I keep catching my breath, because he’s even hotter than he was before. He’s so pumped up. His biceps are about twice the size they were last year. I run a hand over his broad, rock-hard chest and feel a wash of lust so strong, I can hardly breathe. But somehow I murmur, “Shall we go upstairs?” and he nods and leads me out of the room.
“How big is your bed?” he asks teasingly as we go up the stairs, and I realize he’s never been to my bedroom before. Last year, he was staying in an empty flat in Canary Wharf that belonged to some movie friend of his. We spent all the time there, on the luxurious super-king.
Well, mine isn’t super-king, but at least I changed the linen yesterday.
“It’s big enough.” I smile as I pull him into the room and we tumble onto my bed. We’re kissing and rolling back and forth and Ryan is unbuttoning my shirt, and I’m trying to unbutton his at the same time. Our fingers keep getting tangled up and at last I start giggling.
“OK,” says Ryan, sitting up, giving me a mock-serious look. “Enough. One at a time.”
He takes off his shirt and I suck in breath at the sight of his tanned, rippled torso. He looks phenomenal. I can see him checking out his own reflection in the mirror opposite, and I say admiringly, “You’ve been working out.”
“Yeah.” He nods matter-of-factly. “I bench a hundred kilograms every day.”
“Right,” I say, hoping I sound suitably impressed. “Amazing!”
I’m a bit hazy about benching levels, but that sounds enormous. I’ve got a pair of weights, but they’re only five kilograms each. How does he even lift one hundred up in the air? Does he have help? I’m about to ask, “Do you have help?” when I realize that might not be the thing to say.
“Amazing!” I say again instead. “You look so hot.”
“You look hotter,” says Ryan, slowly pulling off my shirt. “God, I’ve missed you, Fixie. You should have come out to L.A. with me. Maybe everything would have been different.”
I blink at him in shock. I should have come out to L.A.? He never said anything about coming out to L.A. I would have been there like a shot.
“I don’t remember being invited,” I say, making sure I sound light and jokey.
“I should never have let you go.” He shakes his head. “That was my big mistake. You and me, we’re good.” His hands are running over me tenderly. “We’re just good, you know what I mean?”
I want to cry out, “Yes! I do know what you mean! Of course I do!”
But thankfully I’m not quite that uncool. Not quite.
“Well, we’re together now,” I say, my voice husky. “Let’s just enjoy…the moment.”
I pull him playfully backward onto the bed. And he’s leaning in to kiss me, when he stops.
“What’s that?” he says curiously, peering over my shoulder. I follow his gaze and freeze dead in horror. Shit. How can I have been so stupid?
The thing with bedrooms is, you get used to them. You get used to your faded lampshade and your creaky wardrobe door and the stack of books in the corner. You stop noticing them. And you also stop noticing your pile of school memorabilia on the window seat, topped with a framed photo of…guess who?
“Is that me?” Now Ryan is leaning over and grabbing the photo, in fascination.
“Oh, right!” I try to laugh casually. “Yes, maybe! I’ve still got all this old school stuff….”
I’m expecting him to comment on me having a framed photo of him, but he doesn’t; he silently peers at the image. It’s a picture I took once of him and Jake, leaning against the school fence. (I cropped Jake out.) Ryan’s smiling, his school tie askew and his sleeves rolled up. His hair is gleaming. He looks golden. Perfect.
“I had no definition in those days,” he says at last with a frown. “I was a skinny bastard.”
“You were gorgeous,” I contradict him, and run a hand over his back, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s reaching for an old DVD labeled Jake’s Park Picnic.
Oh God.
“Is that our Park Picnic?” he says incredulously, taking the DVD out of its box. “Is this a video of it?”
“Er…yes,” I admit. “I filmed the football match and stuff.”
The Park Picnic is a tradition at our school—all the leavers head there after their final classes and there’s a football game and they all drink beer and make a mess and residents write to the local paper and say it’s a disgrace. I wasn’t even supposed to be there, but I snuck along with Hannah and filmed it. Well, I filmed Ryan, mostly. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again.
