Chapter 4

4

There's a ringing in my ears, and I barely hear him introduce himself. I barely hear myself when I reply, "Hi, I'm Anna. Anna Sherwood."

His hand is still outstretched.

I take it. My best interview handshake—a single firm, quick pump. But when I loosen my grip, he doesn't—his hand stays there, light against mine, his touch dragging along my fingers and sending a jolt of electricity all the way up my arm, right to the bottom of my chest. It makes me gasp. I hope to hell nobody hears it.

But Lloyd smirks, just a little, and I know he heard it.

"So, Anna, how're you settling in?"

Anna. Does he really not remember?

"Uh, y-yes, good, thanks. Looking forward to getting stuck in," I stammer, my voice working quicker than my brain. And then, like it's not obvious, I gesture to Laurie and the others and say, "I'm on the project development team."

"The worst," he drawls, and behind me, Laurie laughs.

She clicks her tongue. "Don't scare her off too early. At least let me rope her into doing some financial analysis first. Which reminds me—how good are you with Excel, Anna? Michaela said you did some coding at college?"

"Oh, I'm sure she's a whiz. She'll probably write you a program to run it all for you."

I cut Lloyd a glower Laurie can't see, my brain having finally stopped reeling and caught up. He looks so totally innocent that even I start to doubt if we have actually met before. I can feel thunderclouds gathering over my head.

"I'm not too bad," I tell Laurie, and then shoot out of my chair, shoving it under the desk and keeping my head down as I skirt around Lloyd, giving him a wide berth. "Sorry, I just, um, I—I need to pop to the bathroom."

It takes every ounce of my willpower not to bolt.

"Nice to meet you!" he calls after me.

Hopefully, I'm far enough away that he doesn't see how that makes me cringe.

Once I'm around the corner and in an empty stretch of corridor, I break into a run, throwing myself into the bathroom and locking myself into a stall where I can finally let myself fall apart, hands tearing at my hair and breathing heavily as I try to make sense of what just happened.

How is he here? Why? Is he some hotshot intern who got invited back for a summer job or something? Was he so good he works here part-time, maybe?

And…why is he acting like he doesn't know me?

Maybe he's embarrassed by me in some way, or was disappointed by our kiss.

Or maybe he does that kind of thing all the time, falling for a new girl every week like we joked about, and the night we spent together was so wholly un spectacular for him that he's simply…forgotten.

I know it shouldn't matter. That it doesn't.

But…

Unbidden, the memories of the time we spent together a few nights ago spring to mind, playing out before me. The memory of my laughter turns sour on my tongue; the dizzying press of his lips to mine, mocking and cold. The things I told him…

Oh God. The things I told him.

He knows I lied about my age on my application. Is he going to tell anybody? He could get me kicked out. Maybe there's even some kind of rule about interoffice relationships or something, and I'd be fired because I kissed him.

I want to be happy that fate is kind enough to let our paths cross again, but that's a joke. If things like fate do exist, then this is a blatant display of its cruelty.

Something prickles at the back of my eyes and— no, please, don't let me be the girl who cries on her first day.

Don't let me be the girl who cries over a boy she barely knows.

Breathe, Annalise.

I do, somehow. Raggedly. My breath hitches in my throat, tightens in my chest, so I try again a few more times until I've got a little more control over myself. I have no idea how long I've been gone, which almost sends me into a whole new panic spiral— I do not want to become the girl who spent half her first day in the toilets—so I smooth my hands over my hair, take a few more deep breaths, and stride out.

Walk tall, shoulders back. Don't let them see. It's fine. Nobody will know.

If he wants to pretend not to know me, fine. Two can play at that game.

But when I get back to my desk, Lloyd is long gone.

—

The first week at Arrowmile is every bit as overwhelming as that first morning. My inbox is overflowing with things to read and tasks to complete. I attend meetings with people whose names I instantly forget as they discuss things I can't keep up with, feeling the fool when I agree to write up the minutes. I have to start a glossary in the back of my notebook of all the corporate jargon and acronyms everyone uses, which feels like I might as well be learning a completely new language from scratch.

