He says goodbye with as much enthusiasm as he normally has, but at least he said it. Half the time he doesn’t even bother with formalities like that. I look at Willow as I walk out, wondering if she can sense that underlying bad mood as well as I can. She tips her head up at me and smiles again, showing me all that flawlessness she seems to carry so well. Frankly, I pity her if she’s the one taking the brunt of his stress levels when the working day is done.
I leave without another word, considering what my strategy should be for finding out information. I don’t know this Noah Locke, but it would be useful if I did. He might not be getting anywhere, but he’ll have something already, and that might shunt my investigations forward rather than me starting from nothing. Still, I’ve only been up and with it for a few hours; maybe starting tomorrow morning would be a good call. I’ve got Neve to see yet, and possibly Jenna. After my time over in Kabul, a good night out on the town, with little in the way of fear following me, could be just what I need to blow the cobwebs away.
Grabbing my phone at the thought, I head back out onto the streets and check my emails. Several have come in overnight from the associated press. All of which are now bidding for the pieces I’ve done recently. I send off a few replies, informing each one where the current bidding is at, and then let them have some time to process that. This is how it works with freelance journalism. Highest bidder wins. They’ve got a few days left before I sell.
The phone call to Neve doesn’t get answered. I keep walking, unsurprised. She’ll call back when she’s ready. It was her idea to meet up after all. It gives me a little time to mull over my time in Kabul, specifically, a certain someone I met out there, as I stare out into London life. Blake Rhodes.I search him up on my phone again, looking over various pictures and articles he’s attached to. He’s done work for the Times, National Geographic, like he said, the Smithsonian, and even some for the mainstream media. No words, though. Just the shots.
I’m about to delve deeper than I did on the plane ride home, when the incoming call from Neve comes over the screen.
“Hi,” I answer, walking with some pace again.
“Hello. You’re home then.”
“Yes. Are we meeting up?”
“I’m in town, actually. Where are you?”
“Heading for St Paul’s from the office.”
“Okay. I’m outside the Stock Exchange. Do you have time now?”
“Certainly do. I’ll see you at The Bombay in a few minutes?”
“Excellent.” The phone goes dead. I look at it, unsure if it’s my battery or her usual odd behaviour. An image of one of Blake’s shots looks back at me. Not my battery, then.
I look up and around, feet moving again the moment I’ve got my bearings, and then text Jenna a 'yes' for our date tonight. She replies instantly with a thumbs-up and time. Then a selection of alcohol emojis comes flying through. Wine glass, beer glass, champagne bottle, cocktail glass.
I smirk and keep walking. Good lord, this is going to be a session.
It’s only a ten-minute walk to The Bombay, and even though the area around St Paul’s Cathedral is as manic as usual, before I know it, I’ve arrived at the door. One of the regular liveried doormen looks up at me, smiling as he welcomes me in. It’s not one of my normal hangouts, but we’ve been forced into this place by our father since we were old enough to drink. It’stheplace for our stature to be seen in, and one of the only places in London that prides itself on anonymity and privacy. Neve likes it because of that, on the rare occasion she ventures out. What goes on in The Bombay never gets spoken about outside of it. Mostly. I mean, I am a journalist. Some things have been shared when the story has been beneficial to my bank balance.
Neve’s already at the bar when I get to it, her face only centimetres from her phone screen.
“Might be helpful if you put your glasses on,” I quip, sitting on a stool next to her.
She looks up and moves her mass of wavy hair out of the way, scowling at me as it falls back in her face. “I don’t need them for my phone.”
“Tell your eyes that. You're just about licking the screen.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.” I poke my tongue out at her, laughing.
“For God’s sake, Ivy. You’re not twelve anymore, and I’m definitely not seven.”
I order a gin and tonic, brow raised at her for what she wants. She nods and goes back to her phone. “Make that two please,” I tell the waitress.
Neve slides off the stool and wanders towards one of the quieter areas through the lounge, so I follow until she’s found a suitably semi-secret location for herself. She moves her hair off her face again and slips her phone into her bag, as if trying to get rid of the thing she’s permanently attached to. “So, what’s new?” I ask.
“Not much.”
“Never really is with you, is there?”
She straightens her blouse, faffing with the loose, yellow bow around her cleavage. “I’m never sure what you mean by that. I don’t ask you what you’re doing all the time. Why do you insist on knowing everything I’m up to?”
“It’s called conversation.”
“No. It’s called digging. I’m not one of your stories, Ivy.”
