“I thought you were like a rock star. I thought if you asked me out I would die,” I say honestly, and Ryan gives a soft laugh.
“What else?” he says, pulling me toward him.
This is turning him on, I suddenly realize. OK, quick, say some more.
“I used to think, Oh my God, it’s Ryan! He’s the sexiest guy in the school! And all I wanted to do was kiss you, but you never even noticed me because you were, like, Ryan the Sex God.”
“What else?” His breath is coming quicker now. He’s pulling off my underwear. I can tell he means business.
“I used to hitch up my school skirt whenever you were nearby,” I improvise hastily. “And I used to watch you play basketball and … er … you were so gorgeous, I wished you were bouncing me, not the ball.…”
No, wait. What am I saying? This is gibberish. But Ryan doesn’t seem to mind.
“What else?” he gasps as he enters me.
OK, it’s nearly impossible, trying to summon up sexy stuff to say while Ryan is driving rhythmically into me. My mind doesn’t want to work; it wants to surrender to sensation. But I must keep talking.
“That time we all went to the beach,” I manage, “you looked so hot, everyone fancied you.…”
“What else?”
“You were so sexy … everything about you was amazing.…” My mind goes blank. “Er … you had really cool sunglasses.…”
“What about my car?” he pants, his face contorted.
“Yes!” I exclaim, grateful for the idea. “Your car! Of course. I used to love your car. It was so hot and sleek and … and long. And hot,” I repeat for good measure. “And … and hard …” I’m racking my brains for another good word. “And throbbing,” I say in sudden inspiration. “It was such a … a throbbing car.”
“Oh my God!” Ryan explodes with a roar and collapses on me like a deadweight.
I don’t dare to move for what feels like half an hour.
“Bloody hell,” says Ryan at last, and heaves off me.
“Yes,” I say faintly, because I’m fairly sure I agree with “Bloody hell,” whatever he meant by it.
For a few moments we’re both quiet. Ryan is staring up at the ceiling and he suddenly sighs.
“You’re good for me, Fixie,” he says. “Have I ever told you that before?”
“Yes.” I can’t help smiling. “A couple of times.”
“There’s been too much bullshit in my life. I need you to get me through the craziness. You know?” He turns to face me directly. “That’s what I need. You.”
His blue eyes are unguarded. His face is earnest. He’s playing lovingly with a strand of my hair. And I feel myself melting all over again, because Ryan needs me. Not a girl in L.A. with a perfect figure, but me.
“The world’s a hard place,” I say, groping for something meaningful to say. “But we can get through it together.”
“Amen to that,” says Ryan.
He leans over to kiss me on the nose, then gets up, wraps a towel around himself, and heads out to our family bathroom, while I lie on the bed, still a bit stunned.
It’s happened! We’ve had sex. We’re together! (I think.) I’m good for him. And he’s definitely good for me.
OK. So now we need to stay together.
And, yes, I know I’m overthinking. I should enjoy the moment. I should lie here and relax and savor the fact that Ryan and I have got together. Nothing more, nothing less.
But I’m me. I’m Fixie. I can’t help it: Already my mind is roaming ahead with urgency.
I can’t bear to lose him like last time. He needs to stay in London. We need time together. We need to have a chance to mesh, to bond, to hang out, to let ourselves turn into a proper couple. But he won’t stay unless I get him this job. Everything depends on that one factor—everything.
And as I lie there, listening to Ryan operate our dodgy shower, I start to feel serious qualms. I can’t believe my entire future happiness rests on a scribbled promise on a coffee-cup sleeve.
What if it doesn’t work? What if the job’s been filled already?
Or what if Sebastian says the coffee sleeve was just a joke and he didn’t really mean it?
He repeated his offer earlier tonight, I remind myself. And he didn’t look as though he was joking. But what if he was? What if he has a very dry sense of humor?
Or what if he says the coffee sleeve wasn’t just a joke and he did really mean it and they are still hiring … but even so, the answer’s no?
Well. Then I’ll have to persuade him. That’s all.
Nine
My legs don’t often shake. Like, actually physically tremble. But as I turn into Clerkenwell Road, I feel as though they might suddenly give way and leave me sitting in the gutter.
I’m wearing clothes that seemed suitable for a meeting with an investment manager: a fitted skirt and shirt plus a trench coat borrowed from Nicole, from her brief stint as a City PA. It’s too hot in this August weather, but it feels right. A pair of high-heeled shoes are pinching my toes. And as I tap along, I feel a bit surreal. Am I really doing this? Am I going to claim a job, worth tens of thousands of pounds, based on a scribble on a coffee-cup sleeve?
ESIM have been based in this street for two years. Before that, they were round the corner. And before that they were in Sebastian Marlowe’s flat in Islington, and he used to make the team pasta every Friday night. I read that in an article in Money Week.
I’ve read quite a lot about the company, in fact. I’ve found out exactly what ESIM does (invests in companies and funds for institutions and individuals). I know what their aim is (to help clients build portfolios with a commitment to high ethical, social, and environmental standards). I’ve looked up what Sebastian Marlowe does (runs it, basically).
After I’d learned all that, I had this random impulse and looked up Sebastian Marlowe on YouTube. And what I found wasn’t what I expected. At least, I don’t know what I expected. But it wasn’t a video clip of him standing up at some big shareholders’ meeting, berating the board on executive pay.
The title was “Sebastian Marlowe takes Roffey Read board to task.” He stood there, holding a microphone, his frondy hair waving around as he spoke in a measured way about how unfair it was that Sir Keith Barrowdine was due to receive a pay package of ￡8.9 million when his lowest-paid workers scraped by on the minimum wage. Then he started on about how this once-noble company used to house its workers in cottages and feel responsibility for their quality of life, and how many people on the board today had the slightest idea of where their lowest-paid workers were housed? (He got applause for that bit.) Then he asked, was it a coincidence that so many of the lowest-paid workers were women? Then he said he represented a large number of investors who all felt the same way and the board was clinging on to old, toxic habits and it should watch out.
I mean, it was quite stirring stuff.
I looked through YouTube, and there were a couple more videos, with him saying similar things at different meetings. And then I found an interview with him in the Financial Times, all about how he started his company.
It said he’d lost all his family at an early age. His dad died when he was ten, then his mum when he was eighteen, and then his older brother, James, got knocked off his bike two years ago. But rather than these personal tragedies crushing him, it said, they had taught him a love of life and a passion for justice. It said his colleagues described him as cheerful, well adjusted, and compassionate, and there was even a photo of him, captioned The Clerkenwell Crusader.
Which should all make me feel better, because he’s clearly a good person. But actually it makes me feel worse. Because here I am, coming to finagle a job out of him. OK, not finagle, exactly. But it feels a bit like that. A bit underhanded. A bit grabby.
Or … is it?
Ever since I decided to do this, four days ago, my mind has been swinging back and forth. Be fair, I keep thinking. That’s the maxim I try to live my life by. But what’s fair? One minute I think I am being fair. I’m totally within my rights. He owes me this. The next minute I think: Oh my God, what am I doing? I save his laptop and in return he gives my boyfriend a job? I mean, is that justice?
But then, he did insist he wanted to repay me, didn’t he?
And maybe I did save him millions of pounds.
Anyway, whatever. I’m doing it. I’ve got an appointment in five minutes. And the thought that’s powering me along is: Ryan needs this. Which means I need it too.
I’ve left Ryan waiting at a Starbucks round the corner. Before I went, he wrapped his arms around me and said, “It all begins here. A whole new start. Fingers crossed, eh, Fixie?”
“Fingers crossed.” I nodded, breathless with nerves.
Then he smiled and said, “I know you can do it.”