBook. He’s left it closed, with a stack of glossy folders next to it. I tilt my head slightly and read the top one. ESIM: Forward-Looking Investment Opportunities. I’ve never heard of ESIM—not really my thing—but then, investment funds aren’t really my thing either.
People who invest money in funds and shares and all that are like a foreign country to me. In the Farr family there are three things you do with money. You spend it, you put it back into the business, or you start another business. You don’t trust a guy in a suit and a posh tie with a glossy folder that probably cost a tenner to produce.
There’s nothing else interesting about the guy’s laptop, so I sip my drink and run my mind over my outfit options for tonight. And I’m just wondering where my blue lace top has got to, when something in my mind tweaks. Alarm bells have started to ring. Something’s wrong.
Something’s happening.
Or something’s about to happen.
My brain can’t even articulate what it is properly, but my sixth sense is kicking in. I have to act. Now.