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Shit. I knew I’d said too much.
“Yes.”
She gasps like I’ve just confessed to murdering a celebrity.
“Oh my god.” She practically slides off her chair from excitement. “The emotionally destabilising one you told me about after, like, three glasses of wine and multiple packets of Mini Eggs?”
That was a particularly tragic night. It was just after Kath’s housewarming and the Alexander debacle. We’d been watching a film and I’d accidentally described a kiss that was so good it had “haunted my dreams”.
“That one.” I look at my screen like it might save me.
“The same one you said was so good it ruined the idea of ever kissing anyone else again?”
I groan. I forgot I’d said that, though I still stand by it. “Can you not quote me back to myself right now? I was being overdramatic. We’d drunk a lot of wine and ate a lot of sugar.”
She reaches across the desk and grabs my wrist.
“Claire. I thought The Kiss guy had moved to Canada. Or was married. Or dead. Any of those reasons would explain why he was only The Kiss guy, and not a named person that I would eventually meet after the pair of you started dating and got married.”
“Well,” I say dryly, “he never moved to Canada, hasn’t been married that I know of, and is very much alive.”
Alicia just blinks at me for a moment, like she’s trying to recalculate the entire trajectory of our friendship based on this new information. Then she gives a satisfied sigh. “You’re so much more interesting than the rest of this office.”
“I live to amuse you,” I tell her. “Now let’s actually get some work done.”
She wheels her chair back to her desk, though for the next hour she continues to shoot surreptitious looks at me around the divider between our desks, intermittently shaking her head and chuckling. Meanwhile I attempt to lose myself in design strategy, but spend most of the time thinking about one brown-haired, brown-eyed history teacher.
November
Chapter 32
Tom
I’m counting eleven-year-olds onto a bus, trying and failing to keep the usual chaos at bay, all whilst wondering whether the high-pitched squeals they make might break the sound barrier. Someone’s lost their lunch, another has somehow already acquired a nosebleed, and two of them are loudly arguing about whether the Romans or the Vikings were “cooler”.
I’m having to stop myself from joining in their debate, because honestly the Vikings versus the Romans is a great topic of conversation, when I spot her. Claire is walking towards us in a checked dress and a blazer, a tote bag slung over one shoulder and her camera around her neck.
I actively resist the urge to smile widely. This trip just got a lot better.
She catches my eye, and her brows lift in amusement.
“Miss Robinson.” I straighten. “I knew someone from marketing was coming today, but I didn’t realise we were getting VIP treatment.”
She told me she had a surprise for me today. I like this surprise.
“Someone’s got to capture your best angles.” She deadpans as she walks past. “I thought the lighting on the bus would really bring out your historical gravitas.”
Some of the kids giggle, and I cough into my clipboard to cover a laugh.
“Sir, I need the toilet,” one of the boys calls from the back. “Can I go now before we leave?”
I hold back a sigh and paste on a smile. “Of course. Make it quick.”
There’s a blur of movement as three more suddenly also need the toilet, obviously, because herd mentality is alive and well in Year 7.
The bus ride itself passes in what I’d call relative calm. Which means: no one’s thrown up (yet), no one’s crying (yet), and the only casualty is my eardrums, thanks to an impromptu group rendition of “Let It Go”, followed by “Espresso” by Sabrina Carpenter.
Claire ends up sitting a few rows behind me with her camera, and I catch her laughing more than once at the chaos. When I glance back at her during a particularly enthusiastic chorus, she gives me a look that very clearly says, You signed up for this.
