Page 20 of The Love Hack

To my surprise, I felt tears pricking my eyes when I read Charlie’s brief message. I remembered myself at that age, and how I’d felt about my contemporaries, the Charlies of their day. All those boys: tall and short, fat and thin, sporty and geeky – all equally unfathomable and intimidating to eighteen-year-old me. I still felt that way about men, and I realised I badly wanted to save Charlie from the same fate.

I copied and pasted his message into a Word document and read it through again. Then I pressed Enter twice and typed, ‘Dear Charlie,’ and hit Enter again.

Then I stopped.

Think, Lucy. What do you wish someone had told you eleven years ago?

‘First off, there’s nothing wrong with you,’ I typed. I didn’t actually know whether that was true – Charlie could have all kinds of things wrong in his life that I didn’t know about. But it felt important to say it. Then I channelled my own younger self again, and carried on. ‘I bet there are loads of girls you know in exactly the same position as you. I bet they share their worries with their closest friends, like you’ve shared yours with me. And I bet their friends tell them they’re great, they’re hot, they’re funny, and the right person for them will come along when the time is right – probably loads of wrong people, too, but eventually the right one.

‘In the meantime, try and hold that thought. Girls aren’t a foreign race or an alien species. They’ve got worries and insecurities, same as you. I wonder if you could try letting your guard down, trying to get to know girls, not treating them like they’re armed guards standing in the way of you having sex? Even girls you don’t fancy could end up being – wait for it – friends. And friendship could be the first step to achieving the romantic relationships you really want.’

I was suddenly besieged by doubt. Before even hitting Save, I copied the text and sent it to Amelie, without explanation but with a row of question mark emojis. She replied in a few seconds.

‘Great! I knew you could do it. Maybe also tell him not to be a dick? It’s always worth reminding them.’

I spent the rest of that week reading through all the questions in the inbox – that, and puzzling over the behaviour of another man, the one sat at the desk opposite mine. Ross’s behaviour, other than when he looked at me, seemed perfectly normal. Apart from the fact that he’d stopped talking to me. Before, he hadn’t exactly chatted for England, but he’d made the occasional effort at conversation. When I stood up from my desk at five past one, he’d ask if I was going for lunch, and what I was planning to get. At six o’clock when we logged off, he’d wish me a good evening. If he got up to make a coffee he’d offer me one. When I asked what he was having for lunch he’d tell me what was in his sandwich and then quote Seinfeld – ‘Women don’t respect salad eaters.’

Now, he’d stopped doing those things – which was probably just as well, because if we actually spoke to each other we’d probably both spontaneously combust.

But, by Friday lunchtime, I’d realised that spontaneous combustion was a risk I was simply going to have to take, because the alternative – the oppressive silence, the face-searing blushes, the crick I was getting in my neck from looking up sideways from my screen instead of directly ahead, so as not to meet his eyes – was simply intolerable. And besides, I knew that Ross was off on holiday the following week, so at least if my attempt to clear the air failed, I wouldn’t have to see him for a whole nine days and by that stage we’d have moved on from this cringy awkwardness – wouldn’t we?

I’d do it at ten thirty, I promised myself – a reasonable time to get up and offer him a coffee. But then, inevitably, ten thirty came and I found myself sitting in my chair like I’d been glued there. Okay, ten forty-five, I told myself.

But at ten fifty (I know, I know), I heard a voice from the end desk.

‘Holy shit.’ It was Marco.

‘What’s up?’ asked Barney.

‘Bomb scare on the underground. It’s just come over the wires now. They’ve closed three lines and they’re evacuating Bond Street station.’

My first thought was of Amelie – Bond Street was her nearest Tube stop. But hopefully she was safely home, working on the seating plan for her wedding reception or something.

‘Good news for you mate,’ Neil commented. ‘I mean, bad news for anyone who’s going to get blown to smithereens in the blast, but it’ll make good copy, right?’

‘Steady on,’ Chiraag said.

I looked up. Opposite me, Ross was doing the opposite of blushing – in fact, he’d gone so pale he looked like a pistachio gelato.

‘It’s been a while since we had anything like this,’ Marco went on. ‘Hopefully it’s nothing.’

‘And you’ll be back to reporting on the much-vaunted benefits of Brexit,’ Simon said.

Ross didn’t say anything. He got up from his desk and walked away towards the toilets in a not-quite-straight line, like he’d poured whisky instead of milk on his morning muesli.

‘It’s a developing story.’ Marco’s eyes were fixed on his screen. ‘Maybe I should start a live blog?’

‘And then if it turned out to be a false alarm, we’d all look like right fannies,’ Neil said.

‘Greg’s in a meeting,’ Marco dithered. ‘Otherwise I’d ask him what he reckoned.’

‘I’d hold fire,’ said Chiraag. ‘See if other outlets are reporting it. There’s nothing on the Beeb yet.’

I checked my own screen. ‘The Daily Express is running with it. They’re saying there could be thousands of deaths.’

Barney laughed. ‘Too bad, Marco, you’ve been scooped already.’

‘Hang on,’ Marco said, ‘Apparently there’s going to be a statement from the Metropolitan Police in a couple of minutes.’

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