Page 132 of The One That I Want

‘Now what?’ I ask myself. I don’t want to continue reading my emails – it will be torturous staying away from ‘APOLOGY’ – and I can’t just sit here for the next half an hour. I’ll go bonkers.

I may not want to step foot in The Daily Grind, but this is the middle of London and you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a coffee shop. I grab my handbag and head out, turning right as I exit the building instead of left, and walking purposefully towards the nearest coffee shop in the opposite direction to Ewan’s.

It’s a BeanVibes but I don’t care – as emotionally spent as I am, I may be beyond caring about anything ever again.

I queue up, place my order, and hover near the pickup station. It’s ready in record time and I take a sip as I step onto the Strand. The coffee is bitter and burnt and the milk is scalding – perfect penance for me cocking up what could have been exactly what I wanted.

I’m outside ofNouveau, about to turn into the building, when a voice stops me in my tracks.

‘Greta.’

I look towards the voice and it’s Ewan.

‘Hi,’ he says.

‘Hi,’ I say back.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he says cryptically. ‘I thought you might head home but then, your office is closer, so I tried here first and… Here you are.’

‘Here I am,’ I say numbly.

Showing up at Ewan’s flat this morning was a surreal experience, but him standing before me outsideNouveau, still wearing his Take That T-shirt, takes ‘surreal’ to the next level. It feels like time is standing still, but the ground below us is moving.

‘You cheating on me?’ he asks with a half-smile.

‘What?’ I reply, mortified. ‘No, I?—’

‘Sorry,’ he says, holding up his hand in conciliation. ‘Poor joke. I was talking about the coffee.’ His eyes flick to my hand where ‘BeanVibes’ is stamped in garish letters on the side of the cup.

‘Oh, right. It’s rubbish.’

‘Well, yeah.’

We hold each other’s gaze for a moment, then I look away. It must have gone 8.30a.m. by now and we’re standing in a thoroughfare, people streaming past us as they head into the building. This is not the place to have a conversation –thisconversation.

‘I read your letter,’ he says, retrieving it from his back pocket.

‘I know.’

‘You know? How?’

‘Your email.’

He shakes his head, his eyes narrowing in confusion. ‘I didn’t… I haven’t sent an email.’

‘Oh.’ Now I’m confused.

‘What email?’ he asks.

‘It… it doesn’t matter.’

We’re quiet again. Someone jostles me as they walk past, and I have an idea about where we can go.

‘Come with me,’ I say.

I walk into the building, skirting past the bank of lifts and heading through a glass door into the atrium. It’s as tall as the building and filled with towering palms in enormous pots. I cross to a stone bench and sit. I didn’t check to see that Ewan was following me, but he was. He perches on the other end of the bench, facing me.

‘We were at the part where you said you read my letter.’

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