‘Nah,’ she said. ‘He was a dick, but I don’t let it get to me. It was three years ago, anyway.’
I bit into my sandwich. Ugh. Too much basil. Why did basil need to be in a sandwich at all?
‘I know he has a reputation,’ I said. ‘Did he cheat on you?’
‘I don’t even know,’ she said. ‘I just got tired of waiting for him. Sitting in bars on my own, texting him to ask where he was, getting nowhere. It happened once too often and that was that. I don’t sit around waiting for men. Not even that man. I’ve got my own life to lead, you know?’
‘So he’s unreliable, basically?’
‘Very.’ She laughed her warm, raucous laugh, but there was some pain in it. ‘The poster boy for unreliability and lack of commitment. That’s Tom Crowley.’
‘Maybe he was working? I mean, I guess chasing down stories can get in the way of your personal life.’
‘Why are you so keen to defend him?’ Her eyes narrowed.
‘I’m not. I’m just trying to make you feel better about it. Like, you know, it probably wasn’t personal. It probably wasn’t you.’
‘Yeah, that’s what he said. He really liked me, he wished things could be different, blah blah blah. But he was never going to change. And it was never going to work out. And I deserve better. So…’
I returned her smile, though mine was a bit twitchier.
I was sitting here with my bra tucked under my rack and my tights at half mast for a man who probably wasn’t worth it. Bleak visions passed behind my eyes of future hours spent waiting for calls that would never come.
‘So that was that, then,’ I said breezily, deciding in that instant that things between Tom and me would remain strictly sex only. No moping and mooning, no romantic expectations, just a bit of mutual exploration. I’d told Tilda earlier that I didn’t want a friend with benefits, but perhaps that was how I’d have to view Tom, if I intended to stay sane.
‘You’re up to date on the Tom story,’ said Tilda. ‘And ever since then, he’s been in skirt-chase overdrive. As you know.’
I looked down at my own skirt. Would he be chasing it later?
‘You aren’t still hung up on him, are you?’ she asked, leaning closer and speaking confidentially.
‘I told you. No. Do they have the carrot cake today?’
She fell for my diversionary tactic, and the rest of the lunch break passed without further reference to Mr Crowley.
I wasn’t usually a clock-watcher but all afternoon my eye slipped repeatedly to the lower righthand corner of my screen, watching the minutes mount slowly, oh, so slowly, towards the golden hour of six o’clock.
If he was going to be waiting for me in the lobby, how was I going to hide our liaison from Tilda? A guilty part of me thought that I should just be upfront with her about it, but I couldn’t be bothered with the inevitable eye-rolling disappointment, not to mention the lecture, my honesty would provoke.
In the event, it worked out quite well. Tilda was held up in conversation by the editor, on his way back into the office after some kind of big corporate sponsorship meeting in town, and slightly drunk, so I was able to sneak away on the dot of six.
In the lift, I fidgeted and jiggled around with my underwear, making sure it was exactly as prescribed. The flutter in my stomach competed against my better judgement, which was trying to tell me he wouldn’t be there. He was unreliable. Tilda had painted me the picture. I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
All the same, I fussed with my hair and makeup and rotated my ankle before leaving the lift. Happily, my limp was almost completely gone and I was able to walk out into the lobby with a confident stride.
Tom was leaning over the reception desk, chatting to the woman on duty, showing her something on his phone. The sight of him sent a plume of excitement up from the pit of my stomach, frothing out to every extremity.
He was here after all!
His eyes flicked away from the receptionist and towards me, setting off his irresistible smile.
‘On the dot, Miss Cox,’ he said. ‘Precise as always.’
‘I like to be punctual,’ I said, the words spilling from my mouth unfiltered. Could the receptionist see my nipples through my shirt? We had to get out of here.
He seemed to understand this, straightening up and bidding a polite goodbye to the receptionist.
I followed him to the doors.