“What you reading, then?” he asked, nodding toward the paperback poking out of her bag.
“Little Women,” she told him. “Well, rereading, it’s one of my favorites.”
“You should try the sequel,Big Men, it’s much better,” Tom said, guffawing at his own joke. She smiled politely and tightened her grip on her wineglass. “You a bookworm or something, then?”
“I guess so,” she replied, trying to stay open-minded. Maybe he was the kind of guy who seemed awful at first but you couldacquire a taste for—like oysters or tequila. “Have you read anything good lately?”
Tom exhaled loudly. “I don’t have much time to read. Started this book about Formula One, how it got started and that, but it was average. I prefer podcasts.” Tom’s face became animated. “Have you listened to Joe Rogan? He’s so funny.”
“I hear he’s popular,” Chloe said, feeling her soul crawl into the fetal position.
“So, what do you do for cashisho, Chloe?” Tom asked, and as he clasped his pint glass, she noticed his fingers—short, pudgy sausage fingers. She had a thing about hands.
“Cashisho?” she repeated, trying to keep her eyes on his face.
“Cash. Moola. Money.” He rolled his eyes. “What do you do for work?”
“Oh, I’m a PA for a film producer,” she said, knowing she’d already told him this over text. “But I’m hoping it’s going to be a stepping stone to more creative things. I really want to be a writer—plays, screenplays.”
“You don’t want to be a writer,” he said flatly, picking his teeth.
“I do,” she said, blanching.
“Nah, it’s a shrinking sector. AI will be writing everything soon anyway. You’re better off looking for something tech-proof,” he said, his eyes flitting around her face, assessing her. “You could be a model, I reckon, if you straightened your hair.”
“But I don’t want to be a…” She trailed off, swallowing her irritation. What was the point? She forced a smile. “How about you? You said you were in the army? That must be interesting.”
“Yup, corporal,” Tom said, flexing his arm muscles. “It’s good, plenty of travel. But there’s too much politics these days.”His mouth twisted into a sneer. “The woke brigade have got a lot to answer for. I’m not against women being in the army, but if you want to join, you’ve got to be one of the lads, haven’t you? You can’t expect special treatment. If you’re on the front line, you can’t start crying if someone calls you ‘love.’ ”
Chloe swallowed. He’d seemed normal over text, nice even. She glanced across to the bar. The man in the cap was jabbing at the remote, clearly baffled. Chloe turned back to Tom just as he took a noisy slurp of his pint, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
Was this fiction’s fault? Had reading ruined men for her? Once you’d been introduced to Gabriel Oak, Mr.Rochester, and her dear George Emerson, how were you meant to settle forthis?
“I’m just going to nip to the loo,” she said, picking up her bag.
“Knock yourself out,” Tom replied, already half turned back to the TV.
Chloe always tried to stay on a date for at least forty-five minutes. Any less just felt too rude. But if she could tell, as she did now, that even forty-five minutes was going to be an endurance test, she allowed herself an extra-long bathroom break to sneak in a chapter of her book. Glancing back at the table, she doubted Tom would even notice she was gone.
In the bathroom, Chloe glanced at her phone. Her photo app had compiled a memory reel titled “On This Day.” The first image was of her and Peter lying on a sun lounger in Tenerife the year before. She was curled into his chest, wearing just a bikini, squinting up at the camera. He had one arm around her, and he was kissing her head as he took the selfie. They both looked so happy. Peter would never have tried to watch the football game during a date; he was a stickler for manners. He opened doors, he asked questions, he made eye contact.
She quickly closed her phone. This wasn’t helping, and thosephotos certainly didn’t tell the whole story. Instead, she climbed onto the old Victorian radiator next to the sink and pulled outLittle Women—a safer kind of fantasy. The radiator let out a reassuringclonksound.
“Yes, he is a bit of a clonk,” Chloe muttered.
“Clonk clonk,” said the radiator. And already, she was having a better conversation with the radiator than she’d been having back in the bar.
She was several pages into a chapter when she became aware of someone else entering the room. A striking woman with long, dark hair and pale, freckled skin was smiling at her from across the tiled floor.
“Chloe?” the woman said, eyes wide with delight. “Oh, I thought it was you!”
Chloe blinked. She couldn’t place her. “Wendy,” the woman offered, not the least bit offended.
“Wendy?” Chloe asked, eyebrows lifting in surprise.
Wendy had freelanced as a producer at McKenzie and Sons a few years back. Chloe had liked her; she was bubbly and always brought home-baked biscuits to work on a Friday. The only reason Chloe hadn’t recognized her now was because she lookedcompletelydifferent. The Wendy she remembered was a bit, well, frumpy, with limp, gray-streaked hair and a permanently defeated posture. This Wendy looked…radiant. Toned. Confident. She also looked ten years younger.
“I know, I know,” Wendy said, doing a twirl. “I made some changes.”
