CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I hardly sleep a wink that night at Ryan’s parents’ house. I can’t stop thinking about kissing him, the idea sending such a thrill through me that I toss and turn. I wish I could forget how he was looking at me before we said good night, or the fact that he’s just on the other side of this wall. At the same time, all I want to do is think about him, my stomach churning with butterflies.
I let myself remember what it was like, lying next to him in bed, feeling his strong arms wrapped around me, nuzzling his neck and smelling his skin as he held me close, safe and warm in our perfect bubble. I remember his face so close to mine on the pillow that our noses were touching and how he’d looked at me so intensely before cracking a smile, the crinkles appearing around the corners of his lips.
It may have been a long time ago, but those are details I’ve never forgotten, no matter how hard I’ve tried to.
Then the guilt sets in: Liam. I didn’t even text him good night after climbing into bed. I haven’t spoken to him all day and he’s my boyfriend. We didn’t make plans for the evening—I wasn’t sure what time I’d be back in London from the interview, and I didn’t want him hanging around waiting—but I probably should have at least messaged to say I was staying in Manchester until tomorrow. I feel like a terrible person until I consider that he hasn’t messaged me all day, either. In fact, he never replied after I said he couldn’t come on my work trip to Florence, which seems a little odd. But it’s still no excuse for fantasizing about another guy—and not just any guy, but someone I work with. Someone I have history with. It’s not fair to Liam.
I’m suddenly hit with anxiety at the idea of falling for Ryan again. I can try with all my might to pretend that that I don’t have feelings for him, but I do. I know I do. Even though we fight all the time, even though he pisses me off to no end, even though we’re so different, I’m drawn to him. Again. Having a crush on a colleague is never a good idea, not to mention the fact you’d think I’d avoid making the same mistakes, but here I am, under the spell of those eyes eleven years down the line.
He seems different now, though, I tell myself. Maybe I can forgive him for what happened and move on. It’s a little embarrassing that I haven’t already.
I mean, he bought me honey for my tea.
Bad people don’t do that, do they?
God, I feel sick when I think about him asking Mae for her number tomorrow. I have no right to care about Ryan’s dating life! But I do, I do, I do.
And you know what doesn’t help the situation? That I’m wearing Ryan’s T-shirt. I clutch the material in my fingers like a teenager wearing their boyfriend’s hoodie at a house party.
He belongs to me.
But the truth is, he doesn’t. He never has.
The minute my alarm goes off in the morning, I send Liam a message asking how his day was yesterday and apologizing for being MIA. I explain that I had to stay in Manchester last minute and then ask if we can meet tonight for dinner.
We can have the talk then. I’m geared up for it, confident in my decision and only sorry to hurt Liam, who I’m worried will be caught off guard. When he sends a cheery reply back that he can’t do tonight as he’s working on some things with Halo Skewed, I’m deflated and disappointed that I’ll have to wait any longer to break things off.
Grabbing the towel folded on top of the stool of the dressing table, I open my bedroom door at the same time as Ryan opens his. We both freeze. He’s only wearing his boxers, his broad shoulders, toned arms, and sculpted abs on full display.
Why is this guy in a job where he has to wear clothes?!
What a bloody waste.
I feel incensed on behalf of swimwear brands everywhere.
His hair ruffled from sleep, he blinks at me with tired eyes before his lips twist up into a dozy smile.
“Morning,” he says.
I try to say “Hi,” but his appearance has made my mouth incredibly dry, so it sort of comes out as some kind of croak, like that of a toad.
Sexy.
I quickly clear my throat. “Sorry, hi. Hello. Morning.”
“You use the bathroom first. I’ll go in after you.”
“No, you can use it first. I’m happy to wait.”
He gestures to the bathroom door. “I insist. Let me know if you have any trouble with working the shower. It’s pretty straightforward, though.”
“Great, thanks.”
He turns round to go back into his room, and I find myself admiring his back, his smooth muscled shoulders, the indent of his spine. As his door shuts, I give myself a shake and try to Get. A. Grip.
