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Lucy doesn’t clock my distress. ‘Fuck me, he looks steaming hot in glasses.’
‘Lucy,’ I cry, slamming the laptop. ‘He’s playing a game. He won’t win. He doesn’t care if I quit. He didn’t even want to employ anyone in the first place, and I’m pretty sure he only hired me because he sees me as a challenge. He went to kiss me, I rejected him, and he didn’t like it.’
She dives across the couch and hugs me fiercely. I’m caught off guard, but I return her embrace. ‘You are so strong,’ she says, making my brows meet in the middle. ‘I can’t say I’m made of the same stuff.’
I pull free and watch as she guiltily drops her eyes. ‘Who?’ I ask, tilting my head in warning, ensuring she knows I want every detail and there will be consequences if I don’t get it.
‘A guy at work.’ She sighs deeply, toying with a bit of thread hanging off her dress. ‘His name’s Mark. I suspect he’s a player, and I know I don’t need that kind of shit, but he asked me out and I said no, and then he asked someone else out, and now I’ve wound up with a date called Roland in a silly fit of revenge.’
I catch it all but focus in on one thing and one thing alone. ‘Roland?’ I ask on a laugh.
She nods tiredly. ‘I know. Says it all, doesn’t it? He’s a junior accountant from floor three.’
‘Oh God, who would call their kid Roland?’
‘Um, Roland’s mother?’
I fall back in fits of hysterics, imagining what Roland looks like. ‘Tell me he’s hot,’ I demand, hoping for a redeeming quality.
‘Not as hot as Mark.’
I straighten my lips, my laughter disappearing as I ponder the fact that we’re in the same boat. We’re both going to dinner with men to prove a point to other men. And what is the point, exactly? That we’re idiots? ‘Why do you think Mark’s a player?’
‘There’s a rumour flying around the office. Something about him and a girl from floor eighteen getting it on in the printer room.’
‘Oh . . .’ I purse my lips and Lucy nods, rolling her eyes.
‘Have you asked him if it’s true?’
‘No way. He’ll think I care.’
‘You do,’ I say on a laugh.
‘He doesn’t need to know that.’
I smile to myself. She’s so cool. ‘Well, I’m going out for dinner tonight, too.’ I head for my wardrobe, which, sadly, I reach in only three paces. ‘Help me decide what to wear.’
‘Dinner with who?’ She joins me, eyeing my wardrobe dubiously.
‘Brent. He’s a client of my arsehole boss.’ I frown to myself. ‘At least, I assume he is.’ It was never actually mentioned what their association was.
‘Brent who?’
‘I don’t know.’ I reach into the back of my mind. ‘Wilson.’
‘Brent Wilson?’ Lucy shrieks, making me jump. ‘The Brent Wilson?’
I frown. ‘I don’t know. Who’s the Brent Wilson?’
‘Silver fox, mid-thirties, kind of a big nose, but still quite handsome?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fucking hell, Eleanor. Where have you been? Hiding under a rock?’ She reaches into my wardrobe and yanks out a nude dress. ‘He’s a millionaire. Fucking loaded. Houses here, New York, Paris, Mali-fucking-bu. Holy shit, you could be a kept woman.’ She thrusts the dress back into my wardrobe on a disgusted snort, then rifles through the rest of the hangers. ‘This could work, I suppose.’
I take the midnight-blue long-sleeved bodycon dress and hold it up against me, failing to match Lucy’s excitement. So he’s stinking rich. Clearly this should thrill me, but the sensible part of my brain is reminding me that I’m going on this date on principle. ‘You suppose?’
‘Well, we’ll dress it up with some chunky jewellery.’ She grins. ‘I bet the arsehole was delighted.’
I shrug. ‘How stupid would I be to get involved with my boss?’ I can’t believe I’ve asked it out loud. I don’t need it confirmed.
‘I think exceptions can be made when your boss looks like that.’ She points to my laptop.
I slap her hand down. ‘It was a rhetorical question, Lucy.’
‘Where are you meeting Brent?’
‘The Wolseley at eight.’
She grins. ‘The Wolseley, eh?’
I roll my eyes and head for the shower. ‘I take it The Wolseley is posh.’
‘Yep. I’m heading that way, though to a far less desirable haunt on Leicester Square. My date’s a cheapskate. I’ll wait for you.’
I step into the bathroom and crank on the shower. ‘So, what does the Brent Wilson do?’ I ask as I strip down.
‘Hotels,’ Lucy says. ‘Shit-loads of them in every major city. The Statons.’
‘Fuck.’ I shove my head around the door. ‘I know them.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ Lucy gazes at me, worried. ‘You look tired.’
‘Tough day at work,’ I admit, stepping into the shower and closing the door behind me.
‘Tough day controlling the urge to jump the arsehole?’
I scowl at the steam-filled air. I’m not even dignifying that with a reply.
