CHAPTER EIGHT
The sun is shining on the day of Mimi’s birthday party.
It’s an easy walk from my flat to the park, so I have all morning to get ready, which I’m grateful for because I have no idea what to wear.
And it’s not because Ryan’s going.
Okay, fine. It’s because Ryan’s going.
It’s not that I want to look nice for him. It’s more that I need to feel confident, and it’s also very important I look like a winner. Because there is no way in hell that I am letting Ryan Jansson’s team beat mine. I wouldn’t be able to stand that stupid little smile of his that he saves for when he gets one up on me.
The other day in the office, the art team put up two potential cover designs on the wall and asked for our thoughts because Cosmo couldn’t decide which was more striking.
“The orange,” I said instantly, tapping the printout with my finger. “It’s bold and eye-catching. Plus, it looks really good with the white and pink cover lines.”
“The blue,” Ryan countered, stroking his chin and nodding to the other one. “It’s softer, warmer. More inviting.”
I glared at him.
“Mimi, what do you think?” I asked, lifting my chin as she examined the two.
“I think—” she paused, her eyes darting between the two covers and then anxiously between me and Ryan “—the blue. It works better. Sorry,” she added for my benefit.
The smug smile on Ryan’s face.
It made my blood boil.
I swear he looked so pleased with himself for the rest of the day. At one point he started humming.
“I’m not allowed to hum?” he questioned when I told him off.
“People are trying to concentrate,” I snapped back.
“Mimi was just talking about that song, and I literally hummed the chorus for about five seconds.”
“Yes, well, it was five seconds too long,” I said, scowling at him. “Would you like it if I casually started singing while you were trying to write an important journalistic piece?”
He glanced at my screen. “You’re Googling bald eagles.”
“And?”
“It doesn’t look like you’re in the middle of writing an important journalistic piece.”
“I’m still trying to concentrate.”
He frowned in confusion. “While looking at pictures of bald eagles?”
“Yes!”
He raised his eyebrows. By now, a few colleagues had swiveled slightly to listen. I’ve noticed it becoming a theme—whenever Ryan and I start bickering over something, the rest of the office becomes eerily silent.
“Are you looking at pictures of bald eagles for a piece you’re writing?” he asked breezily. “Are you interviewing … a celebrity bald eagle?”
Mimi sniggered. I glared at her. She quickly pretended to focus on her screen.
“It’s none of your business why I’m Googling bald eagles,” I pointed out.
“Then it’s none of your business that I’m humming.”
“It is my business when it affects me, which your humming does.”
“You Googling bald eagles on office time when it’s not work related could be affecting me. If you’re wasting time and falling behind, then I’ll be the one to pick up the slack.”
Ugh.
I’d been listening to a comedy podcast on the way into work that morning and one of the hosts had mentioned bald eagles, which made me wonder if they were actually bald? I couldn’t Google it because I was on the tube with no signal, and I’d just now remembered to look it up.
But I could hardly explain that to him, could I?
“You know that’s a ridiculous argument,” I hissed at him.
“Harper, I think this isn’t about bald eagles or my humming. I think you’re annoyed that everyone agreed with my opinion on the blue cover over the orange cover.”
“Please!” I guffawed. “This is not about that.”
“So you don’t care that I was right?”
“You weren’t right. It was a subjective opinion.” I shifted in my seat. “It just so happens that in the end, the art desk and the editor decided to go with the one you personally preferred.”
He nodded. “So, I was right.”
“No.”
“Yes,” he insisted.
“No, you…” I exhaled, trying to stay calm. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.”
“That I was right?”
“That we had differing opinions,” I clarified. “And I was telling you to stop humming because it’s distracting, not because I was annoyed the blue cover was decided on.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“Good, then. Humming is banned.”
We fell into silence and didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the day.
It’s very clear that I cannot let Ryan win today, because if he does, he will lord it over me forever. A winning outfit is key to the operation: it needs to be sporty enough for me to move in for the competitive activities, but it can’t be gym gear because it’s Mimi’s birthday and I need to make an effort.
