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‘Don’t you remember the Christmas party?’
And for a moment, I freeze. I do, I want to say. I remember flirting with you. I remember you touching my arm, leaning close .?.?.
‘S-sort of?’
‘Don’t you remember Steve dirty dancing with Prue and then her husband turning up .?.?.’
Relieved, I burst out laughing.
George looks over, as if he can’t quite fathom why his ‘man’ Jack would be talking to a mere receptionist like me, especially not the tainted one.
‘Didn’t theyfight?’
‘In the car park,’ nods Jack. ‘It was beautiful. A blockbuster. Ties and shoes and bifocals everywhere. And I would bet something along those lines’ll happen tonight, and as much as it was fun – I don’t think I have the mental capacity post-several Ryanair flights.’
We both laugh, and George leans back on his chair, says, ‘Jack, did you see that notice? From comms?’ and they begin to talk hushedly about something I do not understand.
I doodle on the paper in front of me. Write ‘minutes’ in slow, neat handwriting. Draw a flower for the dot of the i.
‘So, you’re free?’ asks Jack, turning back to me.
‘Sorry?’
‘Tonight.’
I nod. ‘I am.’
‘Cool,’ he says, and that – that’sit.He’s a mystery, this man. This ‘when you least expect it’ adventurer who hates plans and human constructs (and also, perhaps, bins).
I open my mouth to say something – I could ask why he wants to know, couldn’t I?
But George is talking to him again, and Jack is getting up, following him, nodding, both heading for the water cooler, and then the door closes.
‘Good morning, folks.’ Paul Foot enters the meeting room, trailed by – oh, God .?.?. Owen. Owen is here and I freeze, at the sight of him. And he strolls in. That assured lift of the chin, that authorative stride, and sits in the seat Jack was in.
‘We’ll kick off in five, we’re just waiting for a couple more .?.?.’ Paul says, moving to the front of the room, a laptop under his arm. He eyes me, for just a flicker of a moment, but doesn’t smile.
‘All right, Mills?’ asks Owen.
‘Hi.’
What is Owen doing, justblatantlysitting next to me? Boldly, legs wide and sprawled, gum, chewing at the side of his mouth. Everyone in this room will know about the email I sent him. That he isn’t gettingmarriednow. And he decides, in front of them, to sit right here.
And now Jack has drifted back.
‘Oh, shit, sorry, mate, were you sitting here?’
Jack shakes his head, casually, but his eyes flash with something. ‘Not at all. You go ahead.’
Owen leans, slaps him on the shoulder, and says, ‘Nice one,’ and for just a fraction of a second, Jack catches my eye, and his eyebrow raises; nothing more. He pulls out the seat next to George, two chairs down, places the iPad down on the table, and slowly, deliberately, sits.
‘Hey,’ smiles Owen again. ‘How’ve you been?’ He smells like his hair wax, and the polished leather of his car.
I canfeeleyes on me. Samira is here too, Chloe’s friend. She’s watching, then her eyes drop to her phone, on the table. What if she’s going to text Chloe, under the table, say, ‘OMG, Owen is here and sitting snuggled up with Millie?’ I probably would, if I were her. If I was Chloe’s friend.
‘Um. Good, thanks,’ I say, suddenly self-conscious. ‘You?’
I look down at the notebook in my lap then and write ‘meeting’ elaborately (and pointlessly) at the top of the page next to ‘minutes’, and Owen watches me.