Once I’m ready, wearing my newly purchased red Zara shirt and the same tapered trousers I was wearing yesterday, I head downstairs, where Sully jumps up all over me and Fredrik greets me so jovially I can’t help but laugh, taken aback at how welcoming this house is. He desperately tries to get me to eat breakfast, and I have to repeat several times that I’m really just a coffee person in the mornings. When it’s time to go, I crouch down on the floor to say goodbye to Sully and promptly receive a scolding from Emily that I’m going to get hair all over my trousers. Before Ryan and I head out the door to the car, Fredrik hugs me and tells me to look after myself.
“I hope we’ll see you again soon,” Emily says as she gives me a kiss on the cheek, and something about her voice makes me think she really does mean it.
But maybe that’s just twisted wishful thinking this morning, because I’m still affected from wearing Ryan’s T-shirt and seeing him topless?
As we drive to the set, I sit nervously in the passenger seat, trying my best to act normally, but irrationally terrified that Ryan can read my mind. He seems fine, pointing out things about Manchester that might interest me and wondering aloud what time we’ll get to speak to Max this morning.
“I’ve also been thinking—do you want to come back with me afterward?”
I spin my head round so fast I almost give myself a neck injury.
“As in, I could drive you back to London if you wanted,” he explains. “Rather than you getting the train. I’m heading to Finsbury Park, so you’ll be able to get on the Victoria Line train all the way down to Brixton. I’d feel guilty having you wait around to get the train when I’m driving that way anyway. And I’ll let you choose one or two songs we can listen to on the journey, if you like.”
I smile down at my hands in my lap. “Very generous. Uh … okay then, I guess it would be handy just to jump in the car with you when we finish up. As long as you’re sure.”
Of course, I should have said no. I don’t know why I’m putting myself through more torture, accepting an invitation like this. Plus, if he does end up getting Mae’s number, he might want to talk about that on the journey home, and I’ll have to listen. I need to go back to thinking about him as my irritating work nemesis.
“Are you okay?” he asks as we pull into a parking space.
“Yes,” I reply, flustered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You have the … you look tense.”
“You were going to say I have the crinkle, weren’t you?”
He laughs, putting on the handbrake and turning the engine off. “Seriously, are you all right? You’ve been very quiet. My parents didn’t freak you out, did they? I know they can be a lot.”
“No! No, they’re wonderful,” I tell him sincerely. “You have an amazing family.”
“Good. Are you worried about the feature?”
I blink at him. “Huh?”
“Max Sjöberg.”
“Oh! Yes, that’s it. I’m worried about the interview.”
“No need to be,” he assures me, undoing his seatbelt and opening the car door. “You take the lead on it. I won’t get in your way.”
I lean back on the headrest and close my eyes for a moment, wishing my head and heart weren’t such a mess, before forcing myself into work mode, hopping out of the car ready to sit down with a brilliant actor.
Unfortunately, my zest for the interview is a tad premature—Max has another busy day of filming lined up, and Mae is doing her best to work out a time to squeeze us in. We don’t get our hands on him until the afternoon, and by then he’s exhausted and grouchy. Sitting in a trailer in costume, he leans back, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. He watches me suspiciously while I press the Record button on my digital voice recorder and flip through my notebook to a blank page.
“How long will this take?” he asks gruffly, looking toward Mae, who is lingering in the doorway. Next to me, Ryan shifts his weight uncomfortably.
But I’m not fazed by his attitude. I get this all the time.
“We won’t take up much of your time,” I promise confidently. “These filming days get long, don’t they? But they can’t be as long as the ones you had to do on the set of Ambition.”
He raises his eyebrows in pleasant surprise. “Now, that was a long time ago.”
“Didn’t you have to film all through the night, like three days in a row?”
“Four days in a row,” he corrects, stroking his chin as he thinks back on it. “Not easy for a kid of ten years old.”
“I read that you fell asleep under a pile of coats waiting for your scene.”
