Page 130 of Falling for You
‘Ah yes.’ Stevie cocks his head whimsically. ‘All part of the charm.’
He puts the remote down as three picture-perfect women pop onto the screen, all holding coffee cups and raising their eyebrows in disgust at each other.
‘And did you hear from Mom?’
‘Yup,’ I say, turning my phone in my hands. It’s only 3 p.m. in New York at the moment. ‘I said you’d call her.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re her son?’
‘I’m too busy,’ he says. ‘This is my only evening off. I’m in shows the rest of this week. I won’t have the time.’
‘Well then, text her,’ I shrug. ‘Send her a selfie, whatever.’
Stevie scoffs and I smirk. Even with his shaved, bleached head, silver earring and tattooed arms, when he strops, he may as well be six years old again.
‘Oh, come on,’ I grin. ‘You have time to chat to every man in London,’ I point to his phone on the coffee table as, right on cue, it lights up. ‘I’m sure you can spare five minutes for our dear old mom.’
He shoots me a look, but he’s grinning now. ‘It’s not every man,’ he says, picking up his phone. ‘Screw you. Oh! It’s Facebook Marketplace.’
I sit up. ‘Oh great, are you getting a new sofa? I’ll chip in.’
‘What? No,’ Stevie narrows his eyes at his phone screen. ‘I’ve found this amazing talking pumpkin for Halloween.’
I groan, sitting back down. ‘I hate Halloween.’
‘Yes …’ Stevie says, using his fingers to zoom in on the picture and turning his phone to show me. ‘But this should do the trick to annoy the cat upstairs – it’s due some bad karma.’
‘Why?’
‘It pissed on my rug.’
I take a final look at myself in the elevator mirror. My dark hair is pushed back, finally seeming to adjust to the sogginess of London, and (after a thorough talking to from Stevie) my beard is trimmed, and therefore slightly less unruly than yesterday.
It’s my first day in the London office ofTake the Time, the ‘best events magazine’ if you believe everything our marketing team is feeding you. I’ve spent the past eight years (and what was left of my twenties) working as their feature writer, covering events all over New York City and Manhattan. It’s a pretty cool gig. Or it was, until all of my mates who took turns to be my plus one would rather sit in with their other halves, and I realised that yeah, that actually sounded quite nice and I’d like to do the same. Except I didn’t have an other half. Sure, it’s pretty impressive to take a woman on a first date to a Broadway show or the launch of a new menu at a restaurant, but the novelty wears off. Usually about the time the ‘let’s sit in together instead’ conversation comes around and I reveal my true, introverted self and realise that they were far more interested in the fancy meals and elaborate dates than they ever were in me.
The elevator pulls up to the eighth floor and pings open. I step out dubiously.
‘Nathaniel?’
I look up as I hear my name bounce towards me in a clipped British accent. For a moment I’m half expecting to seeHugh Grant bumble over and offer me a cigarette. Instead, it’s a lanky guy with big teeth and even bigger hair, all quaffed above his head like the fifth member of ABBA.
‘Hi,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘It’s Nate.’
‘Brian!’ the man says back happily, giving my hand a firm shake. ‘Welcome to London! Fancy a tea?’
‘Do you have coffee?’
Brian pulls a face. ‘The machine is broken. I make a good tea, though.’
I’m about to decline when I clock every other person in the office, holding a mug.
I feel like it’s an unwritten British rule: never turn down a cup of tea in a first meeting. It would be a sign of the utmost disrespect.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
I’ve managed to avoid cups of tea since being in London. It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just that … fuck it. I hate it. It tastes like dishwater and I have absolutely no idea why anyone drinks it.
