Seb is silent a moment, eyeing Ryan up and down. Then he seems to come to a decision. “I’m going to bring in my head of research, Alison, if you don’t mind,” he says. “I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”
“I’ll be going, then,” I say hastily. “You need to talk properly about … everything. Have a great chat. And thank you,” I add to Seb. “Thank you so much.” On impulse, I pick up the coffee-cup sleeve from where it’s still lying on the desk. I grab a pen and write Paid, followed by the date. “More than,” I say, as I give it to him. “More than paid.”
“Well, thank you.” Seb’s eyes crinkle as he reads it. “I appreciate it.”
“See you later,” says Ryan to me. “We’re meeting at Six Folds Place, yeah? Are you a member of Six Folds Place?” he adds to Seb. “The private members’ club?”
“No,” says Seb. “That kind of thing isn’t really my scene.”
“Fair enough,” says Ryan quickly. “It’s all pretty fake.”
“But Thai food is.” Sebastian’s eyes light up and he turns to me. “I was wondering if you could give the details of that restaurant you mentioned?”
“Of course!” I say.
His business card is still attached to the coffee sleeve, with his mobile number on it, so I quickly text him the contact details for the restaurant. I know I’m not the one being interviewed here—but even so, I feel like the more helpful I am, the better for Ryan.
“Thanks,” says Sebastian, smiling at me. “Well, I guess I’ll go and get Alison. Bye, Fixie.”
“Bye,” I say, and shake his hand, feeling suddenly shy. “And thanks again. Thanks so much.”
As Seb heads out of the room, I glance up at Ryan, feeling a burst of joy. He’s got a job! He’s staying in London!
“You did it!” I whisper.
“You did it.” He grins at me, glances around to check we’re still alone, then pulls me in for a kiss. And I close my eyes for a moment, letting myself relax for the first time in days. No more worries! Ryan’s here for good!
And I don’t want to be needy. I don’t want to say, “What does this mean for us?” in some pushy way, before we’ve even left the office. But on the other hand, why else did I make all this effort?
“So I guess things are … different now?” I venture. “For us? Now that you’re staying?”
I feel a beat of fear that Ryan will say, “What do you mean?” or “We need to talk,” or something else utterly crushing. But he doesn’t. Instead, he gently cups my face with his hands, his eyes shining with an exhilaration that mirrors mine.
“I guess they are, Fixie,” he says, and I can hear the happiness in his voice too. “I guess they are.”
Ten
I’ve been to 6 Folds Place a few times with Jake, and it’s really, really expensive. Even the doormen look expensive, all chiseled and handsome and dressed in dark-gray polo necks with intimidating expressions that seem to say, “Are you sure you belong here, because you don’t look like it to us, now fuck off home.”
I mean, they have a point. I don’t belong here. My ￡19.99 shoes certainly don’t belong here. But this place is Jake’s spiritual home and he’s invited me, so the doormen are stuck with me. (And my shoes.)
I know Jake and Leila are inside already, but I haven’t gone in yet. I’m standing on the pavement, texting Ryan, blissfully lost in our stream of messages.
Everything’s going so wonderfully, I can’t quite believe it.
I hadn’t heard anything from him all afternoon, so I texted him a few minutes ago: Hope interview went well! A moment or two later he replied:
Great!
So I texted him again: Fantastic! You’ll be boss before you know it!
And I was going to leave it there. But then I thought, maybe it’s easier to address the situation by text than face-to-face? Maybe I should say the things I want to say? So I plucked up all my courage and typed:
What now?
In case he didn’t understand what I meant, I sent a quick follow-up:
Where are you going to live now that you have a job? Because the offer’s open to come to mine.
I sent it, then worried that I was being too pushy. So I sent a quick additional text:
Only if you want to.
There was silence for a while. I stared at the screen breathlessly, my heart thudding, my fingers clenching the phone, waiting … waiting …
And then it happened! The miracle! He replied:
Totally. Awesome. Let’s make it happen. Soon!