“And got sat on by the late, great Bill Olin,” he chuckles, his expression softening. “He was a fine actor, but I still wouldn’t recommend getting sat on by your heroes.”
“Sage advice.”
He smiles warmly at me. “I haven’t thought about that film in a while.”
“I watched it recently.”
“Yes?”
“It’s still so relevant.”
“Hmm.” He nods. “Well, when you get a great writer like Margit, then the work tends to resonate through generations; the themes about heartbreak and how cruel it can feel that life simply goes on after losing someone … the world around us may change, but these experiences are common ground for all. You can go back centuries and the art then, it reflects the same emotions of the art produced now. It’s amazing, really, how little people have changed. We are all connected.”
“Blue Lights plays on that, doesn’t it? The past connecting with the present.”
“Yes, I think you’re right. But again, it’s the writing of the show that is its strength—the investigation drives the plot, but surrounding it you have these compelling narratives: the families affected by the murders, their grief and desperation for answers, the tangled relationships, and the wider repercussions of each individual decision. I think so many projects now are too heavily wrapped up in CGI and special effects, and some of them are very good, but really, what still resonates with an audience is a story that focuses on people.”
I glance up as I scribble notes. “The writing is very important to you, then.”
“Unbelievably so. I have the luxury of being able to choose which projects I want to do, and I only accept the ones where the writing grips me. That’s the bare bones.”
“And your own writing?”
He looks at me suspiciously. “My own writing?”
“I’m just curious as to whether you’d be tempted to write something yourself. You have mentioned before that it’s something you’ve thought about.”
He breaks into a small smile. “You’ve done your research. I can’t remember talking about that to the press recently.”
“I remember things that interest me—you said it in an interview with GQ once.”
“Did I? Well, I suppose I can admit that I’ve done a bit more than think about it. I’m currently writing a drama set in Stockholm.”
“And I can mention that in the piece?” I ask excitedly.
“Yes, although the reaction to it terrifies me.”
I’m surprised at this admission. “Really?”
“There’s something more vulnerable about writing than acting, I find,” he explains. “There’s no pretense. You’re putting your soul laid bare on the page. But I’ve enjoyed the process. The research around Stockholm was interesting, and I learned a lot about my hometown.”
“Ah, well, I have never been to Stockholm, but my colleague here is half-Swedish, and his family lives there,” I say, gesturing to Ryan.
“Is that so?” Max says, his eyes lighting up as he turns his attention to Ryan. “You should have said! Tell me, whereabouts do they live?”
The journey home is nowhere near as excruciating as I imagined because both Ryan and I are on a high over how well the interview went. We got way more content than we’re going to need—Mae even had to politely interrupt to say our time was up and Max was needed back on set, which he actually looked a little disappointed about. We parted ways with him telling me it was an absolute pleasure and reminding Ryan to pass along those Stockholm restaurant recommendations he gave him.
“I can’t believe how long you talked about Stockholm,” I laugh as we zip down the M6 back toward London. “I thought we’d be there all day.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun.” He grins. “When Max Sjöberg is animated, you do not cut him off.”
“Totally agree. And anyway, it’s brilliant for the piece. He was so passionate. I have to admit, I’m glad you were there—he came alive when he was speaking to you about home.”
“Hang on. Are you admitting that my suggestion that we write the piece together was a good one? Is that what you’re saying, Harper Jenkins?”
“I’m saying it might be. Don’t get all cocky about it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He smiles mischievously, glancing at me before returning his eyes to the road ahead. “Anyway, I can’t take credit for his good mood. That was all you. The way you put him at ease right away, without him even realizing what you were doing? Masterful.”
“I was simply having a conversation.”
“Seriously, Harper, it’s amazing. I feel honored I got to see you in action.”
“Likewise,” I say warmly.
He seems pleased. “So, do you want to plot the structure of the article and then you could maybe send that document over and we can work out how to get writing—”
“Whoa, whoa,” I interrupt. “What do you mean ‘plot the structure’? What document are you talking about?”
