Chapter 1 - Wednesday, London
By the time Andrew decided the wedding was a mistake, he was already two glasses of something white and forgettable in, and far enough into the evening that leaving would require a level of explanation he had no interest in providing.
Midweek weddings always carried a faint sense of logistical irritation. Not enough to object to outright, but enough to notice. The room was full without being crowded - people committed enough to attend, but not so committed that they had rearranged themselves entirely around it. Conversations had a slightly provisional quality, as though everyone had somewhere else they might reasonably be.
He stood for a while near the edge of the main room, not quite part of any group, not quite alone. There were conversations he could have joined. He didn’t. It wasn’t avoidance so much as selection. Most of what was being said didn’t require his contribution, and he had no particular interest in offering it.
After a few minutes, he turned towards the bar.
It was quieter there. Not empty, but thinner. A couple discussing something in low voices, a man checking his phone with unnecessary intensity. The bartender looked relieved to be given something to do.
‘White, please,’ Andrew said.
‘Which one?’
Andrew glanced briefly at the options. It didn’t matter. ‘That one’s fine.’
He stepped aside once the glass was handed to him, shifting slightly to make space. Someone moved in beside him - not close enough to register as intrusion, but near enough to share the same stretch of counter.
He noticed her in the same way he noticed most things in a room: quickly, without needing to look directly. Dark hair, not arranged to be remarked upon. A dress that worked for the setting without attempting to improve it. No visible effort at adjustment on arrival - no smoothing, no checking.
She ordered something - gin, from the sound of it - and thanked the bartender without looking for acknowledgment in return.
They stood for a moment in parallel silence. Not awkward. Just unoccupied.
Andrew took a sip of the wine. It was exactly what he expected it to be.
‘Midweek feels optimistic,’ he said, not turning.
There was a pause. Not hesitation. More like she was allowing the comment to land before deciding whether it was worth answering.
‘It’s a strong opening position,’ she said. ‘Assumes everyone has nothing better to do.’
Her tone was even, dry without being performative. He turned slightly, enough to look at her properly.
‘Or that they’ll pretend not to,’ he said.
‘That’s probably closer.’
She took her drink, stepping back to stand beside him rather than at the bar itself. The movement was small, unmarked. It altered the angle between them just enough that conversation became the more natural option.
Andrew didn’t introduce himself immediately. Neither did she.
‘How do you know them?’ he asked.
‘Through work,’ she said. ‘Adjacent, not central.’
‘That sounds deliberate.’
‘It is.’
He nodded once. ‘Same.’
It wasn’t strictly accurate, but it was close enough. The details didn’t matter. What mattered was that neither of them seemed inclined to perform closeness they didn’t feel.
Another brief silence followed. She didn’t fill it. She didn’t reach for a second question or attempt to extend the thread. She simply stood, as though the space between exchanges was part of the exchange.
He noticed that.
‘You’re not trying very hard,’ he said.
She glanced at him, not offended. Assessing.
‘At what?’
‘This.’
A small shift of her mouth - not quite a smile. ‘Neither are you.’
‘No.’
‘Then it’s consistent.’
There was no edge in it. Just an observation, returned.
A couple passed behind them, laughing more loudly than the room required. Someone dropped something; there was a brief scatter of attention towards the sound, then back again.
Andrew found himself still standing where he was, rather than moving on as he usually would. The bar was no longer a temporary stop. It had become, without being named as such, a place to stay.
‘How long are you here for?’ he asked.
‘Until Sunday,’ she said. ‘You?’
‘Same.’
She nodded, as though that was sufficient information.
‘And then?’
‘Boston.’
He looked at her again, more directly this time. ‘That’s specific.’
‘It usually is.’
‘Work?’
‘Yes.’
She didn’t elaborate. He didn’t ask.
There was a rhythm to the conversation that didn’t require management. Statements were offered, not extended. Questions were asked without obligation to follow through. It removed the usual layer of negotiation - what to say next, how much to reveal, whether to adjust.
‘You’re not from London,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘That helps.’
‘Does it?’
‘Slightly.’
‘You don’t like it.’
It wasn’t a question. He let the pause sit for a fraction longer than necessary.
