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A normal person would.

But I don’t feel normal. I feel hot and angry and restless, like I’m impatiently scratching a match to no avail, waiting for a spark that refuses to catch.

The restaurant is lovely, the food delicious, Andrew is pleasant company, smart and accomplished and courteous. This should be perfect. But there’s something missing, a smooth nothing where there should be friction.

I try to push the thought away. The evening winds down the way it’s supposed to, no missteps, no awkward pauses. Afterwards, Andrew is considerate enough not to suggest an after-dinner drink, not to push for anything more than I’m willing to give. He helps me into my coat and holds the door open like the perfect gentleman he is.

Outside, the city is cold and glittering under a thin sheen of frost. Andrew hesitates just slightly, standing close but not too close, watching me with a quiet, waiting confidence. His hand brushes my waist, the lightest touch, more question than assumption.

Inevitably, he leans in. I close my eyes, selling the moment to myself, the gold lamplight and cold air and wine-drowsy softness like a movie scene. I brace myself for the kiss, ready to accept it, to force myself to enjoy it.

I tilt my chin up, let him close the distance—

Something inside me snaps. My body, unthinking and nervous with need, still attuned to someone else. My stomach drops.

I jerk back so fast I almost slip on ice, reaching out to catch myself against a lamp post, cheeks burning, eyes wide, breath coming out in short puffs.

A ghost hand on my waist, warm and strong, skin drenched in sun, veins running up a powerful forearm, a phantom mouth near my ear, and, unbidden, the echo of a voice, words bitten off between white teeth, a cocky, commanding American drawl.

You will always be mine.

Andrew moves back, startled, searching my face with a confused gaze.

“Sophie? Are you alright?”

I force a brittle smile, speak too quickly, too lightly, my discomfort and panic painfully obvious.

“Yes, um, I’m so sorry, I just—I don’t feel—I’d better go.”

All I want is to turn and run away, as far from him and this excruciating moment as I can get, but that would be cowardly, and impolite, and completely unfair, so I force myself to stay despite my hot cheeks and burning eyes and clenched stomach.

“I’m so sorry, Andrew,” I tell him in a low, tight voice. “I had a lovely night. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He sighs. “It’s alright. You need more time, that’s all.”

He waits with me, hailing a cab. His politeness despite everything somehow makes me feel a hundred times more pathetic. When the cab pulls up, he opens the door for me, and I stop before I get in, turning to look him in the eyes.

“I’m sorry. I really am.”

Andrew studies me for a moment, then gives me a small, wry smile, something knowing and just a little sad.

“Well,” he says, voice quiet, resigned. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve liked a girl who’s already in love with someone else.”

35

Cult Leader

Sophie

I’m too shaken upand restless from the date to go home, and I end up in the last place I ever thought I’d find myself on a random Saturday night: Alice Liu’s hotel suite.

Trust Alice to be renting a hotel suite rather than an apartment. It’s beautiful, of course: white walls, ornate panelling, low sofas and tall Parisian-style windows, and ironwork balconies overlooking Cambridge.

It looks surprisingly lived-in: the king-sized bed is slightly rumpled, strewn with satin cushions, there are fresh hydrangeas in the vases, perfume bottles and jewellery boxes on top of the dresser. A silk robe is draped over the arm of a chaise, books and case files stacked over the marble-top coffee table, a closed laptop next to half-burnt candles.

Alice is wearing a tiny Miu Miu set in opal-pink silk, gold under-eye patches, her hair braided into pigtails. Even ready for bed, she looks pristinely put-together. She grabs a bottle of white burgundy and two glasses, and we flump down onto her bed, which smells exactly like her: like Damask roses and milky soap.

“So,” she says, relaxing into her cushions with her glass of wine. “Bad date?”