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‘For a sandwich that isn’t your own .?.?.’
‘Correct again.’
‘Petra’s tuna sandwich .?.?.’
And it’s then, the café door opens, and there they are – Chloe, Leona, and Samira. Jack gives them a nod, a small dimple of a smile, a casual ‘Hi,’ and they do the same, their eyes darting between us, but pretending that I’m not actually there. That I don’t exist, the pigeon intruder, the wedding-wrecker.
And it falls out of my mouth before I’ve even thought it over. ‘Chloe?’
All three of them stop on the wet pavement, rain sheeting down, and I stride away from Jack, from beneath the safety of the umbrella.
Chloe takes a tiny, tentative step towards me, her two friends standing behind her, staring at me.Ugh.If they had lasers for eyes, I would currently be barbecued – charred and overdone.
‘I just .?.?. I wondered if we could talk?’ I say, as rain pelts my face.
Chloe pulls up the hood of her grey rain mac, her fingers holding the sides of it at her cheeks, painted red nails, chipped. ‘I – don’t think we should, Millie,’ she says, and her voice – it’s sweet really. Musical. Familiar. She’d leave Owen voice-notes sometimes, when she’d moved to his team on production, and they started working together. Owen would listen smilingly, as we cooked dinner or wandered the aisles of Tesco. ‘Nice girl,’ he’d say, phone held in front of him in a clasp, as if it was on display. ‘Up with the lark, always the first on site, driven. She’ll go far, I think.’ I remember the pang I’d feel, in my gut, like a guitar-string, pulled and twanged. The sting of jealousy and inadequacy that I’d shake away, telling myself off, that Owen was right; how could Ipossiblysay I was in a solid, trustworthy relationship if I got jealous when my boyfriend spoke nicely about other women, and team members at that?
‘I spoke to Owen,’ I tell Chloe, over the loud bleep of a reversing lorry, the white noise of rain. ‘And he said – he said about the wedding? That you’d .?.?. stayed with your parents, and I just want you to know that I didn’t meana wordin that email—’
‘Can we not, please?’
‘Nothing happened,’ I say, my words rushed and desperate. ‘Honestly, it didn’t. It was one silly chat by my desk, and I sent such a stupid, drunken email—’
‘I .?.?. I really don’t want to talk about this, Millie,’ says Chloe, her cold, blue eyes dropping to the pavement. She can’t even look at me. ‘This is .?.?. this is all really raw for me—’
‘I understand. I really, really do—’
‘I just—’
‘Nothing happened. I just need you to know nothing happened.’
‘Come on, Chlo,’ calls out Samira, three clipped, protective words, an invisible shield spoken into the air, and Chloe gazes at me, for a pained, resentful, heartbroken second, and I recognise it. That drained, nothing-left dullness in the eyes. Heartbreak. What’s left, once you’ve handed your fresh, full, hopeful heart to someone, and it’s been returned, like old end-of-day picnic food.
Leona takes her arm. ‘Come on,’ she says, and they turn, hooded heads hunched, walking quickly away in a line like paper dolls.
I feel shame flood my face. My heart feels as though it falls to my ankles.
Jack appears beside me, raindrops falling on my head, and then suddenly not, as he positions the umbrella over me.
‘And that’s also why I was out in the rain,’ I say, watching them walk away. ‘Like a bit of a loser.’
‘Nobody here’s a loser,’ Jack replies, calmly.
Rain spits against the taut fabric above us, and there’s a beat of silence.
‘You hungry?’ he asks.
‘Me?’ I ask pointlessly. ‘I .?.?. I dunno .?.?.’
Jack raises his eyebrows, just a dart of them – up, then down.
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘OK, yes, I am. And cold. Hungry and cold. A rubbish combo.’
And his hazel eyes drop to his jacket, just for a fraction of a second, and I think he might offer me it to wear, but he doesn’t –of coursehe doesn’t. I’m a rained-on, bedraggled receptionist, and he is one of my bosses. He’s simply doing what any good chief operations manager would do for a down-on-her-luck, weather-beaten, sad member of staff. Right?
‘You ever been to BackDonalds?’ he asks.
‘Have I ever .?.?.What?’