I’m actually quite glad Liam isn’t here, because I need to practically empty my entire wardrobe onto the bed and bedroom floor to see what my options are. I’m surprised to come across clothes that I’d forgotten I owned, including high-waisted gray denim shorts that I had bought last summer on a whim after watching a slew of Taylor Swift music videos.
I slip those on and then start rooting around for a clean T-shirt. Once I’ve found one, pulled it over my head, and tucked it into my shorts, I start working out what to wear if it gets cold and land on a roll-sleeved blazer jacket. After putting some effort into my makeup (but trying to make it look as though I’ve spent hardly any time at all), I rummage through my bedside table looking for my new sunglasses. They’re an essential accessory for the outfit.
I tear the flat apart, getting angrier and less merciful with my belongings as I go, chucking items over my shoulder out of drawers as I search for them.
My bedroom looks like it’s been hit by a tornado, and I groan as I realize I’m going to be late. And then I perk up when I remember that I wore those sunglasses earlier this week! They’re in one of the cases in my bag!
I slide them up my nose happily and head out of the flat in a rush, returning once for my phone, which is still in my bedroom playing a summer day playlist, and a second time for Mimi’s present, a pretty gold bracelet that I left in its box on the kitchen counter.
After stopping briefly on the way to buy a couple of bottles, I make my way through Brockwell Park, spotting from a mile off the long outdoor table with pink, white, and silver balloons tied all along the side and picnic food platters and bottle coolers laid out on the top. Mimi picks the same spot every year for her birthday, right beneath one of the huge old oak trees in the park, so the food table is safely in the shade.
I smile as I stroll past the clusters of people sitting cross-legged in circles laughing and chatting as they swig from cans of cider. When the sun is shining, the whole mood of London is lifted.
I spot Rakhee chatting to one of Mimi’s school friends. She sees me approaching and her expression brightens.
“Have I missed you!” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Please tell me you hate your new magazine and you’re going to come crawling back to us.”
“I’m afraid not.” She laughs. “I’m sort of loving the new job. But I’m glad to see that nothing has changed and you’re still rocking up late to everything.”
“Blame that on my sunglasses. I couldn’t find them anywhere.”
“Let me guess, they were in your bag the whole time?”
“You see? This is why I need you to come back to Narrative and look after me!”
She chuckles. “How is it working with Ryan?”
“Don’t ask her opinion on Ryan,” Mimi butts in, appearing next to me and giving me a hug. “She’ll tell you how much she doesn’t want to speak about him before speaking about him a lot.”
“Oi!” I nudge her in the ribs. “I can’t get mad at you because it’s your birthday. Everything looks amazing, of course. The food looks delicious. Is it all homemade? Maybe I should have baked something.”
“A very sweet thought, but we all know you and baking don’t mix, Harper. Besides, everything you see was provided by my dear friend Marks & Spencer,” Mimi tells us, hitching up her white high-waisted trousers that she’s wearing with a bright orange top.
I wouldn’t dream of wearing white trousers to a day at the park where I know I’ll be playing games and lounging around on the grass, but of course Mimi wouldn’t blink before throwing them on. She’s the kind of person who always looks neat as a pin—like she’s just arrived from sitting front row of Victoria Beckham’s latest show, but she’s ready to kick off her shoes and play rounders.
“When do the games start?” Rakhee asks.
“Soon,” Mimi promises. “You two are on the same team. I’m on the other team, but don’t worry, I’m not expecting you to let me win just because I’m the birthday girl. I’ll beat you fair and square.”
“Oh, here we go,” I say with a grin. “The rivalry begins now, does it?”
“Never too early to rile the spirits with a bit of healthy competition,” Mimi declares. She glances over my shoulder and smiles. “Speaking of competition, Ryan is here.”
I look round and see him sauntering over.
“Remember to play nice, Harper,” Mimi says sternly.
“You were just talking about healthy competition.”
