This wasweird. She tried to avoid staring up at Tom’s face, which was glowing and flushed, his cheekbones highlighted pink.
His lips were parted as he struggled to slow his breathing. Rachel had never really looked at them before, but they were full, plush – almost feminine, with a steep Cupid’s bow. His bottom lip dipped slightly in the centre, as if aware of its own ample size and seeking to shrink itself for fear of being noticed.
Disconcerted, Rachel cast her eyes downwards, faking exhaustion so severe she couldn’t speak. She immediately wished she hadn’t. Tom’s navy T-shirt had ridden up above the waistline of his black shorts to reveal a sliver of stomach. Beneath smooth skin a few shades darker than her own, Rachel detected muscle.Abs. Further up, the T-shirt was sticking to his chest, implying solid planes and hollows that Rachel had never imagined might be there.
Whoa.Was this the sort of random, inappropriate hormonal surge Rachel’s mum had told her about? Was this her ovaries agitating for action? Dazed and dumb, Rachel looked down at her feet, cursing her mother and her dire warnings. Whether their effects were real or psychosomatic, this was embarrassing.
‘Ugh, I’m gross, I’m sorry,’ Tom said, breaking the silence. He pulled his top away from his torso and let it settle again, no longer plastered to his skin. Rachel felt her breathing begin to ease.
‘Oh God, me too,’ she said, and she meant it. She was annoyed that Tom was seeing her sweaty and knackered, though her vanity made no sense at all given the various coughs, colds and hangovers he’d seen her suffer over the years.
‘How’s it going, then?’ Tom asked. ‘The running, I mean.’
‘Oh, not bad. I still feel like I’m going to expire every time I come out, but I think I’m getting better. I’m definitely going to complete the programme – there’s a bottle of gin riding on it, after all.’
Tom grinned at her. ‘Good for you. Make sure you choose something expensive.’
There was a pause, during which it seemed each of them was waiting for the other to speak.
‘I didn’t know you ran,’ Rachel said eventually.Eek.Pathetic.
‘Yeah.’ He was pulling at his T-shirt again. ‘I do 10K a couple of times a week if I can. Clears the head.’
Rachel nodded but stayed silent, afraid she might come out with something else idiotic.
‘Well. I’d better get on,’ Tom said, pushing his hair off his forehead. His usual waves, damp with perspiration, had spiralled into proper curls – the kind you could fit your finger inside. ‘Sorry again if I freaked you out. No doubt I’ll see you in the week. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have the date of the first photo shoot for the exhibition confirmed, in case you want to come along?’
‘Sounds great,’ Rachel said. ‘Happy running.’ She watched him as he jogged away, picked up speed and eventually disappeared. As soon as he was out of sight she winced, wondering what on earth had possessed her to say ‘Happy running’.
She shook herself, stuck her headphones back in her ears and got going again. God, that had been strange. Silly, really – it wasn’t as if she didn’tknowTom was attractive.
But Rachel didn’t think of Tom that way. She never had. He was her friend – not some random bloke to be ogled momentarily as he went by. Tom was … solid. Permanent. Important.
As her feet pounded the cold pavement, Rachel reassured herself that it was her mother’s wild prophesying, rather than the sight of Tom in running gear, that had sent her thoughts spiralling in a direction she’d never have expected.
By the time she got home, she was sure of it.
14
Rachel got to work early on Monday morning, after a disturbed night full of odd dreams. She was awake before seven without need of her alarm, and reasoned that – since rest was determined to elude her – she might as well get up. Getting to the office before Jack was motivation enough, in any case.
When Rachel arrived at work, however, Jack was already at his desk. He was on the phone, listening hard, his eyes cast down and his mouth set in a grim line.
Once Rachel was settled at her desk, she caught his eye and made a cup-tipping motion with her right hand, mouthing ‘Coffee?’ Jack gave her a grateful thumbs up.
It was 8.40 a.m. by Rachel’s watch, and the only other people in the office were Neil from the tech team and Ivan, the agency’s IT guy. The kitchen was similarly deserted. Rachel placed one R/C mug and then another beneath the spout of the coffee machine, pressing theAmericanobutton twice.
When she returned, Jack was off the phone. She passed him his drink, leaning towards him over the join between their desks so she didn’t spill. She caught a waft of his aftershave and held her breath for a moment, determined to ignore it.
Jack’s face was inscrutable, but something in the way he was moving seemed taut and strained. He normally held himself with a sort of graceful confidence Rachel envied, but his usual easy poise seemed to have crumpled. Something was wrong, but there was no way she was going to ask what. She sat down as he murmured his thanks for the coffee, reminding herself that she shouldn’t care if he was stressed out, that whatever mess he was in, it might well be of his own making.
Rachel busied herself with reviewing all the British House and Garden Heritage materials she’d amassed so far. Mixed in with Humphrey’s brief were notes from Isaac and Greg, plus examples of the work that had been done by other, now discharged, agencies. Her own assortment of ideas – rough sketches, bullet-point lists and blocks of mocked-up text – lurked at the bottom of the thick wad of papers. She still hadn’t come up with anything she felt good about, and she and Jack needed to present their plans to Humphrey at the end of next week. Rachel scowled as she reread her own words – as if giving them the evil eye might imbue them with new, more profound meaning.
‘Penny for them?’ Jack said, and she looked up at him. The clouds had apparently cleared now; his smile was warm and teasing again, and his body back in the fluid, relaxed stance she was used to. She wished she wasn’t interested enough to notice.
‘Your thoughts,’ he clarified, grinning. ‘You’re looking at that document like you hate it – like you’re trying to set it on fire with laser beams from your eyes.’
‘Idohate it. And rather sadly I wrote the thing.’