He gives me a strange look. “You know, you plot out an article before you write it.”
I snort. “Who does that?”
“Everyone?” he answers, baffled.
“I don’t,” I inform him proudly.
“How can you possibly write a piece without working out the structure first?”
“Easy. You start writing and go from there.”
I enjoy watching him struggle to comprehend this approach, his mouth opening and closing, his eyebrows knitted together.
“Hang on,” he says, tapping a finger on the steering wheel. “You just launch into writing? Without planning it out … at all?”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” I laugh, resting my elbow on the side of the door.
“How do you know where all the quotes are going to go?” he asks, sounding almost panicked. “How do you know it will flow nicely? How do you make sure you don’t repeat yourself? How do you know where it will start and how it will end?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I start writing and … go with it.”
“Go with it,” he repeats, bewildered. “But your first draft must be … a complete jumble!”
“Usually, yes,” I admit. “It’s all over the shop. But then I rewrite it.”
“So wouldn’t it save you a lot of time and hassle if you plotted it out first?”
“It would stifle the creativity of my writing,” I insist with a flourish of my hands. “If I structured it first, my sentences would be all forced and stilted. Better to let it flow onto the page and then sort it out later.”
He shakes his head, looking completely thrown by this revelation.
“We all have a different process, Ryan,” I remind him, chuckling at his expression.
“I guess we do,” he admits.
“You should already be well-versed with mine. As you said, it’s not the first time we’ve written a piece together.”
He runs a hand through his hair before cracking a smile. “I must have forced myself to forget the trauma of witnessing your process the last time.”
I laugh and we fall into comfortable silence. I check my phone, scrolling through some work emails that I missed yesterday and replying to Mimi’s WhatsApps asking me how the interview went and whether Ryan and I have killed each other yet.
“Do you want to have a drink at mine?” Ryan suddenly asks.
I jerk my head up from my phone. “Sorry?”
“When we get back to London,” he says, looking straight ahead, his brow furrowed. “It’s been a long couple of days for both of us, and I don’t know about you, but I could really use a drink. I think we’ve earned it.”
I feel my heart soar. “I guess we have.”
“I have a really nice wine in the fridge that one of my pretentious friends bought me last time he came for dinner. We could crack that open, if you fancy it,” he says hurriedly, looking a little flustered. “My flat is near to the station, so easy for you to get home. Or we could go to the pub if you’d rather? Or, you may actually have plans because it’s a Saturday night and why wouldn’t you? You can tell me to shut up at any point.”
“I don’t have any plans,” I say, laughing. “And a pretentious bottle of wine sounds right up my street. Thanks.”
He nods, smiling at my response, the lines on his forehead fading, and a flurry of tingles runs through my entire body. I turn away to look out the window, my jaw aching from trying not to grin ear to ear.
God, I’m having that dizzying rush of adrenaline you get when the person you like shows signs of liking you back and you let your imagination run wild, picturing them pulling you close and kissing you. My face grows hot, and I rub the back of my neck, forcing myself to remember that this is just a drink. It doesn’t mean anything.
It’s quite a long drive back to London, and by the time Ryan parks near his flat, I’m happy to jump out and stretch, thanking him for the lift. He notices my look of surprise when he leads me to a Victorian house, getting out his keys.
“What?” he says, pushing through the gate and holding it open for me.
“It sounds stupid, but I pictured you in a big apartment block.”
He hesitates before offering a shy smile. “That’s not stupid—I used to live in one, back when we … first met. Remember?”
“Yes,” I say, blushing. “I remember.”
“I moved here a couple of years ago.”
He slides the key into the front door and heads into a shared hallway, ushering me in and picking up some of the post on the floor addressed to him, before unlocking the door on the right. There’s one other door straight ahead.
“This is just two flats, then?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m the ground floor and then a guy in his twenties lives in the flat above. He’s great—a real computer geek. He works for Apple. Very handy whenever I have any technical problems.”