“The football match.” His eyes light up. “I remember that. Let’s put it on.”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s looking at my TV. He means right now? Is he joking?
No. He doesn’t seem to be.
Well, I guess we can put sex on hold for a bit. It’s not like I’m desperate. (I am. I am desperate.)
I load the DVD and we wait for a few silent moments—then suddenly we’re looking at a sunny day, fourteen years ago. The park is crowded with kids lolling on the grass, swigging beer, and playing football. Some of the guys are bare-chested, like Ryan, who’s playing football, beer in hand, laughing and joking and looking like what he is: the golden boy of the school.
I remember filming him, creeping forward to the sidelines of the football game with my video camera, borrowed from Mum. And watching it later, over and over.
“Oh, Fixie,” says Ryan, with a massive sigh. “How did we end up here?”
I glance at him and my heart sinks slightly. His brow is knotted in a morose expression which I recognize from drunken evenings out with Jake. It’s the why-am-I-so-bloody-old look, which swiftly leads to the what-happened-to-my-life speech.
I mean, fair enough, I think those things too; everyone does. But we didn’t come up here to think about how crap life is. We came up to have sex.
“I’m glad we’re here,” I say encouragingly. “We’re together…you’re going to have a great job…it’s all going to work out.”
“You think?” His eyes don’t move from the screen, from his young, lithe, carefree self.
“Of course! You’re Ryan Chalker!” I say, trying to impress this on him. “You know, just the name Ryan Chalker used to give me goosebumps. I used to see you coming down the corridor and nearly faint. And not only me. Every girl in the school felt the same. Every person in the school. You must know everyone had a crush on you, even the teachers.”
Ryan’s brow has relaxed as I’ve been speaking, and his hand wanders toward my thigh again.
“So what did you think about me?” he asks idly. “I mean, what was it you liked?”
“Oh God, everything! Like, your hair and your laugh, and you were so fit…”
“Not as fit as I am now. I didn’t even work out back then.” He starts kissing me again, with more purpose, then murmurs into my ear, “What else did you think?”
“I thought you were like a rock star. I thought if you asked me out I would die,” I say honestly, and Ryan gives a soft laugh.
“What else?” he says, pulling me toward him.
This is turning him on, I suddenly realize. OK, quick, say some more.
“I used to think, Oh my God, it’s Ryan! He’s the sexiest guy in the school! And all I wanted to do was kiss you, but you never even noticed me because you were, like, Ryan the Sex God.”
“What else?” His breath is coming quicker now. He’s pulling off my underwear. I can tell he means business.
“I used to hitch up my school skirt whenever you were nearby,” I improvise hastily. “And I used to watch you play basketball and…er…you were so gorgeous, I wished you were bouncing me, not the ball….”
No, wait. What am I saying? This is gibberish. But Ryan doesn’t seem to mind.
“What else?” he gasps as he enters
me.
OK, it’s nearly impossible, trying to summon up sexy stuff to say while Ryan is driving rhythmically into me. My mind doesn’t want to work; it wants to surrender to sensation. But I must keep talking.
“That time we all went to the beach,” I manage, “you looked so hot, everyone fancied you….”
“What else?”
“You were so sexy…everything about you was amazing….” My mind goes blank. “Er…you had really cool sunglasses….”
“What about my car?” he pants, his face contorted.
“Yes!” I exclaim, grateful for the idea. “Your car! Of course. I used to love your car. It was so hot and sleek and…and long. And hot,” I repeat for good measure. “And…and hard…” I’m racking my brain for another good word. “And throbbing,” I say in sudden inspiration. “It was such a…a throbbing car.”
“Oh my God!” Ryan explodes with a roar and collapses on me like a deadweight.
I don’t dare to move for what feels like half an hour.
“Bloody hell,” says Ryan at last, and heaves off me.
