Page 69 of The Love Hack

And then, realising it was almost seven thirty, I focused my attention on the door, calling up Zack’s LinkedIn profile to remind myself what he looked like in a suit. There were fewer touristy-looking people in the bar now. The ones that had been there (distinguishable from locals, I’d realised, by being either more smartly or much more casually dressed) had departed, presumably to go off to dinner or the theatre.

And now, a trickle of office workers was beginning to gather, along with a smattering of couples who looked like they were on dates. Of course there was some crossover, like a Venn diagram – couples in business suits, both clearly having recently left their desks, but who were nonetheless sitting with their knees touching, making eye contact and giggling.

But none of them was Zack. Maybe Ross had got it wrong, and #thirstythursday changed location on a more frequent basis than monthly.

But I didn’t want to think about Ross just now. Just forming his name in my head filled me with a turmoil of conflicting emotions – shame, anger, guilt and something else that might have been regret.

I’d messed up. I’d misread the situation badly, and I probably owed both him and Bryony the apology of the century.

I forced my mind away from Ross and my eyes back to the door.

And then I saw Zack.

He stepped in through the glass doors, tall, handsome and confident. He still had a trace of him honeymoon tan. He was wearing a suit, dark charcoal grey with a chalky pinstripe, but no tie, and his shirt was undone to reveal a couple of inches of chest, dark hair springing through the gap. His hair looked like it had been recently cut and was swept back from his brow. Even at this distance, I could see the ice blue of his eyes.

I thought how proud Amelie would be, walking into this fabulous place with her handsome husband; how excited she’d feel to be spending the night with him, talking, laughing, drinking, and then leaving at the end of the evening with him on her arm – Look! I married him! He’s mine! And how proud Zack should have been, arriving with his beautiful wife who’d chosen him out of all the men in the world she could have taken her pick from. Who’d followed him across the world, leaving her friends and family behind to be by his side.

But the woman with Zack wasn’t my sister. She was a tall blonde, her hair hanging poker-straight down the back of her navy blue shift dress, held away from her face by chunky black sunglasses. She was carrying a cream-coloured leather bag and wearing nude stilettos that made her slim, tanned legs look even longer. Her face might only have been averagely pretty, but her make-up was so perfect, her botox and fillers and whatever else so subtly done, she looked model-flawless.

My heart ached for Amelie, who was far more beautiful but not here.

I watched from behind my own sunglasses as the two of them made their way to a table on the opposite side of the room. Zack sat with his back to me, which was a relief. I waited until they’d got their drinks order in, just in case they decided to sack it off and head somewhere different, and then I turned back to my phone, scrolling rapidly through Zack’s LinkedIn connections to see if I could find her picture.

It didn’t take long. Brooke MacIntyre, Senior Analyst at Spelman Global, the same firm where Zack worked. I scrolled rapidly though her CV – an undergraduate degree from Harvard then a masters from Yale, then a string of appointments at various financial institutions before she’d arrived at Spelman Global two years before, splitting her time between its offices in New York, London and Hong Kong.

The timing just about worked – that would have been shortly before Zack met Amelie. I could just imagine it – the flirtation, the meeting of minds, the few passionate nights together before she moved on to her next location; the regretful goodbye, the promise to stay in touch. And then, for Zack, out of sight and out of mind, and my sister, equally beautiful and smart, had come along.

This was no work meeting – I was sure of that. The two of them had cocktails (dry martini for him, the twin of my own drink, and what I guessed was a dirty martini for her – cloudy with several olives skewered in its depths) and although their phones were out on the table, they were barely glancing at them. They were looking at each other – exclusively and obsessively.

Hopefully, I thought, sinking lower in my seat and adjusting my dark glasses over my eyes, that would mean they were unlikely to clock me.

I watched Brooke tilt her head back, her pale sheet of hair falling away from the razor-sharp line of her jaw, and laugh at something Zack had said. I saw him respond, gratified his joke had landed, something almost wolfish in his grin of pleasure. I saw her take an olive out of her drink, nibble the edge of it and pass it over to him, as if it was too delectable a morsel not to share – or possibly as if she was a woman so self-disciplined in her eating habits that consuming a whole olive would count as shameful gluttony.

Zack took the olive, nibbled a bit from the other side, then passed it back to her, fingertip to fingertip. The two of them burst out laughing, like this was a ritual they’d begun some time ago and now honed to hilarious perfection. They carried on until there was no meat left on the stone, then Brooke fished out another and the process begun again.

Honestly, that told me all I needed to know. Who the hell sucks an olive pit that’s been in someone else’s mouth? That’s seriously gross – unless you’re cool with a level of physical intimacy that goes way beyond sharing snacks. Would I take a bite of Chiraag’s half-eaten sandwich or a finish Neil’s leftover cereal? God, no. If Ross offered me a sip of his cappuccino, would I— but that was neither here nor there.

This wasn’t about Ross and I wasn’t here to think about him, anyway.

I kept watching Zack and Brooke. They’d finished their first round of drinks and moved on to a second, and evidently the olive game was over for the evening. They were leaning in towards each other, talking, their faces so close I could see where his dark hair and her blonde tresses touched each other. And that wasn’t the only thing that was touching. Their elbows were in contact on the tabletop, the backs of their hands occasionally brushing as they gestured.

But it was their eye contact that said the most – the steady, intent stare of two people who simply didn’t want to look at anyone or anything except each other. I wondered how it felt to be looked at like that; I wasn’t sure I’d ever know, or wanted to find out.

I stayed there, watching them, for another half-hour, then I figured there was probably nothing more to see. I’d already found out what I’d wanted to know and seen what I’d come to see. So I asked for my bill and paid it, adding a heft tip to the already astronomical total. Then I picked up my bag and left, going via the restroom to avoid walking past their table.

And by the time I came out, it had happened. They were kissing. Of course they were – there was nothing surprising about it all. Two people look at each other like Astro looks at a catnip mouse and share saliva through the medium of a bar snack, it’s only a matter of time, right?

Even so, the sight stopped me in my tracks. They were still seated at their table, their chairs at right-angles to each other, their elbows still on the tabletop, their knees still touching. Only now Zack’s hand was buried deep in Brooke’s hair, her fingers were hooked into the belt loop of his trousers, and their lips were interlocked in a kiss that looked like it would never end.

Like I said, I’d known it would happen. I’d been so certain I hadn’t even thought I needed to stick around to witness it.

But now I had, it was a shocking at a kick to the kneecap. The man who’d promised, just weeks before, to love and cherish my sister – to forsake all others – was snogging the face off his beautiful blonde colleague in a bar.

I felt sick. Empty and furious and helpless. And I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t go over there and confront him – what good would it do? I’d just be causing a scene in a public place. It wasn’t like I could make it unhappen and everything would be okay again.

So I walked slowly to the exit and out into the dark street. It was nine o’clock. I’d got what I’d come for – ‘gather evidence’, the advice from Adam via the bot had said. I had that and now I needed to break the news to Amelie.

TWENTY-SEVEN

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