‘Not particularly.’
‘Why?’
He considered giving the standard answer. Logistics, cost, the way the city rewarded noise over precision. All of which were true, and none of which felt entirely relevant in the moment.
‘It’s inefficient,’ he said.
She watched him for a second, as though weighing that against something else.
‘That’s not really a reason,’ she said.
‘It’s sufficient.’
‘For you.’
‘Yes.’
She accepted that without pushing further. He noticed that as well.
A man approached the bar beside them, interrupting the narrow space they had been occupying. The proximity shifted; the conversation paused without ending.
‘They’re starting to move people through,’ she said, glancing towards the main room.
‘Yes.’
Neither of them moved immediately.
Then, almost at the same time, they did.
They ended up at the same table, though not by design. A loose group had formed - friends of friends, extended acquaintances. Enough overlap to justify the arrangement, not enough to require sustained attention.
Andrew took the seat beside her without comment.
The conversation around the table was fragmented. People spoke in turns that overlapped without quite intersecting. Someone was recounting a story that had already lost its shape. Another person was trying to organise the next round of drinks.
Andrew contributed where necessary. Briefly, and only when something required clarification or correction. He didn’t attempt to carry anything.
Beside him, Aubrey did much the same.
She answered when addressed, directly and without ornament. She didn’t soften her phrasing to accommodate the room, but neither did she sharpen it. It was simply exact.
At one point, someone asked her about Boston.
‘New role?’ the woman across from them said, leaning forward with interest that was slightly too immediate.
‘Yes.’
‘Exciting.’
‘Potentially.’
The woman waited, expecting expansion. It didn’t come.
‘What will you be doing?’ she asked.
‘Managing a gallery.’
‘Oh, that sounds lovely.’
Aubrey tilted her head, just enough to suggest a difference in interpretation.
‘It can be,’ she said.
Andrew glanced at her, catching the slight adjustment in tone. Not contradiction. Just correction.
‘Emerging artists,’ she added, after a moment. ‘Mostly.’
‘That must be…’ The woman hesitated, searching for the right word. ‘Creative.’
‘It’s mostly logistical,’ Aubrey said. ‘The creative part tends to happen whether you manage it or not.’
There was a small pause. The answer hadn’t landed where it was expected to.
Andrew felt, rather than saw, the shift in the table’s attention. Not towards Aubrey in a way that made her the centre, but towards the space around her - the slight disruption of expectation.
He didn’t intervene. He didn’t need to.
‘And you?’ someone asked him.
He gave a version of his work that was accurate without being expansive. Strategy, events, partnerships. Enough to place him, not enough to invite follow - up.
Aubrey didn’t ask him anything further about it. Not immediately. Not performatively.
The conversation moved on.
At some point, plates were cleared. Glasses were replaced. The room shifted again, people standing, breaking into smaller groups.
Andrew remained seated a moment longer than necessary, finishing what was left of his drink. When he stood, she did as well, almost in parallel.
‘I’m going to get some air,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
It wasn’t an invitation. He followed anyway, not directly beside her, but close enough that it didn’t require acknowledgement.
Outside, the air was cooler than expected. The noise from inside the building softened, contained by the door closing behind them.
A small cluster of people stood near the entrance, smoking, talking in lower voices. Aubrey moved a little further away, towards the edge of the pavement where it was quieter.
Andrew joined her after a moment.
They stood without speaking for a few seconds, both facing out towards the street rather than towards each other.
‘Better,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
A car passed, its headlights briefly washing over them before moving on.
He became aware, not for the first time, that he wasn’t calibrating himself. Not adjusting tone, not selecting from a range of responses. Just… answering.
It was unusual enough to register. Not unusual enough to interrogate.
‘How long have you been in London?’ he asked.
‘Two days.’
‘And you’ve already formed a view.’
‘It doesn’t take long.’
‘No.’
She turned slightly then, angling her body more towards him. Not fully. Enough.
He held her gaze a fraction longer than was strictly necessary, then looked away, back towards the street.
The moment passed without being named.
From inside, there was a brief swell of music, then a drop again as the door closed.
‘We should probably go back in,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
Neither of them moved immediately.
Then, as before, they did.