“Healthy being the optimum word,” she insists. “Everything has to be aboveboard. I don’t want to have to break you two up after you attack each other with bats.”
“If that scenario did happen, I would so win. You can tell he has a weak swing.”
“Hey,” Ryan says as he approaches, carrying a bag that clinks loudly. “Happy birthday, Mimi. I wasn’t sure what drinks you’d like, so I brought a selection.” In his other hand, he holds out a Tupperware. “And I made some millionaire’s shortbread. I think I remember you saying you liked it.”
“I love it! Thank you so much, that’s so lovely of you.” She gratefully takes the Tupperware and peers inside. “These look amazing.”
“I hope they taste good.”
“Knowing your baking talent, I’m sure they’ll be delicious.”
“Oh, I brought some ice, too. I thought that might be helpful,” he says, pulling out a bag of ice cubes. “Do you have a cooler box or anything?”
“I have three!” Mimi cries excitedly, while Rakhee and I hide our smiles at how happy she is to show off her organizational skills. “No one ever remembers to bring ice. I’m impressed.”
“It’s nice to see you again,” Rakhee begins, offering him a wave as Mimi totters off with the bag of ice. “Mimi’s been telling me about your baking—you’ve definitely one-upped me by bringing that angle to the job.”
He blushes. “I bribe people to like me through cake.”
Rakhee chuckles. “So, how are you finding the office? Everyone keeping you on your toes?”
“Some more than others,” he remarks, his eyes flicking to me.
“I’m sure you’re well able to rise to the challenge,” she comments, giving me a sly smile as I pretend to ignore the conversation.
“What about you?” he asks her. “How’s your new role?”
As Rakhee fills him in on Sleek, I take in Ryan’s appearance. He looks annoyingly good, wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt underneath an unbuttoned khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He really suits those Ray-Bans, too. His head angles toward me slightly as Rakhee is talking, as though he can tell I’m studying him, and I quickly drop my eyes to the ground.
Rakhee excuses herself when she is waved over by some of our Narrative colleagues who haven’t had the chance to say hello yet. I glance around, searching for someone else to speak to so I’m not stuck making awkward small talk with Ryan, when he cracks open a can of beer, making me jump.
“Feeling on edge today, Harper?” he asks, taking a sip of his drink. “Perhaps you’re nervous about the competitive games.”
“Please. I could not be more ready to take you down.”
“How do you know we’re not on the same team?”
“Because Mimi told me.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Ah, you were asking about me, then.”
“What? No!” I immediately feel my cheeks flush.
“You must have been, for Mimi to inform you that we were on opposite teams.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. She mentioned it in passing.”
He nods to the rounders bat and ball lying on the grass near the table. “You any good?”
“At rounders? Yes, very good.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised. For your information, I am very good at sports with balls.”
He looks delighted. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t make it dirty,” I scold. “You know what I meant. Netball, tennis, rounders. I wasn’t one for the running track at school, but team sports I excelled at. My PE teacher told me I have excellent hand-eye coordination.”
“As impressive a compliment as that is, you do realize you were at school quite a long time ago,” he points out.
“Hand-eye coordination doesn’t disappear. It’s a lifelong skill.”
“That’s true. In case you’re interested, I am also very good at sports with balls.”
“Good for you.”
“Never enjoyed sprinting or long-distance running. Seemed … pointless.”
I nod. “I’ll run to catch a ball or to win a point after hitting it, but I won’t sprint for no reason.”
“Exactly. I need to be distracted from the running part.” He pauses. “Did I ever tell you about the catch I made that was reported in the paper?”
I snort. “Sure, okay.”
“No, I’m being serious,” he insists. “We were playing a cricket match against a rival school on this local green and I was a fielder, really far out, not really paying attention. The batter thwacks the ball right up in the air and it soared in my direction. I ran as fast as I could, caught the ball, and then splosh! Fell backward into the lake.”
I laugh. “No, you didn’t.”