I catch sight of the other interns darting about the office, too, occasionally crossing paths with them in the lift or on the way to meetings. Once, I'm stopped on my way back from the toilets by my other new roommate, Louis, when his manager sends him to speak to someone on my floor; he holds up a LinkedIn profile on his phone and points at someone a few desks over as he whispers to me, "Do you think that's him? He has more hair in this photo, but…How embarrassing d'you think it will be if it's not him?"

We're all out of our depth, but some people do a better job of hiding it. Monty, for one, makes sure to tell any of us unlucky enough to get stuck commuting with him just how sure he is that being on Nadja's team is the ideal role for him, and how great he'll be at schmoozing clients. Freya, who already struck me as quiet and is working alongside Topher Fletcher's PA, becomes even more mousy—squeaky and jumpy, afraid of being reduced to nothing more than fetching coffees.

I also see Lloyd around the office.

It's hard not to.

He's everywhere.

Each time I notice him, I can't help but stare. He's only a year older than I am, but he stands around joking with people like they're old friends, talking to senior members of staff as they nod along seriously and hang on his every word. He strides around the office with a sense of purpose and belonging. There's a confidence to him that reminds me of a peacock—he actually struts. Commanding attention with a hundred-watt smile and a glint in his eyes just daring people to suggest they know better than him.

It's a more self-assured, over-the-top version of the guy I met on Friday night, who didn't think his friends would miss him if he slipped away. This version of him is still open, emotive, with that easy humor, but… more. Other, somehow. There's something off about it, but the more I think that, the more I convince myself that this is what Lloyd is like normally. Who he was with me was the outlier. A lie.

He waves whenever he sees me. Then he'll smile and ask how I'm doing, with exactly the same friendly, casual tone he uses with everybody else. In response, I'll grit my teeth and try to smile back before hurrying away, determined to ignore how much it stings that he's clearly forgotten all about me.

I'm mad at him for not remembering. I'm mad at myself, for making such a big deal out of it when I never thought I'd see him again.

I'm mad because everybody seems to love him. He's the golden boy of the office. Nobody looks irritated when he interrupts or sits in on meetings he isn't invited to. I overhear people twice his age thanking him for the feedback he gave them on some report or presentation and wonder why they value his opinion so damn much—and feel a strange flare of jealousy; I want to be that person people go to and rely on one day. I see him in so many places, involved with so many teams, I can't tell what he actually does around here—just that it seems important, somehow.

I desperately try to reframe the thought. I tell myself that he's obviously a hotshot intern who was invited back and that could be me next summer, so I should aspire to be more like Lloyd—whatever it is exactly he's doing here.

But any time I see him, or hear his name, I don't feel inspired, only small and stupid. Maybe it's because I let him in—or worse, believed he might actually have liked me.

—

It's Friday afternoon before I run into Lloyd in the eleventh-floor kitchen with nobody else around to act as a buffer or distraction.

The Arrowmile offices take up the top few floors of the building and lend themselves to being open plan. Hardly any of the managers have their own office, hot-desking with the rest of us. A few partitions painted with bright splashes of blue offer some separation and a bit of soundproofing, and the kitchen area has been sectioned off neatly near the toilets and lifts. From here, you can't see the rest of the office.

Meaning nobody can see me stop in my tracks when I go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, only to find Lloyd absently stirring a coffee while concentrating on some documents in a folder.

My heart jolts at seeing him again, but it's not the kind of thrilled little somersault it should be when re-meeting a guy I shared a wonderful time with. If anything, it makes me feel a bit queasy. To think I was so pleased when he said he didn't think I was unlikable…Turns out, I'm just so spectacularly un remarkable, he doesn't remember me at all.

I retreat quickly, hoping to make a quick escape before he sees me—I don't think I can face an entire one-on-one conversation pretending we're total strangers—but I must make noise, because he looks up before I can run for it. He closes the file he was reading, his hand braced on top of it almost like he's afraid I'll run over and steal it. Maybe it's confidential? Somehow I wouldn't be surprised if he is trusted with top-secret stuff.

