International Player(3)

She leaned forward and held up her palm, and I pressed mine against hers in a half high five, half reassuring hand hold. She held my gaze.

“By the time I push this kid out, we’ll have the spinal cord center nailed, but I want you to promise me something.” She adopted her older-by-six-and-a-half-minutes sister tone. “Don’t make the center an excuse for not making an effort to have some kind of social life.”

I groaned. “I’m perfectly happy.”

“Alone and knee-deep in spreadsheets. You need . . . breadth. A hobby. A boyfriend. Maybe accompany me to a function every now and then.”

“That’s work, Abi. Or had you forgotten?” I was way out of my depth at those functions. I always felt so awkward wearing tight dresses, high heels, and red lipstick. It was like I was playing dress up in my mother’s clothes while never knowing what to say. And if I was uncomfortable, I made everyone around me uncomfortable, and uncomfortable people didn’t write big checks. I’d always been happy to have Abigail take the limelight while I sloped off into the corner with a book. It was why we rarely argued. We didn’t fight for attention, we respected each other’s strengths, and although I envied my sister in some ways, it didn’t extend into jealousy. I understood I was happier when I stuck to what I was good at. But there was still a little niggling feeling in the back of my mind that if I was better at fundraising, at schmoozing, at delivering speeches, or just more charming, then maybe Abi would be able to take more time off. I pushed it to the side of my brain. No, she’d never be happy with that. She enjoyed what she did. We worked well together because our strengths didn’t overlap, and I had enough to do.

“But at least you’d be meeting new people. At the moment, you only interact with employees of the foundation and your dry cleaner.”

“I leave my dry cleaning with my porter, and he collects it while I’m at work.”

She arched an eyebrow at me. “Now you’re just making my point for me. You’re twenty-eight, not eighty. Maybe you should take up bungee jumping.”

I was no more likely to bungee jump than I was to have a baby. My version of extreme sports was hunting down a first edition of a favorite book. “Your thirty minutes are up. What do I have to do to get your pregnant arse out of my office?”

“Say you’ll come to lunch on Sunday. That way my conscience can rest easy that you’re getting out enough.”

“Fine. Stay here. I’ll work from the conference room.”

Abigail laughed but stood. “No excuses. You’ve got to eat. And even if you don’t give a shit about socializing, it will be nice for Noah to feel like he has friends back in London.”

If Noah was back in London, that meant I’d be running into him a lot. Maybe it was better to rip the plaster off and get seeing him for the first time over with. Perhaps the crush I’d had on him will have faded. Maybe he’d changed. Perhaps he’d have some explanation of why he’d not made any effort to keep in touch after he’d left for New York. Seeing him might stop me occasionally, on a Friday night when I was alone with a bottle of pinot noir, listening to the vinyl copy of The Unforgettable Fire that he’d brought around that night in September. Stop me from remembering how he’d insisted we sit in silence and listen to it from start to finish, then almost kissed me.

I’d wanted to forget about Noah Jensen. When he was in New York, it had been easy. But now that he was back in London, I just wanted to make sure I didn’t wind up back where I’d been four years ago—longing for a man who saw me only as a friend.

“I’ll think about lunch on Sunday. But if I come, I want roast potatoes. None of that boiled stuff Rob came up with last weekend.”

She lingered, her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll tell Rob. And think about what I said. Breadth. A hobby. A night out at the cinema occasionally.”

“Whatever.” I turned back to my computer screen, itching to get back to work. And silently vowing to throw out that turntable Noah had bought. It had been taking up room in my flat for far too long.





Two





Truly


I was an early riser but five thirty was pushing it, even for me. Crouching on the floor and using a pencil, I stabbed through the brown tape sealing the package that had been delivered yesterday. Jesus. Threaded tape? Who did that? Psychopaths, apparently. I’d need scissors.

Abigail might think an ordinary person didn’t need a stationery cabinet in their home, but times like this proved her wrong. I didn’t spend the next twenty minutes trying to find some scissors because I knew exactly where they were—alongside my notebooks (at least eight that had never been used), Post-its (every size and every color), envelopes (a selection of sizes and weight), paper (in ten different shades, Bone Enamel being my favorite), a hole punch, and shelves full of other neatly organized items that were or might be useful. I picked out one of two pairs of medium-sized scissors and sliced open the package.

Well, there was no excuse now. I had a brand-new pair of trainers, and I was wearing a sports bra. Time to start running. Working out counted as the breadth Abi said I needed. It wasn’t work related, was a potential hobby (if I survived this morning), and it didn’t involve thinking about Noah, which I’d been doing far too much of since Abi announced he was coming back. The fact that it didn’t involve other people suited my introverted habits quite nicely. Abigail would be happy. I would be distracted. I was killing two birds with one stone.