“I swear I did,” he says, grinning. “I rose from the water, clutching the ball in my hand. Everyone went wild. It was the best catch I ever made.”
“You really fell backward into the lake?”
“No word of a lie, it was the peak of my career.”
“Your extensive cricket career?”
“The peak of my career period. There’s no way I can top that moment. Not even if I won a Pulitzer. The photo of me in the lake holding the ball made the front page of the local paper. Guess what the caption was?”
“Give me a moment,” I say, concentrating. “Something like ‘Quite the catch’?”
“If only they’d been so creative. But no,” he laughs, “the caption read: Local boy, Ronan, goes for a dip during cricket match.”
“Ronan!”
“They got my name wrong and they didn’t even mention how good the catch was! They made it seem as though I was going for a casual swim during a game.”
“Hey, at least you were in the paper. That’s pretty cool.”
“It’s still framed on my parents’ mantelpiece.”
“Guess I’ll try not to hit the ball in your direction today, then.”
“Likewise, since you’re so good at sports with balls,” he remarks, smiling into his beer.
Catching his eye, I can’t help but giggle.
Then I remember I’m not supposed to enjoy his company and quickly look away.
“All right, everyone!” Mimi cries out, clapping her hands and getting our attention. “The annual games are about to begin. Anyone who has brought a jumper, throw it this way so we can use them to mark the posts of the rounders pitch.”
Ryan turns to me. “Let the best team win.”
“Oh, we will,” I assure him.
He smiles, tiny little crinkles forming around the corners of his mouth, his striking eyes fixed on me intently. It’s a different smile to the smug, superior one I’ve grown so used to over the past few weeks. It’s warm and sincere and inviting.
He wanders off and, while Mimi yells instructions at those holding up jumpers, Rakhee sidles up next to me.
“Did I just witness you and Ryan laughing?” she asks curiously.
“No,” I say defensively, suddenly feeling flustered. “I was laughing at him.”
“Maybe he’s not as bad as you think.”
“You’re wrong.” I frown, watching his back as he walks away and desperately trying to fight off memories prompted by his smile. “He’s exactly as bad as I think.”
AUGUST 2012
During our internship, it becomes obvious that Ryan and I are very different people who work in completely different ways. Everything we do seems to be at odds with the other one—even the coffee run. I know the journalists prefer that Ryan gets their coffee order correct (I should really note it down before I leave), but I also know that they prefer me delivering it, because we have a good chat, whereas Ryan simply hands it over in nervous silence.
At our desks, we have very little to talk about unless we’re mocking each other. He likes to tease me about my obsession with reality TV shows, but the joke’s on him because Celia is a huge Made in Chelsea fan, so we end up bonding over that, and I can see him giving us jealous glances whenever she perches on my desk and we chat away happily. I have to admit that I get a bit envious when Ryan purposefully leaves whatever dull war book he’s reading out on his desk so that when one of the senior reporters comes over to ask us to do some photocopying, she just so happens to see it and asks him his thoughts.
Ryan isn’t naturally at ease in conversation, but when you get him on something he’s interested in—like the author Ben Macintyre and his book about the D-Day spies—he suddenly opens up. Until he realizes that he’s been talking and then quickly falls silent again, his forehead furrowing, as though embarrassed to have gotten carried away. If he wasn’t such an asshole, I’d think it was endearing.
As the days go by we both catch on to the fact that it’s easier if we split the jobs equally between us, rather than attempt to work on a task together, and we work out which tasks might be better suited for the other, passing them on if necessary. And we do have our moments of cease-fire and, even, courtesy. Ryan is an enthusiastic baker and shares some of his delicious creations with me. I introduce him to putting honey in his tea, and sometimes, if one of us is feeling in a generous mood, we might go so far as to make honey tea for each other in the afternoons.
But things go south very quickly when a few weeks in Celia confirms that her job is up for grabs—she’s giving her notice and taking a features assistant job at Flair, a women’s glossy magazine. She says if Ryan and I would like to apply, one of us would have a strong chance of getting it, since we’re learning the ropes already.