He swings open the door and gestures for me to go in ahead. I step inside and am immediately struck by how spacious and tidy it is. Considering the traditional Victorian exterior, it’s very modern, renovated so that the kitchen and living room are open plan, with smart wooden flooring and amazing floor-to-ceiling windows at the back that look onto a small garden.
A light gray corner sofa faces a wide flat-screen TV hanging on the wall above a fireplace that’s been painted dark gray, and there’s a glass coffee table in the middle with an unused three-wick white candle set perfectly in the center of it. Either side of the TV, the walls are lined with shelves of books—and on closer inspection I notice that the books are in alphabetical order according to the author’s surname.
“Some things don’t change,” I murmur under my breath as Ryan goes straight to the fridge.
“What was that?”
“Nothing!” I reply, scanning the shelves. “This place is amazing.”
“Yeah, I got lucky. It belongs to a friend of mine from uni, who moved to New York to set up a new office for his company. He lets me pay mate rates. There’s no way I could afford this on a journalist’s salary. The location is great, too.”
“It really is. And you keep it very tidy.”
He chuckles. “You’ve met my dad, so you know where I get it from now. Let me guess, your flat is a little more … chaotic?”
“It’s creative.”
“Much like your desk.”
I tear my eyes away from the books with the intention of following him into the kitchen, where he’s pouring the wine, when something catches my eye: a framed newspaper article hanging on the opposite wall near the door. I don’t know how I missed it when I first came in; I was distracted by the big open space, I suppose. But I recognize it straightaway.
“Oh my god!” I exclaim, breaking into a grin as I get up close to admire it. “Ryan!”
“Oh yeah. That,” he says sheepishly, strolling over and placing the two glasses of wine down on the coffee table before coming to stand next to me.
“I can’t believe you still have this. And you got it framed!”
He shrugs. “Yeah, well. It was my first-ever article in a paper. My first-ever byline.”
“Mine too.”
“I know.”
Side by side, we gaze at the framed Daily Bulletin article that was published in 2012. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it, but there it is, the first time Ryan and I ever had our names in print:
THE BEST PICNIC SPOTS IN LONDON
Compiled by Harper Jenkins and Ryan Jansson
The day this article was published was, I suppose, the day Ryan and I officially became journalists. And it was the day that everything between us fell apart.
AUGUST 2012
The last day of the internship is Wednesday and that’s the day I’m called to Martha’s office. We only interviewed on Friday, but it’s felt like a very long wait to find out whether or not we’ve got the job, which Martha acknowledges as soon as she’s told me that I didn’t get it.
“And I’m sorry that it’s taken this long to tell you, but I wanted to do it in person because you’ve been such a great intern and I’ve been away on a press trip. An email seemed too impersonal,” she says, her hands clasped together in front of her on the desk. “I want to reiterate, Harper, that you have been a fantastic addition to the team and I have no doubt that you will make it in this industry. But in this instance, we felt Ryan was just that bit better suited to the role.”
I nod. “I understand.”
“I promise you I will give you a glowing reference. We’re going to miss your sunshiny personality around here!”
“Thanks,” I say, managing a smile. “And thank you for the opportunity.”
I leave her office, distraught but determined to be happy for Ryan. I know that if it was the other way round, he’d do the same for me. He deserves this job, maybe more than I do, and he’s going to be brilliant at it. I can’t resent him for that. I don’t want to resent him for that. I don’t know what we are yet, but we seem to be something. For the last couple of days, he’s been grabbing me for secret kisses in the kitchen when no one’s looking, sending me flirtatious messages while sitting right next to me, and making me honey tea each afternoon at exactly three o’clock. Every morning I’ve been waking up excited to see him.
It’s both strange and wonderful how quickly and easily I’ve allowed myself to be completely consumed by my feelings for him.
I decide to go straight over to congratulate him. He was called to Martha’s office right before me, so he’ll know I didn’t get the job, and, no matter how happy he is that he’s got it, I’m sure he’ll be worrying about my reaction.