That’s what he actually wrote. I’ve read it about twenty times, to make sure. He wants to move in with me. Ryan Chalker wants to move in with me!
I mean, in some ways it’s no surprise. I’ve felt like we’re on a more stable footing ever since he said he wished I’d come back to L.A. with him. Even so, I hadn’t realized quite how tense I was, how fearful that I was misreading everything. But the evidence is here in my phone. In black-and-white. He wants to commit. He wants to take things to the next level. He wants everything I want!
I should go into the club—I’m already late—but I can’t bear to break off our correspondence, even though I know he’s on the way here. My fingers are moving speedily over the keys as I pour my heart out:
Ryan, this is the beginning of something amazing. A whole new life. You and me. I’ll stand by you as you forge your new career. I’ll help you any way I can. You can bring all your stuff over any time and we’ll celebrate properly!!
I send the text, then I can’t resist adding a P.S.:
I’m so happy!!!!
Finally I compose another text, with no words but lots of emojis of champagne glasses clinking and little houses and love hearts.
I love emojis. They just, like, say it.
At last I put my phone away and head toward the entrance, beaming at the most intimidating doorman. No one can cast me down. No one can puncture my bubble of joy. Ryan wants to move in with me! He wants intimacy. He wants stability. He wants it soon. He actually typed that word: Soon!
As I enter the bar, I breathe a contented sigh and wave at Leila, who is looking ravishing in a silk cream dress and Louis Vuitton logo pumps. I’m in the same old black dress I always wear, but I’ve cracked open the satin knickers I got in my stocking at Christmas. So that’s something.
I head over to where she’s sitting with Jake, marveling anew at how amazing this place is. The carpet has a luxury softness. The chairs are heavy and stylish and sleek. The lighting glows and sparkles all around the place. The bar is made of copper. And the drinks are about fifteen quid each. Which slightly makes me want to faint—fifteen quid for one glassful of something?—except that Jake’s already said he’s paying tonight. I mean, fair enough. It’s his choice to come here. But I’d be as happy with a bottle of pinot grigio at home. (And I think Leila would too.)
As I kiss them both, I see there’s a bottle of champagne on the table already, and Jake pours me a glass. We clink glasses, then Jake and Leila resume their conversation about some sofa that Jake saw in the Conran Shop.
“I’m ordering it,” he says. “That leather is like butter. You can go and look at it if you like, but I’m ordering it.”
“We could look online for a more reasonable one,” Leila ventures, but Jake scowls.
“I’m not buying some knockoff. We’re having the real thing.”
I’ve never even been into the Conran Shop, so I can’t comment. Instead, I lean back and soak up the atmosphere. Music is pulsing through the air—and even that sounds bespoke and special, as if there’s some band that only plays for millionaires in private members’ clubs. Everything here is designed to make you feel relaxed and happy.
I’d be relaxed and happy wherever I was, to be honest. I’m more than happy—I’m euphoric. I can’t stop looking down at the string of messages on my phone. Ryan wants to live with me, Ryan wants to live with me …
And then, suddenly, there he is, threading his way between the tables. I try to stay cool, but my heart has seized up. Every single woman in the place is turning to look at the blond guy with the easy stride and the tan and the Hollywood teeth, and he’s walking toward me.
Plus he’s holding flowers. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine flowers.
He hands me the bouquet—stylish lilies in green waxed paper—says, “Fixie, you’re a star,” and kisses me.
“You’re the star,” I say, lifting a careless hand to cradle his head and murmur something soft in his ear, like intimate lovers do, although it doesn’t quite work because he’s already moving away to greet the others.
“Ryan!” Leila squeaks. “Yay!”
“Well done, mate.” Jake high-fives Ryan, then glances disparagingly at the champagne bottle already open. “I think we need something a bit special to celebrate this.” He clicks his fingers to summon a waiter, which makes me wince, because why would you do that? It’s so rude. But clicking fingers is very Jake.
“A bottle of Cristal,” he says grandly, and I tell myself not even to glance down at how much it costs, because I really will have a seizure.