And just like that, it’s war.
Ryan and I go into overdrive to impress the team and outdo the other one. We squabble over who gets to do stupid everyday tasks and race to produce research notes, each trying to ensure our bullet points are thorough but first on the desk of the reporter who requested them. A low point is on one of these occasions when we’re both waiting by the printer, each hoping we pressed Print first, and then we realize the ink cartridge needs replacing— we almost break the machine, arguing over how best to put the cartridge in and causing a scene as others notice us yelling at each other about being too slow or doing it wrong.
And then, just when I think I can’t stand him, something happens that makes me question that completely.
It begins when Celia comes over late one afternoon to announce the exciting news that she would like us to work on a piece together for the paper.
“Wait, are you serious?” I ask, sitting up straight. “As in, it will be published?”
“You’ll get your first byline and everything,” she says, laughing at both our elated expressions. “It’s pretty cool the first time you see your name in print, I have to admit.”
“What’s the piece?” I ask eagerly.
“It’s a round-up, so not too taxing: ‘The Best Picnic Spots in London.’ Adorable, right? My idea,” she says proudly. “But I don’t have time to write it, so I thought you could take it on. As it’s a summer piece, it needs to be published pretty soon, so we need it by end of play Monday. I know it’s Thursday, so it’s a tight deadline, but good experience. Choose five or six places and write about fifty words on each. And you may not like this, but I really want you to work on it together. As in, no splitting it down the middle, otherwise the writing style will be different or repetitive and it won’t work. Got it?”
“No problem,” I say with a fixed smile.
“Excellent,” Ryan mumbles, his voice strained.
She shakes her head at us. “Jesus. What is it with you two? Anyway, good luck.”
Straight off the bat, we’re at loggerheads. Ryan thinks we should research picnic spots online—I’m of the opinion that we should make the time to actually go to these places and then decide.
“How are we going to visit all the places in London we can have a picnic?” he argues.
“We don’t have to go to all of them, that would be ridiculous. Just famous ones,” I explain.
“And the only way we’ll find out the famous ones is to research online.”
“Fine, we’ll do that.”
He nods. “Great.”
“Then this weekend, we’ll go visit them,” I add smugly.
He sighs.
“Ryan,” I begin calmly, “don’t you want to be honest with your readers? How are they supposed to trust that these are the best picnic spots in London if the writers haven’t even visited themselves?”
“I suppose you’re right,” he grumbles.
“I usually am, and the sooner you realize that, the better. So we’ll compile a list of spots tomorrow and then are you free Saturday?”
“Unfortunately.”
“We’ll have an adventure,” I assure him, adding, “Don’t worry, we’ll bring wine.”
“I think that’s a necessity,” he says, his mouth twitching into a smile.
Once we’ve got a satisfactory list of ideas, we spend Saturday traipsing round London to see which ones make our top six. It sounds like a chore, but it’s a nice day and it’s surprisingly fun, largely because Ryan seems much more relaxed outside of the office. We both arrive with backpacks filled with wine and snacks, and consequently end up having mini picnics at each spot, sitting on Primrose Hill or in the middle of Holland Park discussing the advantages and disadvantages of each view point.
By the time we reach our final destination—Greenwich Park—I’m feeling very tipsy. It’s fairly busy, but as there’s only two of us, we manage to squeeze into a good spot in the middle of the hill, right at the top. Pouring some more wine, we forget to review the merits of the park and instead start discussing why we wanted to become journalists and what our ambitions are for the future. He tells me he wants to write a book someday.
“What about?” I ask.
“I don’t know, something important,” he answers vaguely. “Maybe I’ll write an investigative report into some kind of awful injustice and blow it wide open, so I bring about real change, and then I can turn that into a book. That’s why I wanted to be a journalist in the first place.”
“To get a book deal off the back of an article?”
He laughs. “No, to give people a voice who might not have one.”
