Page 49 of The Wedding Game

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Lexie

Congratulations,Chris messages, followed swiftly by a second text:Max only just told me! I’m really pleased for you.

I’m in the flat, unpacking and repacking my suitcase one more time. I’ve got a couple of days and I feel as if I’ve forgotten to pack something essential for New York, though I can’t remember what it is.

I look at his message and, not for the first time, feel strange knowing I’ll be working for the same company as Chris. It’s going to be weird, seeing him again after everything that’s happened since we met back in August, since I found it too easy to fall for him right there and then, and in every message after. But we’ve let our flirting come to an end, or rather I forced it to an end. And now we can simply be friends.

Come with me.

Oh God, I have to stop hearing him say that. Stop it, stop it, stop it. Why am I replaying this? I reason it’ll be OK now, as we didn’t even kiss and we’re in the friend-zone now.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

Fuck fuck fuckity-fuck. But Ididthen flat out say we’rejust friends. So, I’m pretty sure he’s got the hint. Chris hasn’t said anything remotely flirtatious since then. It’s all been job-related.

I breathe in deeply, attempt some pragmatism. He lives in New York, and I live in London. That’s not about to change. But I’ll be in the same office as him for the next couple of weeks, a fact I find slightly disconcerting. I genuinely believed, when I said goodbye to him and he climbed into his taxi, that we wouldneversee each othereveragain. Is this going to be really awkward?

And since Josh arrived on the scene, thoughts of Chris haven’t managed to take on a life of their own. I’ve not let them. Not since those immediate pangs of regret after his taxi pulled away that night. And those pangs only lasted until I kissed Josh anyway. Sort of.

Thanks,I write in response to Chris’s congratulations.

Chris types,Someone’s setting up a laptop for you as we speak on a desk next to Max. He says you’re joining us for a fortnight before they cast you free back in London. That’s incredible. It’ll be great to see you again.

Thanks. I’ve never been to New York before.

You’re in for a treat. I love it here. I reckon you will too. Might not get you back on that plane in a fortnight.

Border Control will have something to say about that,I type.

Chris sends a laughing emoji and then he’s offline. Then he’s online again and typing.

I guess I’ll see you in the office at some point then.

I send back a huge smiling emoji, which is a bit of anon-committal cop-out, but also because I’m genuinely so excited about this job and not sure what else to say. I keep thinking I’m going to open my eyes and discover this has all been the most amazing dream; that I don’t have a new job, am still penniless (which I sort of am anyway until I get paid) and that Josh isn’t real, either.

But a few days later the flight across the Atlantic alerts me to the fact that this is very real as turbulence hits thick and fast, heralding the end of my celebratory mini-packets-of-cheese and mini-bottles-of-wine party for one.

I’m in economy, but there’s still free food and drink and all the films I can watch, crammed into an eight-hour flight. I’ve eaten and drunk everything I’ve been given and have watched three movies. I’ve done well. I’m trying to keep my eyes off the onboard duty-free catalogue, though. All those make-up sets you can’t buy on the high street are beckoning me. But I reason I’m going to be knee-high in debt by the time I return, so I shouldn’t blow all my meagre spending money before I’ve even set foot in the US.

New York is going to cost me a fortune, if I want to do anything interesting outside the borders of what the company would normally pay for, so I have managed to get my parents to individually sub me a little bit of cash each. This is the guilt of the divorce still very much present all these years later, each of them trying to outdo the other.

‘How much did your mother give you?’ is always a question my dad relies on, in order to up the ante as he rifles through the notes section of his wallet.

I hate asking my parents for help. I hate looking like athirty-one-year-old failure, but I reason that asking for a loan one last time won’t kill anyone. And I can’t take any more support from Scarlet or I’ll die of shame. Although Scarlet has actually transferred some money into my account, so that I can head into Sephora and buy her all the American skincare and cosmetics we can’t currently get in Britain. I wonder if she’ll like some of this very exclusive-looking duty-free stuff? I open the magazine again and start spending her money on her behalf.

The company has naturally put me in one of their two Manhattan hotels and it’s bijou – space being at a premium in one of the most expensive cities in the world. It looks refreshed, furnishings-wise; and flicking through the huge bundle of corporate and investor info Max sent me, I can see they have a regular refreshing scheme for all soft furnishings every few years, and for fixtures and fittings every eight. For a portfolio of thirty hotels, this must keep Max on his toes. I’m keen to understand how a company that’s twenty years old, and has expanded into most of the capital cities, has never yet opened a hotel in London.

Max said if I was jet-lagged I could come into the office tomorrow instead of today, but I’m raring to go now. I’m sure the need for sleep will catch up with me, but I am buzzing and want so desperately to start work. I text Josh again. He’s not replied yet. I’ve already told him I’ve landed and have sent him a picture of my room, and now one of me standing near a yellow taxi. I’m such a tourist.

The office is just round the corner, off Bleecker Street inthe Village. I walk there so slowly once I’ve showered and changed, taking in the squat buildings next to tall ones, the traditional brownstone buildings mixed with shop fronts and pizza joints, bars and florists. Yellow cabs go past, honking horns randomly. I feel like a tourist. I am a tourist, but it’s purposeful tourism. I’m going to work. In New York. For a fortnight only, but still. I can’t believe it.

The area is fun and funky as I walk past gift shops and coffee bars, artisan perfumers and independent fashion stores, all draped with huge awnings and hand-painted signs, while oversized Christmas decorations shine in the bright sunshine. It’s bright but cold. Winter is here. The shops are bigger, the signs bolder, the decorations magnificent. New York, to me, is as if Paris and London had a love-child and then supersized it. I’ve been here five minutes; but so far, so pretty, so inviting.

I pass the original outpost of Magnolia Bakery that I saw on a rerun ofSex and the City. I take a picture for Scarlet. Huge cupcakes and intricately swirled celebration cakes sit under glass domes in the window and, as I pass, I know I’m coming back here to load up on baked goods at the first opportunity I get.

The office is in a narrow three-storey red-brick building and, with a trembling hand, I push the blacked-out front doors and enter the open-plan, super-white but comfortable space. It’s filled with sofas, fresh flowers and plants, and there are desks scattered about, with people moving to and from breakout areas, and deluxe coffee machines and platters of pastries and fruit. I cast my eyes around, but I can’t see Chris.Maybe he’s on another floor. The woman on reception greets me with a smile and more enthusiasm than I ever greeted anyone with, when I worked on reception. I pull my eyes away from the impressive but small office and meet her curious gaze.

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