"Oh, hey." His tone is casual—playful—and he has no right to be. He smiles, which drives the knife in a little deeper. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Is that supposed to be funny?" I blurt, frowning.

His smile falters a little—though it may not be from guilt. If he really has forgotten me, I probably just come off as rude. Cold and unlikable.

Deciding it would look even more rude if I left, empty mug still in hand, I give him my best attempt at a polite smile, brace myself, and move further into the kitchen. Still an arm's length away from him, but acutely aware of just how close he is. Close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, and—

Don't think about how good he smells. Dear God, don't think about how good he smells.

(But he smells so good. Deep and rich and spiced. It's the same intoxicating smell that I noticed last Friday night, only now, away from the stickiness of the club and the cool riverside air, I can pick out some of the notes in it more clearly.)

Not, of course, that I'm noticing.

I go through the motions of filling the kettle and fetching some milk and a teaspoon, hoping he'll leave first.

But he doesn't.

He just stands there, too close yet still impossibly far away, and says cheerfully, "So, how's your first week been? Coping all right so far?"

"Yep. Doing just fine, thanks."

"Great! They really chuck you in at the deep end, don't they? You'll get the hang of it all, though—everyone does, before long."

"Uh-huh."

"And Michaela's team is great. They juggle a lot of stuff, so it probably feels pretty hectic right now, huh? One of them actually got signed off on long-term sick just before you started, so they're grateful to have someone to pick up the slack. I'm sure you'll fit right in."

"Right. Thanks."

"And, obviously, I'm around a lot, so if you ever need anything, just give me a shout. I'm happy to help."

Happy to make me feel like a total idiot, more like.

"Cool" is all the reply I can muster. The kettle finally boiled, I finish making my tea and decide that surely now I'm allowed to leave without looking rude.

I give Lloyd another lackluster attempt at a smile, pick up my tea, and…don't leave.

I just stand there, like an idiot, grimacing at him and clutching my mug of tea, desperately trying not to ask him if our night together really meant so little to him that he's forgotten me. The longer I stand there, the thicker the air gets, threatening to swallow me whole. It almost crackles, electric. Like if I move, I'll get a shock. Something tells me that the moment I leave, that's when this is well and truly over, Friday night never happened.

Lloyd's casual smile fades, replaced by something confused and unsure. A maddening, fleeting impulse makes me want to reach out and smooth his expression out with my fingertips.

It's not a good look on him. It's too serious. Not at all right for the lighthearted, quippy boy with his easy laughter and stories of a golden childhood. It makes him look like a stranger.

Which, I suppose, he is.

I grip my mug a little tighter, gathering the willpower to leave, knowing that he probably looks like that because I'm the stranger to him, and I think it's obvious I'm one wrong move away from crying.

"Annalise—"

He starts toward me, one hand outstretched.

And the moment's gone when a small group of people walk into the kitchen, chattering animatedly. They toss us friendly smiles and one says, "Hi, Lloyd," which is when I realize he has not only lowered his hand but also taken a step back. The tension clogging the air has cleared, the electricity gone, making me wonder if it had even been there if these people are so completely oblivious to it.

Lloyd collects his things as I gather the last fragments of hope that we might be able to rekindle last Friday night, and we fall into step as we leave the kitchen.

He clears his throat. "So, um, any plans for the weekend?"

He's not asking me if I have plans because he wants to ask me out. This, I've learned, is just office small talk; it must be the eighteenth time I've been asked this question today by someone who doesn't really care about the answer but is being polite.

So I give him the same answer I've given everybody else who's asked: "A bunch of us are going out tonight, a bit of a catch-up on our first week. Celebratory or conciliatory drinks, as required."

"Oh, right. Of course." We come to a stop near the lifts and Lloyd hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck and then shifting his hand up to tousle his hair. A shiver runs down my spine, remembering how it felt when that was my hand at the nape of his neck, his silk-soft curls between my fingers.

"See you around," I tell him, like I did last Friday night, but this time it's less sorry, less hopeful, and comes out sounding bitter— brittle.

Something flickers across his face, but only for a moment, making me wonder if I imagined that, too. I turn to leave, but not before I see that the smile on his face doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Yeah. See you around."