I hadn’t heard anything from him all afternoon, so I texted him a few minutes ago: Hope interview went well! A moment or two later he replied:
Great!
So I texted him again: Fantastic! You’ll be boss before you know it!
And I was going to leave it there. But then I thought, maybe it’s easier to address the situation by text than face-to-face? Maybe I should say the things I want to say? So I plucked up all my courage and typed:
What now?
In case he didn’t understand what I meant, I sent a quick follow-up:
Where are you going to live now that you have a job? Because the offer’s open to come to mine.
I sent it, then worried that I was being too pushy. So I sent a quick additional text:
Only if you want to.
There was silence for a while. I stared at the screen breathlessly, my heart thudding, my fingers clenching the phone, waiting…waiting…
And then it happened! The miracle! He replied:
Totally. Awesome. Let’s make it happen. Soon!
That’s what he actually wrote. I’ve read it about twenty times, to make sure. He wants to move in with me. Ryan Chalker wants to move in with me!
I mean, in some ways it’s no surprise. I’ve felt like we’re on a more stable footing ever since he said he wished I’d come back to L.A. with him. Even so, I hadn’t realized quite how tense I was, how fearful that I was misreading everything. But the evidence is here in my phone. In black-and-white. He wants to commit. He wants to take things to the next level. He wants everything I want!
I should go into the club—I’m already late—but I can’t bear to break off our correspondence, even though I know he’s on the way here. My fingers are moving speedily over the keys as I pour my heart out:
Ryan, this is the beginning of something amazing. A whole new life. You and me. I’ll stand by you as you forge your new career. I’ll help you any way I can. You can bring all your stuff over anytime and we’ll celebrate properly!!
I send the text, then I can’t resist adding a P.S.:
I’m so happy!!!!
Finally I compose another text, with no words but lots of emojis of champagne glasses clinking and little houses and love hearts.
I love emojis. They just, like, say it.
At last I put my phone away and head toward the entrance, beaming at the most intimidating doorman. No one can cast me down. No one can puncture my bubble of joy. Ryan wants to move in with me! He wants intimacy. He wants stability. He wants it soon. He actually typed that word: Soon!
As I enter the bar, I breathe a contented sigh and wave at Leila, who is looking ravishing in a silk cream dress and Louis Vuitton logo pumps. I’m in the same old black dress I always wear, but I’ve cracked open the satin knickers I got in my stocking at Christmas. So that’s something.
I head over to where she’s sitting with Jake, marveling anew at how amazing this place is. The carpet has a luxury softness. The chairs are heavy and stylish and sleek. The lighting glows and sparkles all around the place. The bar is made of copper. And the drinks are about fifteen quid each. Which slightly makes me want to faint—fifteen quid for one glassful of something?—except that Jake’s already said he’s paying tonight. I mean, fair enough. It’s his choice to come here. But I’d be as happy with a bottle of pinot grigio at home. (And I think Leila would too.)
As I kiss them both, I see there’s a bottle of champagne on the table already, and Jake pours me a glass. We clink glasses, then Jake and Leila resume their conversation about some sofa that Jake saw in the Conran Shop.
“I’m ordering it,” he says. “That leather is like butter. You can go and look at it if you like, but I’m ordering it.”
“We could look online for a more reasonable one,” Leila ventures, but Jake scowls.
“I’m not buying some knockoff. We’re having the real thing.”
I’ve never even been into the Conran Shop, so I can’t comment. Instead, I lean back and soak up the atmosphere. Music is pulsing through the air—and even that sounds bespoke and special, as if there’s some band that only plays for millionaires in private members’ clubs. Everything here is designed to make you feel