She took in his kind expression, his gentle tone, the lovely Paul Mescally quality he had about him. Regardless of Sean, if she was going to this reunion, she didn’t think she could ask for a better plus-one.
7
Chloe ran across London Bridge,a hastily packed weekend bag slung over one shoulder. The bridge was bustling with tourists taking photos of the Shard and Tower Bridge, but she had no time to stop and admire the view today. McKenzie had kept her late, drilling her onexactlyhow to pitch the project to Sean. The alumni committee had organized a coach from Victoria for people coming from London, but at this rate, she was going to miss it. She texted Rob as she ran:
Chloe
Running late, save me a seat on the bus!
She raced down the escalator at Monument tube station, then jumped onto the Embankment line. She tried to fan herselfwith her hand, conscious that with all that running, she was going to get her outfit sweaty. She’d changed in the loo after work and was wearing her favorite high-waisted, wide-leg trousers in soft olive green—her mum called them her Katharine Hepburn trousers, which might have been why she loved them. On top, she wore a simple white shirt with an oversized collar, then large tortoiseshell sunglasses lost somewhere in her hair. As she was fretting about sweating she caught her reflection in the train window. She looked radiant,happy. It took her by surprise. How much of that was down to Rob? Over the last two weeks, she’d seen him six times; they’d been to dinner, been to the theater, visited galleries, and strolled hand in hand along the South Bank. Each time, she found herself liking him more. Each time, it got harder to remember that he wasn’t the man he appeared to be.
She liked that she could talk to him about anything. He never lost interest or got defensive. He was unfailingly kind, and he remembered everything she said. She’d joked that she wanted to become the sort of person who went running before work and yesterday, he’d turned up at her house in running gear, just after sunrise. They’d run around Richmond Park, then shared a protein smoothie, all before seven a.m. She’d usually have been too nervous to run around the park alone, but with Rob at her side, she felt invincible. She frowned at her reflection. Don’t get carried away. It’s just for this weekend, then you’ll give him back.
When Chloe reached Victoria station, it was unpleasantly busy, the air smelled of exhaust fumes and pastries, and there were lost backpackers spinning in circles trying to navigate with their smartphones. She sprinted up the steps, then along the busy main road toward the bus terminal. Her loafers slapped against the pavement, and she had to hold up the hems of hertrousers to keep them from murky pavement puddles. This was the problem when your allegiance to style and your travel budget didn’t quite align. She couldn’t imagine Katharine Hepburn ever ran for a bus.
Finally, the looming art deco architecture of the concrete bus station came into view. She was only ten minutes late, the bus probably hadn’t even left yet. But the concourse was so huge, it took her a moment to find the right bay, and when she got there, she found it empty. Damn. On her phone, a message from Rob.
Rob
Sorry, I should have got off the bus. I didn’t realize we were leaving.
Then a photo of the empty seat beside him and a sad-face emoji.
“Did we miss it?” asked a voice beside her.
Chloe turned to see a man of about her height, standing nearby, a battered backpack slung over one shoulder and a dog lead in his hand. At the other end of which was a small gray whippet. It took her a second to place him.
“John? John Elton?” she asked. He nodded. “Wow, you look so different.”
“Hi, Chloe,” he said.
The John she remembered had been all red hair, thick glasses, and the wardrobe of F. Scott Fitzgerald. The man in front of her had short, albeit messy, hair, which had faded to an auburn brown. He’d lost the glasses, and his body had broadened around the arms and shoulders. But the change that most threw her was that he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, just like any ordinary twenty-first-century man.
“Tiny Dancer,” she said with a grin. “Well, look at you! Not so tiny anymore, hey,” she teased, tapping a finger against his shoulder.
“Chloe Fairway. Hilarious as ever,” he said dryly.
“Who’s this, then?” she said, bending down to say hello to his dog.
“Richard,” he said, and as Chloe stroked the dog’s head, Richard licked her hand appreciatively.
“Funny name for a dog. Why did you call him that?”
“He’s named after Richard Gere.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s got gray hair, and he likes pretty women.”
“Really?” Chloe asked, delighted.
“No, not really,” John said, his expression neutral. “I just thought he looked like a Richard.”
John’s delivery was so deadpan, she could never quite tell when he was joking, but she laughed anyway.
“Are you bringing him? You can’t have dogs in college. Can you?”
“He’s a support dog,” John explained, shifting his gaze upward. “Should we go and find another bus, given we’ve missed ours?”
