“Enjoy it?”
“Yea-a-ah,” I say slowly.
“You sound unconvinced.”
“Yea-a-ah,” I say slowly again and he laughs. “It’s an agency, so we’ve got quite a lot of different clients, which I thought would mean the work was varied. And it is,” I’m quick to say. “But I’ve been there a few years now, and part of me thinks that’s not enough of a reason to leave.”
“But the other part of you…?”
I shrug. “I think maybe it’s gone a bit stale. But it’s OK—pays for all the things I need it to.”
“Which is maybe all we can really hope for, in this day and age,” he responds.
“Words of wisdom.”
“What kind of marketing is it?” he asks.
I tell him about the brochures I’m in charge of creating for the agency I work for; the website I manage for our investors; the customer-services messages I put together for the end user. I’m trying so hard to make it sound snazzy and glitzy, but am missing by a mile. We talk about his job, about the buildings he’s helped design. Most recently a school nursery, and now he’s ready for something bigger—something to get his teeth into, as he says.
“Jonathan White’s a really good firm,” he says. “Skyscrapers, you know, big offices in London and all around the world.”
I love the word “skyscrapers.” We don’t use it enough in England. But instead I say with a laugh, “Big extensions of some corporate God’s dick?” and then wish I hadn’t, but Davey doesn’t reply because he’s laughing too.
“Exactly,” he says. “Actually, we could really use that for our marketing. When I pitch my designs, I’m goin’ in with that phrase. ‘It’s a big extension of your dick. You will get laid forever if you commission this.’ And we’ll watch the madness as they try to secure our services.”
I love laughing with him. And then, when we both fall silent, I yawn and realize I’ve heralded the end of our phone call.
“You need some sleep,” he says. And then he’s quiet again. I can tell he’s thinking. “Can I call you again?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, all too quickly.
“OK, during the week?”
“I’d like that,” I say.
“Me too,” he says. “Good night, Hannah. Sleep well.”
“Good night, Davey.”
He’s still on the line and so I say it again, softer than before. And then so does he. And then we hang up.
Chapter 3
I’m in thepub nearest work on Thursday evening. One more day to go and then it’s the weekend, but tonight some colleagues have made up a pub-quiz team for charity. I’m crap at pub quizzes. Our team crashes out of every round, and I catch Clare from HR giving me a look that says, “We are shit at this.”
I nod. We really are.
During the quiz my phone dings on the seat next to me, and Clare points to it. I shake my head as I listen to the next question. I don’t know the answer to this one, either. God, this is embarrassing. We’re definitely coming in last. If I’m caught using my phone in the midst of a quiz, the whole team gets disqualified—a fact I remind Clare of.
“Do it,” she hisses. “Save us all from this.”
I decide to save myself by getting up to buy a round of drinks instead. I’m not sure it’s my turn but, regardless, I need to take a break without doing something that looks as if I’m cheating. I wonder who has just messaged me. Davey said he’d call me this week, but so far it hasn’t happened. I’m trying not to read too much into it. We’re simply friends. Long-distance friends. Who haven’t met. Clare joins me at the bar, having unceremoniously ditched our teammates during the sport round.
“This is awful,” she says. “Why did we agree to this?”
I smile and then pay for our drinks, and she offers to help me carry them back to the table.
When they announce the results, none of us are surprised when we come in last. We chat for a bit at the end before dispersing, and Clare says, “Did Kevin tell you your holiday form got approved?” before she takes a sip of the dregs of her wine.