I tell him I think that’s very noble and that I want to be a journalist simply because I like telling people’s stories. He says he thinks that’s noble, too.
We somehow end up talking about family and he tells me about his parents, his Swedish heritage, and his one true love, Cracker, his parents’ Irish setter. He asks me about my family and I tiptoe round the subject, but regale him with a couple of funny stories from university, like how I auditioned for the pantomime and landed the role of a nonspeaking duck.
He roars with laughter and I think how nice it is to see him really let loose, and how I wish he laughed like that more often. He catches me staring at him and I blush, looking away.
Remembering why we’re here in the first place, I gesture at the view and declare this to be my favorite picnic spot in London.
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head, “I prefer Battersea Park.”
“But you can see the whole city from here!”
He smiles at my enthusiasm. “Yeah, but I like picnicking by a lake or something.”
“Oh, I see,” I say, rolling my eyes and putting on a posh voice. “Ryan enjoys a water feature, don’t you know.”
“Nothing wrong with a good water feature.”
I take a sip of wine, chewing on the edge of the cup.
“Did you get the email last night about … the application?” he asks carefully.
“Yeah. I got an interview. You?”
He nods. “Yep. It’s on Friday the twenty-seventh of August.”
“Same. Pretty harsh that it’s the week before we leave.”
“Probably a good thing. Less awkwardness if we don’t get it,” he reasons.
“That’s true.”
“What time is yours?” he asks.
“Four P.M.”
“Mine’s at three.”
“You can give me tips.”
He snorts in response, instantly irritating me.
“I was obviously joking,” I grumble into my wine. “I appreciate you would never in a million years help me out.”
He starts. “That’s not what I was laughing at!”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’m being honest.” He frowns, shuffling closer to me and giving me a nudge on the arm with his elbow, so I’m forced to look directly into his earnest eyes. “The reason I laughed at the idea of giving you tips is because it’s obvious you don’t need any.”
“Oh, please,” I sigh, putting my cup down on the grass, where it topples over. “I know today has been all right, but you don’t need to pretend to be nice to me.”
“I’m not pretending, I mean it, Harper,” he insists. “You’re so good at chatting to anyone; it comes so naturally to you to put people at ease. I wish I could be like that.”
I blink at him. “Are you being serious?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “I can work as hard as I like, but I don’t have your—” he waves his hand up and down at me “—likability.”
I shift, thrown by the compliment. “Oh. Uh … thanks.”
He nods.
“Okay, fine, I suppose I need to say something nice about you now,” I blurt out.
That makes him chuckle, his shoulders relaxing.
“You’re much more well-read than I am,” I admit reluctantly. “You know all this stuff about the world off the top of your head.”
“I don’t think I know any more than you do.”
“Well, maybe not about who’s dating who—a subject you really need to brush up on, by the way—but you have a better grasp on economics and history and politics. Stuff like that.”
“Eloquently put.”
“I am a writer.”
He smiles warmly, and my stomach flips. We’re so close in proximity that it makes my breath catch in my throat. And the way he’s looking at me suddenly shifts—the moment has become charged under his intense gaze. Instinctively, I lift my chin, inviting him to make the move. He leans closer and I can smell the wine on his breath.
“Heads!”
We spring back from each other at someone’s shout, a football hurtling over our heads, missing us by inches and bouncing just in front of our feet. A couple of boys stumble after it, apologizing to us as they go.
Flustered, I glance at Ryan, who looks as bewildered as I feel by what the hell just happened.
“We should … uh … get back,” I say, running a hand through my hair.
“Yeah, it’s getting late.”
We gather our cups and scramble to our feet, brushing grass off our clothes before making our way back toward the station, my head swirling with confusion and excitement. I find myself hoping that on our way home he’ll suggest going for another drink somewhere or maybe try kissing me again. But he only gives me an awkward goodbye as he gets off the tube at his stop.
The next day, I wake up with a hangover and an unwelcome bout of anxiety.
I almost kissed Ryan Jansson. What was I thinking?