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Once I’m around the corner and in an empty stretchof corridor, I break into a run, throwing myself into the bathroom and locking myself into a stall where I can finally let myself fall apart, hands tearing at my hair and breathing heavily as I try to make sense of what just happened.
How is he here?Why?Is he some hotshot intern who got invited back for a summer job, or something? Was he so good he works here part-time, maybe?
And … why is he acting like he doesn’t know me?
Maybe he’s embarrassed by me in some way, or was disappointed by our kiss.
Or maybe he does that kind of thing all the time, falling for a new girl every week like we joked about, and the night we spent together was so whollyun-spectacular for him that he’s simply … forgotten.
I know it shouldn’t matter. That itdoesn’t.
But …
Unbidden, the memories of the time we spent together a few nights ago spring to mind, playing out before me. The laughter turns sour on my tongue; the dizzying press of his lips to mine, mocking and cold. The things I told him …
Oh, God. The things I told him.
He knows I lied about my age on my application. Is he going to tell anybody? He could get me kicked out. Maybe there’s even some kind of rule about inter-officerelationships or something, and I’d be fired because I kissed him.
I want to be happy that fate is kind enough to let our paths cross again, but that’s a joke. If things like fate do exist, then this is a blatant display of its cruelty.
Something prickles at the back of my eyes and –no, please, don’t let me be the girl who cries on her first day.
Don’t let me be the girl who cries over a boy she barely knows.
Breathe, Annalise.
I do, somehow. Raggedly. It hitches in my throat, tightens in my chest, so I try again a few more times until I’ve got a little more control over myself. I have no idea how long I’ve been gone, which almost sends me into a whole new panic spiral – I donotwant to become the girl who spent half her first day in the toilets – so I smooth my hands over my hair, take a few more deep breaths, and stride out.
Walk tall, shoulders back. Don’t let them see. It’s fine. Nobody will know.
If he wants to pretend not to know me, fine. Two can play at that game.
But when I get back to my desk, Lloyd is long gone.
The first week at Arrowmile is every bit as overwhelming as that first morning. My new inbox isoverflowing with things to read and tasks to complete. I attend meetings with people whose names I instantly forget as they discuss things I can’t keep up with, feeling the fool when I agree to write up the minutes. I have to start a glossary in the back of my notebook of all the corporate jargon and acronyms everyone uses, which feels like I might as well have to learn a completely new language from scratch.
I catch sight of the other interns darting about the office, too, occasionally crossing paths with them in the lift or on the way to meetings. Once, I’m stopped on my way back from the toilets by my other new flatmate, Louis, when his manager sends him to speak to someone on my floor; he holds up a LinkedIn profile on his phone and points at someone a few desks over as he whispers to me, ‘Do you think that’s him? He has more hair in this photo, but … How embarrassing d’you think it will be if it’s not him?’
We’re all out of our depth, but some people do a better job of hiding it. Monty, for one, makes sure to tell any of us unlucky enough to get stuck commuting with him justhowsure he is that being on Nadja’s team is the ideal role for him, and how great he’ll be at schmoozing clients. Freya, who already struck me as quiet and is working alongside Topher Fletcher’s PA, becomes even more mousy – squeaky and jumpy,afraid of being reduced to nothing more than fetching coffees.
I also see Lloyd around the office.
It’s hard not to.
He’s everywhere.
Each time I notice him, I can’t help but stare. He’s only a year older than I am, but he stands around joking with people like they’re old friends, talking to senior members of staff as they nod along seriously and hang off his every word. He strides around the office with a sense of purpose and belonging. There’s a confidence about him that makes me think that actually, hestruts– like a peacock. Commanding attention with a hundred-watt smile and a glint in his eyes just daring people to suggest they know better than him.
It’s a more self-assured, over-the-top version of the guy I met on Friday night, who didn’t think his friends would miss him if he slipped away. This version of him is still open, emotive, with that easy humour, but …more. Other, somehow. There’s something off about it, but the more I think that, the more I convince myself that this is what Lloyd is like normally. Who he was with me was the outlier. A lie.
He waves whenever he sees me. Then he’ll smile and ask how I’m doing, with exactly the same friendly,casual tone he uses with everybody else. In response, I’ll grit my teeth and try to smile back before hurrying away, determined to ignore how much it stings that he’s clearly forgotten all about me.
I’m mad at him for not remembering. I’m mad at myself, for making such a big deal out of it when I never thought I’d seehimagain, anyway.
I’m mad, because everybody seems to love him. He’s the golden boy of the office. Nobody looks irritated if he interrupts, or sits in on meetings he isn’t invited to. I overhear people twice his age thanking him for feedback he gave them on some report or presentation and wonder why they valuehisopinion so damn much – and feel a strange flare of jealousy;Iwant to be that person people go to and rely on one day. I see him in so many places, involved with so many teams, I can’t tell what he actually does around here – just that I know it seems important, somehow.
I desperately try to reframe the thought. I tell myself that he’s obviously a hot-shot intern who was invited back and that could be me next summer, so I should aspire to be more like Lloyd – whatever it is exactly he’s doing here.