“Yes,” I say faintly, because I’m fairly sure I agree with “Bloody hell,” whatever he meant by it.
For a few moments we’re both quiet. Ryan is staring up at the ceiling and he suddenly sighs.
“You’re good for me, Fixie,” he says. “Have I ever told you that before?”
“Yes.” I can’t help smiling. “A couple of times.”
“There’s been too much bullshit in my life. I need you to get me through the craziness. You know?” He turns to face me directly. “That’s what I need. You.”
His blue eyes are unguarded. His face is earnest. He’s playing lovingly with a strand of my hair. And I feel myself melting all over again, because Ryan needs me. Not a girl in L.A. with a perfect figure, but me.
“The world’s a hard place,” I say, groping for something meaningful to say. “But we can get through it together.”
“Amen to that,” says Ryan.
He leans over to kiss me on the nose, then gets up, wraps a towel around himself, and heads out to our family bathroom, while I lie on the bed, still a bit stunned.
It’s happened! We’ve had sex. We’re together! (I think.) I’m good for him. And he’s definitely good for me.
OK. So now we need to stay together.
And, yes, I know I’m overthinking. I should enjoy the moment. I should lie here and relax and savor the fact that Ryan and I have got together. Nothing more, nothing less.
But I’m me. I’m Fixie. I can’t help it: Already my mind is roaming ahead with urgency.
I can’t bear to lose him like last time. He needs to stay in London. We need time together. We need to have a chance to mesh, to bond, to hang out, to let ourselves turn into a proper couple. But he won’t stay unless I get him this job. Everything depends on that one factor—everything.
And as I lie there, listening to Ryan operate our dodgy shower, I start to feel serious qualms. I can’t believe my entire future happiness rests on a scribbled promise on a coffee-cup sleeve.
What if it doesn’t work? What if the job’s been filled already?
Or what if Sebastian says the coffee sleeve was just a joke and he didn’t really mean it?
He repeated his offer earlier tonight, I remind myself. And he didn’t look as though he was joking. But what if he was? What if he has a very dry sense of humor?
Or what if he says the coffee sleeve wasn’t just a joke and he did really mean it and they are still hiring…but even so, the answer’s no?
Well. Then I’ll have to persuade him. That’s all.
Nine
My legs don’t often shake. Like, actually physically tremble. But as I turn into Clerkenwell Road, I feel as though they might suddenly give way and leave me sitting in the gutter.
I’m wearing clothes that seemed suitable for a meeting with an investment manager: a fitted skirt and shirt plus a trench coat borrowed from Nicole, from her brief stint as a City PA. It’s too hot in this August weather, but it feels right. A pair of high-heeled shoes are pinching my toes. And as I tap along, I feel a bit surreal. Am I really doing this? Am I going to claim a job, worth tens of thousands of pounds, based on a scribble on a coffee-cup sleeve?
ESIM has been based in this street for two years. Before that, they were round the corner. And before that they were in Sebastian Marlowe’s flat in Islington, and he used to make the team pasta every Friday night. I read that in an article in MoneyWeek.
I’ve read quite a lot about the company, in fact. I’ve found out exactly what ESIM does (invests in companies and funds for institutions and individuals). I know what their aim is (to help clients build portfolios with a commitment to high ethical, social, and environmental standards). I’ve looked up what Sebastian Marlowe does (runs it, basically).
After I’d learned all that, I had this random impulse and looked up Sebastian Marlowe on YouTube. And what I found wasn’t what I expected. At least, I don’t know what I expected. But it wasn’t a video clip of him standing up at some big shareholders’ meeting, berating the board on executive pay.
