The Last Dress from Paris(95)
I have an overwhelming urge to laugh out loud, and I have to force my thumbnail into the soft flesh of my palm, using the pain as a distraction. I feel like I’m in some badly dubbed American TV drama, until the faux sympathetic face Dylan has constructed helps me regain composure. I unfold it and stare at the figure. It represents many things—the equivalent of a very cheap, last-minute package holiday to the Canaries or somewhere equally low-budget, a year’s annual gym membership at my local council-run leisure center assuming I stay off-peak, maybe a couple of appointments to get my highlights done somewhere half-decent for once.
It does not represent fair.
“Thank you, Pam.” I reach into my handbag, pull out my mobile phone, and quickly log in to my emails, hitting send on one that sits ready in my drafts folder. “I wonder if I could ask you to take a look at the email I have just sent to you, please, and then I will be very happy to receive a revised offer from you. You’ll see it has two attachments. One contains a good selection of the unprofessional, expletive-filled texts and emails Dylan regularly sends me. The other has my more accurate job description, one that reflects the work I actually do. I’ve also included copies of his last six months’ worth of expenses, highlighting all of Dylan’s lunches and dinners that were not business related but that this company paid for nonetheless. I think if you check the names of the people he claimed to be with, you’ll find most of them are fictional.” Then I calmly pick up my handbag, watching the color of guilt flood Dylan’s face, before I shake Pam’s hand, thank her for her time, and make for the door.
“Enjoy your lunch, Dylan” are my last words before I exit the room and walk for the very last time across the editorial floor. And it feels good. Very good.
* * *
? ? ?
I hand my security pass back to the front desk and sign myself out for the last time. Then I step out onto Soho’s Greek Street feeling triumphant, knowing I will miss the place more than the job itself. My lunch breaks spent watching people brazenly meandering in and out of the sex shops, not caring if they’re seen. The never-ending arrival of new vegan delis. Sitting in random coffee shops, overhearing creative meetings, watching people who never have to wear a suit to work, envying them their jobs where they’re actually trusted to spend their time productively. I decide to reward myself with the coffee I haven’t been offered all morning and head to my usual place, just across the road.
As I step off the pavement, I look through the glass frontage, making sure there is a spare seat, and that’s when I see him. The unmistakable shot of blond hair, the sexy smile, the casual gorgeousness that immediately transports me back to the pretty streets of Paris. I stop and stare, slack-jawed. He isn’t looking my way, and I need him to, to be completely sure my mind isn’t playing evil tricks on me. Why would he be here? Right outside my office? It’s impossible. Then, as if to answer my questions, he turns, our eyes connect, and his smile deepens—just as the piercing sound of a black cab’s horn forces me to shift.
Leon waves me into the café, giving me barely a dozen steps in which to scramble my thoughts together. As I open the door and step inside, he rises from his stool and throws his arms wide open, scorching any awkwardness before I allow it to creep from me to him. Then I’m buried in his arms as he’s folding them tight around me, kissing the top of my head.
“Surprise!” I love that he shouts it, not thinking how it will attract the interest of everyone around us. He doesn’t care or even notice. All his attention is on me.
“Yes, it is! What are you doing here?” I can’t help laughing. Could this morning actually get any better?
“Well, you told me where you work and it’s a working day, so I figured . . .”
“Here, in London, when you live in Paris.”
“Yes, I knew you’d ask me that.” We both take a seat on the stools, close enough that our legs are crisscrossing together.
“And?”
“And I spent the entire Eurostar journey here trying to work out what to say. Maybe that work sent me on an unexpected assignment or there’s a relative I forgot to mention who lives in London that I suddenly needed to visit. But then I thought, why not just be honest?”
“Honesty is always welcome.” I’m not sure I can wait much longer before the urge to kiss him outweighs my strong desire not to embarrass myself in a café that’s rammed full, a queue—an audience—now forming at the door.
“And the truth is, I missed you.” He has the confidence not to elaborate, but lets the words settle on me as his face gets a little more serious.
Bloody hell, this man.
“It’s only been a few days.” That sounds a lot less romantic than I want it to be.
“Three in fact, no time at all. But long enough for me to start to worry. What if she gets so entangled in life back in London that she forgets to think about me? Or even worse, that she starts to believe I’m not thinking about her.”
I can feel my cheeks warm, partly from the attention this beautiful man is lavishing on me and partly because I am struggling to think of something equally tender to say back to him. He deserves something special. Now is definitely the time to brilliantly convey quite how happy I am to see him, but the words are deserting me. He registers the pause and kindly fills it.