‘Man, I feel sad as fuck,’ he said. ‘Prick. It’ll be weird not having you here. What will I do without you? We’re like the two musketeers.’
‘The musketeers come in threes, buddy. But I’m not dying. I’m just moving out. You’ll still see me, dude.’
Matt smiled weakly and grabbed me in a huge bear hug.
‘You know what I mean,’ he said, sniffing. ‘I’ll just miss you. But I get it. Do what makes you happy.’
And finally – acceptance.
He left for the gym about an hour ago and I still feel at odds with the whole thing. Saying it out loud has made it more real and although planning a new future for myself is exciting, leaving everything behind is daunting. I’m going to see Greta first thing tomorrow before work to see if she has any positions further afield. Reading, maybe? Winchester perhaps. . .
‘How about Slough?’
Greta turns her screen around to show me a position she has for a corporate solicitor focusing on Equity and Acquisitions.
I frown. ‘I was hoping for something a little more virtuous.’
‘Right. . .’
‘And a little less Slough-based.’
She snorts. ‘OK. Now when you say virtuous, are we talking priest or missionary worker? Lawyers Without Borders?’
I smirk. ‘Maybe something non-profit. . . I’m not sure, just something where I make a difference.’
She bobs her head and continues scrolling. ‘That’s admirable, Nick. Good for you. . . OK, here’s one. Legal aid lawyer for a homeless charity. Based in Oxford. Salary’s actually pretty decent. Start date in three weeks.’
I read over the job spec and get a little rush of excitement. She sees my face and smiles.
‘Shall I forward your CV?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘Let’s go for it.’
I leave Greta’s office and stride through Covent Garden feeling positive and hopeful. Oxford isn’t that far, so I’d still be able to visit Matt, and I might even be able to afford something more spacious than a room in a shared flat. Today is a good day; a step in the right direction. A step closer to leaving everything behind and. . . fuck, is that Angela?
I stop abruptly and turn to look at the menu in a restaurant window, surprising the woman inside who’s setting up tables. As I peer to my left, I see her stop to chat to someone before continuing in my direction. It’s definitely her; she’s wearing the white poncho I bought for her in Marbella. We haven’t seen each other since New Year’s Eve, and I was more than happy keeping it that way.
Shit. I have two options: I can turn and bolt in the other direction or I can walk past her and hope that she’s feeling just as awkward about this as I am. Steeling myself, I turn and continue walking towards her. We’re almost side by side before she makes eye contact, but I keep walking.
‘Nick!’ she exclaims as she realises that I’m not stopping. ‘I thought that was you!’
Dammit. I slowly come to a halt and turn to face her.
‘Hey, Angela. How are you?’
She runs her hand through her hair and then rests it on one hip. ‘Oh, you know, can’t grumble. How are you? You’re looking well.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, nonchalantly. ‘I’m doing well.’
She waits for me to return the compliment then realises it isn’t coming. She narrows her eyes. ‘So. . . how is the North Pole?’
I don’t react. ‘I’m sure it’s fine, though I’m on my way to Bond Street.’
‘You’re working on Bond Street?’ she asks, her tone now breezy. ‘Wow! Impressive! Well done, babes, I knew you could. . . wait. . . is that. . . is that a Tom Ford suit?’
‘It is,’ I reply, checking my phone. ‘Must dash, I’m late. Nice to see you.’
I stroll off as she tells me it’s nice to see me too. She’s only saying that as she thinks I’m worth bothering with again. I smirk at the Tom Ford comment. This suit is one hundred per cent Marks and Spencer. Funny how having pound signs in your eyes can skew your vision.