The title was “Sebastian Marlowe takes Roffey Read board to task.” He stood there, holding a microphone, his frondy hair waving around as he spoke in a measured way about how unfair it was that Sir Keith Barrowdine was due to receive a pay package of £8.9 million when his lowest-paid workers scraped by on the minimum wage. Then he started on about how this once-noble company used to house its workers in cottages and feel responsibility for their quality of life, and how many people on the board today had the slightest idea of where their lowest-paid workers were housed? (He got applause for that bit.) Then he asked, was it a coincidence that so many of the lowest-paid workers were women? Then he said he represented a large number of investors who all felt the same way and the board was clinging on to old, toxic habits and it should watch out.
I mean, it was quite stirring stuff.
I looked through YouTube, and there were a couple more videos, with him saying similar things at different meetings. And then I found an interview with him in the Financial Times, all about how he started his company.
It said he’d lost all his family at an early age. His dad died when he was ten, then his mum when he was eighteen, and then his older brother, James, got knocked off his bike two years ago. But rather than these personal tragedies crushing him, it said, they had taught him a love of life and a passion for justice. It said his colleagues described him as cheerful, well adjusted, and compassionate, and there was even a photo of him, captioned The Clerkenwell Crusader.
Which should all make me feel better, because he’s clearly a good person. But actually it makes me feel worse. Because here I am, coming to finagle a job out of him. OK, not finagle, exactly. But it feels a bit like that. A bit underhanded. A bit grabby.
Or…is it?
Ever since I decided to do this, four days ago, my mind has been swinging back and forth. Be fair, I keep thinking. That’s the maxim I try to live my life by. But what’s fair? One minute I think I am being fair. I’m totally within my rights. He owes me this. The next minute I think: Oh my God, what am I doing? I save his laptop and in return he gives my boyfriend a job? I mean, is that justice?
But then, he did insist he wanted to repay me, didn’t he?
And maybe I did save him millions of pounds.
Anyway, whatever. I’m doing it. I’ve got an appointment in five minutes. And the thought that’s powering me along is: Ryan needs this. Which means I need it too.
I’ve left Ryan waiting at a Starbucks round the corner. Before I went, he wrapped his arms around me and said, “It all begins here. A whole new start. Fingers crossed, eh, Fixie?”
“Fingers crossed.” I nodded, breathless with nerves.
Then he smiled and said, “I know you can do it.”<
br />
His blue eyes were fixed on mine in a way that I’ve dreamed of for years. I didn’t overreact—I just smiled back and said, “Hope so!” But inside, I felt a kind of explosion of love. After so much yearning, here was Ryan, with me. Relying on me. In partnership with me. All the things I’ve so desperately wished for.
As I walk along, peering up at the office buildings, my mind rewinds over the last few days. I’ve seen Ryan every day, round at our house—and something’s really changed between us, in a good way. Our vibe. Our connection. He’s confided in me. Asked my advice. He always gravitates toward me—putting an arm along my shoulders or pulling me onto his knee. It feels as if we’re closer than we ever have been before.
But the question that circles my mind constantly is: Do we have a viable future together? And the answer lies right here, in the office of Sebastian Marlowe.
I push the door open, take the stairs to the first floor, and there it is. A reception desk with ESIM printed in green letters on white. I can see an open-plan space with people sitting at computers and hear the hum of conversation coming from behind a door. The receptionist is a motherly middle-aged woman, and she smiles at me in a warm, friendly way.
“Hello,” I begin, as confidently as I can. “I’m Fixie Farr. I have an appointment with Sebastian Marlowe.”
“Of course,” she says. “He’s expecting you. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please. That would be lovely.”
I’m expecting to be directed to a seating area, when a door straight ahead of me flies open—and there he is. Taller than I remember. Frondy hair shining in a little shaft of sunshine. Woodland eyes gleaming at me. An open, friendly smile.
“Hello,” he says. “You came.”
“I did.” I can’t help smiling back.
“Well, come on in!” He gestures at his door and I follow him into an office which instantly makes me feel relaxed. I don’t know if it’s the bright modern art or the battered leather sofa, but it feels human, despite the three computers. There’s a bookshelf lining a wall and a couple of plants and a worn antique rug. The whole place feels homey.