Before I get over to our desks, Celia catches me on her way to the kitchen and insists I join her, looping her arm through mine.
“I’m so sorry, Harper, I really was rooting for you,” she says, stopping by the kettle and giving me a hug. “If it was up to me, you would have been the clear winner.”
“Thanks, Celia. That means a lot.”
“If anything comes up at Flair, I’ll be in touch, okay?”
I smile, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. “That’s so kind of you, thanks.”
She sighs. “If you want my personal opinion—and I’m only saying this because we’re both leaving—I think Martha should have taken a bit more time with the decision-making process, you know? It’s like she made a snap decision, and I’m sure it will bite her in the arse. She’s going to regret not keeping you on.”
“Thanks, but it wasn’t exactly a snap decision,” I point out. “It took her almost five days to tell us.”
“No, she told Ryan on Friday evening, like half an hour after your interview,” she informs me, rolling her eyes. “Although, I do have some good news for you. Have you seen the paper today? Your picnic piece is in there! So that’s something. Your first byline! Exciting, right?”
I freeze. She must be mistaken. Ryan couldn’t have known this whole time. He couldn’t have. It would be too … humiliating. She must have gotten that wrong.
Leaving Celia in the kitchen, I walk toward our desks, slowly at first, but then I break into a determined march, desperate to hear Ryan deny what she’s just told me. He looks up from his screen as I appear next to him and looks pained.
“Harper—”
“Did you find out on Friday?”
He blinks at me, taken by surprise. “W-what?”
“Did you find out about the job on Friday, Ryan?”
His eyes drop to the floor. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. I know what that means. I turn on my heel and walk away from him, overwhelmed by the need to get out of that building.
“Harper, wait,” he says, hurrying to keep up with me as we pass the reporters too busy with their stories to notice another spat between the interns. I don’t bother to wait for the elevator, not wanting to be in such close quarters with him, so I race down the stairs, bursting into the lobby and through the swivel doors out into the cold where it’s started to drizzle.
“Harper,” I hear him call out behind me as I quickly wipe the tears from my cheeks, “please listen to me. I couldn’t tell you—”
“You lied to me. This whole time, you lied. Do you know how mortifying this is? How embarrassed I feel right now? I was lying in your bed talking about how much the job meant to me and … the whole time you knew.”
“I’m so sorry,” he says, desperately trying to grab my hand as I recoil from him. “I’m sorry. She called me on Friday night, and I knew if I told you, you wouldn’t want to spend time with me. And we were finally having fun together. If I’d said anything, you would have left that pub straightaway, I know it.”
“Oh my god, that phone call you got at the pub.” I push my damp hair away from my eyes as it starts sticking to my forehead from the rain. “You knew then, before we’d even ordered our drinks.”
“Please forgive me, Harper, she told me not to say anything, that she wanted to tell you herself. It was horrible keeping this from you, but I—”
“You spent the whole weekend lying.”
“No!”
“I told you things that I … oh my god, I’m such an idiot.”
“No, Harper, please,” he says, his voice cracking. “I didn’t want to ruin everything.”
“Everything is ruined, Ryan. I trusted you. I was wrong.”
I leave him outside in the rain and go back inside. It’s almost the end of the day, so I pull myself together in the loos to say my goodbyes to the team, laughing at and apologizing for my bedraggled look as I explain I was caught in the rain on the hunt for a decent coffee. Then, without looking Ryan in the eye, I pack up my things at my desk. He lurks miserably nearby the whole time, any attempt to talk to me ignored. But with everyone watching, I muster the spoonful of professionalism I have left to hold out my hand to him.
“Good luck, Ryan. The team is lucky to have someone so hardworking and honest joining them permanently. Exactly what a good journalist should be.”
Visibly stung, he shakes my hand dismally.
With a final wave, I walk out of The Daily Bulletin for the last time. As soon as I’m alone in the elevator, I get out my phone and block Ryan’s number.
With any luck, I’ll never see him again.