Page 37 of The Love Hack

His words were so sweet they overpowered the bitter disappointment of stopping. He helped me into my coat, walked with me to the lift, kissed me again on the way down, and again we parted in the street.

Again, I made my way home on a cloud of bliss, like it wasn’t the Tube transporting me but some kind of magic carpet.

That must be how Bryony had felt, heading home after her date with Ross. If she had gone home, that is – it was far more likely that she’d gone back to his, or he’d gone home with her, and her magic-carpet Tube journey had only happened the following morning.

This, I told myself, swiping away from the images and dropping my phone on the sofa, then standing up so quickly Astro leaped off my feet and squawked in protest as I took my leftover chicken to the kitchen, this is why I never go on social media.

I wasn’t in the mood for a tear-jerking romcom that evening. Tears felt too close to the surface to need any help, and letting them fall would have brought me no comfort. Instead, I raided my bookshelf for my battered Terry Pratchett collection and read Witches Abroad, my all-time favourite, right the way through. I knew the story so well I could practically have recited it from memory, but it still transported me to a different world: a world where Ross and Bryony weren’t an item, or perhaps one where, if someone was writing my story, it would end with, 'And they lived happily ever after.’

FOURTEEN

Dear Adam

I’m writing to ask you about an issue I’m having with my wife. I got into cycling recently and now I’m hoping to do my first Iron Man triathlon next year. I train every Saturday for up to six hours, and every Sunday for about four, and a couple of evenings during the week. I’m not gonna lie, my wife hates it. And I see her point – we’ve got young kids, she thinks I’m missing out on family time and leaving her to deal with all the weekend stuff on her own. But my training matters to me – I know I’m the cliche of a middle-aged man in lycra, but without the lycra I’d be just another middle-aged man. Why can’t my wife understand how important it is? Or am I the arsehole here?

Mark, Sheffield

The following Friday felt like a bit of a red-letter day – or, more accurately, a lack-of-red-face day. I didn’t blush once when I spoke to Ross at work. In fact, I managed to smile brightly every time we made eye contact. I made a point of offering him a coffee every time I went to make a cup. In a meeting, when he said he was having problems sourcing the new U-Turn turntable to review for his column, I said, ‘I have a contact at the manufacturer from when I was at Fab!. I’m sure I can get hold of one for you,’ and it had landed on his desk that afternoon.

When it arrived, he sort of sidled up to me in the corridor outside the breakout room and said, ‘Thanks, Lucy.’

‘What for?’ I asked, my eyes wide with faux innocence.

‘For helping me out there.’ He ducked his head. ‘I’d have been stuck without a column this week if you hadn’t stepped in.’

I smiled sweetly. ‘You’d have got there in the end. You’re a smart guy.’

Then I turned and strolled back to my desk as if our interaction had meant nothing to me.

And it did mean nothing. Ross had a girlfriend. Ross was now one hundred per cent off limits – not that he had ever been on limits, or would have been in the slightest bit interested in me anyway.

But all the same, when five fifteen came and Marco stretched his interlaced hands high over his head and cracked his knuckles. I did my best not to wince. They were his joints, after all.

‘Pub?’ he suggested, standing up.

‘For sure,’ said Barney. ‘Not the Sun, though, the beer was warm there last week.’

‘And they overcharged me for a round,’ added Neil. ‘How about the Mason’s Arms?’

‘No good.’ Marco shook his head regretfully. ‘Company my ex works for always go there on Fridays and I can’t risk bumping into her.’

‘Why?’ Chiraag asked. ‘What did you do to her?’

‘More like what did she do to me,’ Marco said. ‘Seriously, if I see her I won’t be answerable for the consequences.’

I swallowed, opened my mouth and said, ‘The Barley Mow’s meant to be decent.’

My words seemed to hang in the air, silent now except for the distant hum of the servers. I waited for shock, incredulity, contempt even.

But Neil said, ‘Oh yeah, it’s under new management, isn’t it? Good shout.’

‘You joining us, Lucy?’ asked Marco, as if it was a mere formality and I always came along to the pub on Friday nights.

‘Sure,’ I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ross’s startled face.

Then, as if it was what I always did, I picked up my bag and headed to the bathroom. I had no make-up in my bag, so I made do with brushing my hair, putting on some lip balm and clearing the fingerprints off my glasses.

A few minutes later, we all stepped out of the lobby into the sunshine. Simon and Barney strode ahead, like men on a mission. Chiraag, Marco and Neil followed more slowly and Ross fell into step next to me at the back, as if that was what he always did.

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