Tom:Seriously, that guy’s creepier than the Blair Witch.
Are you free this Saturday morning, by the way? I’ve managed to book space for the first exhibition shoot – it’s with our friend the white T-shirt influencer. He’s up for a face to face chat too.
Rachel:Deffo, wouldn’t miss it! Send me the address.
Also nothing is creepier than Blair Witch, which I am obviously NOT watching.
Tom:Haha, I reckon Loser Loz comes close. I’ll watch with you again sometime if you like, it’s important to face one’s fears etc.
See you soon … Tomorrow I guess?
Night x
Rachel:Night night. And thanks again xxx
Rachel went to bed feeling far happier than she’d expected to a few hours earlier, and only partly because she’d gorged on sugar.
She might not have a boyfriend this Valentine’s Day, but she had a boyfriend; one who’d thought about her, wanted to make her smile and had found a way to show he cared without making her cringe.
It was weird but true, Rachel thought, that a packet of fake faeces could seem more thoughtful than a hundred gorgeous roses. Yet there it was.
16
The BHGH office was near Chelsea Embankment: six miles and half a world away from Stroud Green’s shops, takeaways, crowds and constant traffic. The organisation’s London HQ was a four-storey red-brick terrace within sight of the Thames – elegant and striking against a cloudless, turquoise sky.
As Rachel made her way towards it on Friday morning, she spotted Jack leaning against a tree reading something on his phone. He was wearing a suit for the first time since the day the Mountaintop takeover had been announced, and even from this distance it was alot.
He was a living, breathing Burberry advert: classically handsome, slender, almost aristocratic-looking … But just tousled enough to look stylish rather than staid.
He stood up straight to greet her, brushing the back of his navy overcoat clean.
‘Morning.’ He smiled. ‘Isaac’s just messaged. He and Greg are in a cab, apparently – they should be here soon.’
‘Cool.’
Rachel didn’t know what to say or where to direct her gaze; it was a little like trying not to stare directly into the sun.
‘You look lovely, by the way,’ Jack said.
Rachel shifted her weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to say ‘So do you.’ In the end, unable to come up with anything better, she murmured, ‘Oh.’
Jack rolled his eyes at her obvious confusion. ‘You are literally the only woman I’ve ever known who reacts to compliments with such surprise. Your mystery man clearly needs to up his game – perhaps pay you a few more in between bouquets.’
Rachel made a noise that sounded likeFffffft. She felt like laughing. In light of recent events, the idea of Laurence saying anything genuinely nice to her was ridiculous. Pushing the urge to giggle away and refusing to be drawn on the identity of her Valentine, she said, ‘Er, maybe. Thanks, anyway.’
In truth, she’d put on a high-necked voluminous midi dress this morning so as to shield her body from close inspection by Humphrey. Her hair was loose, though, falling past her shoulders in soft red-gold waves that even she could see looked like something out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.
She’d left it unstyled for the sake of not wasting a good hair day and because the weather seemed settled – unlikely, for once, to render her head an explosion of tangles and frizz. Only now did she remember that Jack had always found her hair wildly romantic when it wasn’t scraped back in a sloppy bun. She felt him looking at her again and tucked it behind her ears.
He shook his head at her fondly and asked, ‘You feeling good about this morning?’
‘As far as our work is concerned, I feel great … Though I can’t say I’m looking forward to actually presenting it.’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Jack said with an airy wave of his arm. ‘Humphrey will see things our way; he’ll love the plans we’ve put together.’
‘Oh, to possess the supreme and unwavering confidence of an Old Harrovian,’ Rachel retorted, only half-joking.
Before Jack could reply, a black cab pulled up beside them. The kerbside door opened and Greg and Isaac spilled out of it onto the pavement, an urgent mass of smartly dressed arms and legs.
