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But any time I see him, or hear his name, I don’t feel inspired: only small and stupid. Maybe it’s becauseI let him in – or worse, believed he might actually have liked me.
It’s Friday afternoon before I run into Lloyd at the eleventh-floor kitchen area with nobody else around to act as a buffer or distraction.
The Arrowmile offices take up the top few floors of the building, and lend themselves towards being open-plan. Hardly any of the managers have their own office, hot-desking with the rest of us. A few partition walls painted with bright splashes of blue offer some separation and a bit of sound-proofing, and the kitchen area has been sectioned off neatly near the toilets and lifts. From here, you can’t see out into the rest of the office.
Meaning nobody can see me stop in my tracks when I go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, only to find Lloyd absently stirring a coffee while concentrating on some documents in a file.
My heart jolts to see him again, but it’s not the kind of thrilled little somersault it should be when re-meeting a guy I shared a wonderful time with. If anything, it makes me feel a bit queasy. To think I was so pleased when he said he didn’t think I was unlikeable … Turns out, I’m just so spectacularlyunremarkable, he doesn’t remember me at all.
I retreat quickly, hoping to make a quick escape before he sees me. I don’t think I can face an entire one-on-one conversation pretending we’re total strangers – but I must make enough noise that he looks up before I can run for it. He closes the file he was just reading, his hand braced on top of it almost like he’s afraid I’ll run over and steal it. Maybe it’s confidential? Somehow, I wouldn’t be surprised if he is trusted with top-secret stuff.
‘Oh, hey.’ His tone is casual – playful – and it has no right to be. He smiles, which drives the knife in a little deeper. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ I blurt, frowning.
His smile falters a little – though it may not be from guilt. If he really has forgotten me, I probably just come off rude. Cold and unlikeable.
Deciding it would look even more rude if I left, empty mug still in hand, I give him my best attempt at a polite smile, brace myself, and move further into the kitchen. Still an arm’s reach away from Lloyd, but acutely aware of justhowclose he is. Close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, and –
Don’t think about how good he smells.Dear God, don’t think about how good he smells.
(But he smells so good. Deep and rich and spiced. It’s the same intoxicating smell that I noticed last Fridaynight, only now, away from the stickiness of the club and the cool riverside air, I can pick out some of the notes in it more clearly.)
Not, of course, that I’mnoticing.
I go through the motions of filling the kettle and fetching some milk and a teaspoon, hoping he’ll leave first.
But he doesn’t.
He just stands there, too close and still impossibly far away, and says cheerfully, ‘So how’s your first week been? Coping alright so far?’
‘Yep. Doing just fine, thanks.’
‘Great! They really chuck you in at the deep end, don’t they? You’ll get the hang of it all, though – everyone does, before long.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And Michaela’s team are great. They juggle a lot of stuff so it probably feels pretty hectic right now, huh? One of them actually got signed off on long-term sick just before you started, so they’ll be grateful to have someone to pick up the slack. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.’
‘Right. Thanks.’
‘And, obviously, I’m around a lot, so if you ever need anything, just give me a shout. I’m happy to help.’
Happy to make me feel like a total idiot, more like.
‘Cool,’ is all the reply I can muster. The kettle finally boiled, I finish making my tea and decide that surely, now, I’m allowed to leave without looking rude.
I give Lloyd another lacklustre attempt at a smile, pick up my tea, and … don’t leave.
I just stand there, like an idiot, grimacing at him and clutching my mug of tea to myself, desperately trying not to ask him if our night togetherreallymeant so little to him that he’s forgotten me. The longer I stand there, the thicker the air gets, threatening to swallow me whole. It almost crackles, electric. Like if I move, I’ll get a shock. Something tells me that the moment I leave, that’s when this is well and truly over, and Friday night never happened.
His own casual smile fades, replaced by something confused and unsure. A maddening, fleeting impulse makes me want to reach and smooth the expression out with my fingertips.
It’s not a good look on him. It’s too serious. Not at all right for the light-hearted, quippy boy with his easy laughter and stories of a golden childhood. It makes him look like a stranger.
Which, I suppose, he is.
I grip my mug a little tighter, gathering the willpower to leave, and knowing that he probably just looks like that becauseI’mthe stranger to him,and I think it’s obvious I’m one wrong move away from crying.
