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‘Urgh, thank you,’ said Nicky somewhat mollified.
‘Ah it’s so annoying, isn’t it? When people skip the queue at the bar. Rude,’ Elle emphasised.
‘Totally,’ said Nicky who probably didn’t realise she was nodding along now.
The margarita arrived. ‘My friend, please put a little more salt on the rim there for myamigahere … that’s better.’
Nicky took a gratifying sip of her drink. ‘That’s good. So, what do you do around here?’
‘My sister-in-law owns BloomPress. She wanted me to check out the party, but I’m going to leave soon, not really my scene.’ Elle glanced down to Nicky’s lanyard. ‘Ah True Materials, have I heard about your company somewhere? By the way these are my friends Helen and Sophie.’ Elle gestured furiously for them to come over. Nicky waved a polite hi, then turned her attention back towards Elle, who had easily established herself as by far the most interesting person in the room.
‘Yeah you might have, I’m CMO actually. We’ve done some really nice pieces of press recently. I think sustainability is just so now, it’s been an easy job to be honest with you.’
‘Absolutely,’ Elle said, sounding utterly interested. ‘So you must have quite a big team now? I’m almost surprised you guys are still at WeWork. Don’t tell Melody from BloomPress I said that,’ Elle smiled conspiratorially.
‘Totally. Well, we actually just have a satellite office here for occasional meetings. We’re working towards a full remote working culture, as it’s not really sustainable for everyone commuting in these days.’
‘And Brody?’ God why did Helen just say that. Suddenly the spotlight swung awkwardly off of Elle and onto Helen. Helen wasn’t designed to be in the spotlight; she felt a foundational Jenga block dislodge.
Elle shot Helen a look that said, ‘you are a dead woman’.
‘Oh, do you know Brody?’ said Nicky politely.
‘Sort of … we’re both from Cornwall. It’s a small place …’ Helen didn’t know where to look so her eyes hit the floor. Oh no, was that a ‘hustle harder’ sticker on her crotch?
‘Well, you probably know him better than me. We’ve only actually met a handful of times; our corporate culture is all Zoom meetings these days. He’s delegated most of, well actually all of, the running of the company to his team.’ She dropped her voice, ‘To be honest, he doesn’t do anything. Just came up with a good concept, now keeps swanning off to Mexico.’
‘Anyway.’ Nicky straightened up. ‘He’s off pursuing other areas of his personal development,’ she motioned the last part of the sentence with inverted commas. ‘I came here alone tonight, mainly for the free booze, and to see if there were any cute guys.’
Elle looked to Sophie, who looked to Helen, who felt the final block of Jenga slip out, and her insides start to wobble. She turned towards the bar, and without quite thinking things through, downed the rest of Nicky’s margarita.
Chapter 13
Helen felt a bit sick. It might have been the last whisky sour she’d had, sitting uneasily on top of all those margaritas. It might have been the blaring hip hop, the sweaty dad dancing, the feeling like she really shouldn’t do this ever again, and the small fact that she hadn’t seen him.
What kind of founder didn’t show up at his own offices, and just worked remotely for ‘environmental purposes’? How could he not realise she would have tried to meet him?
She wasn’t thinking clearly. Elle had left early, after (quite accurately) assessing that the night was a bust. Sophie had loyally clung on, but both of them had eventually given up on making the most of things, of pretending that they were just merrily on another girl’s night out. The stakes had felt so much higher than that, and Sophie knew it.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay at my place tonight? I’ll kick Frank out?’ she’d said kindly as her Uber pulled up.
‘No,’ said Helen, head blotchy with alcohol, ‘no I want you to go and cuddle lovely Frank, and I want to clear my head, it’s quite a nice walk home from here.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be safe?’
‘It’s central London, I’ll be fine,’ said Helen and gave Sophie a hug that was stronger than she intended it to be.
‘Okay, well text me when you get home then,’ said Sophie, her head hanging halfway out of the Uber door. Helen watched the car pull away, then she turned and started walking into the night. Her brain was a jumbled mess of alcohol, and heady disappointment that she hadn’t met Brody again. The fresh air, she hoped, would allow the thoughts that were flying around her brain to tire themselves out and settle down for the evening. It felt like all hope of finding ‘her person’ had all but fizzled out. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. They should have been sharing a brownie by now, knees touching under the table.
She crossed through Liverpool Street station that was emptying out, and saw couples catching the last commuter services of the night. People texting their loved ones that they’d be a few minutes late, or calling with an update on their way home. Others jammed at ticket machines, a man in a brown beanie smiled at Helen, and all she could think was, ‘much too soon. Much too soon.’ Helen zipped up her coat a little higher, stumbling slightly as she exited the station and strode on.
The floodlit streets of the city turned into Shoreditch where juice bars and galleries had erupted, displacing the worn Victorian buildings facades. Only the upper floors had sad, derelict windows and reminded Helen that this wasn’t always the trendy part of town.
Her studio was just north of Shoreditch and overlooked the Regent’s Canal: a narrow towpath, spotted with tunnels, that ran alongside canal boat moorings. Cyclists liked to hare down the narrow bends of the path at ridiculous speeds, nearly knocking you into the water or a boat called ‘broke but afloat’, or ‘what’s up dock?’
She loved how she could get in after a night like this one, and watch the water from her window, checking in to see what new graffiti had been added since the last time she looked. But Brody’s shoes would be by the door. ‘Perhaps I should at least move them,’ sighed Helen, as she flinched at the thought of packing away the last hope of him.
It was somewhere on the canal that Helen started to feel uneasy, like there had been a subtle shift in the air. A cyclist tore past her. The path looked longer and darker than it normally did. Her ankle boots were really rubbing,did rubbing cause verrucas? No, it caused blisters!Gosh she really was a little tipsy still. The more she focused on it, the more the discomfort in her left pinkie toe grew. Maybe she could adjust her sock?
