“You're a lifesaver. Thank you.”
Half an hour later I'm walking into the Trafalgar Club, a private gym about a hundred yards from Embankment tube station. The building echoes to the sound of balls slamming against walls, and the muffled noise of the swimming pool. It's surprisingly unpretentious. I have to admit that when Callum gave me directions I was fully expecting one of those five-hundred pounds a month gyms where girls walk around wearing less clothes than they would in Ibiza.
But it’s clearly a working gym. Though it has its fair share of slightly overweight businessmen missing every ball that's served to them, as I walk past the courts I'm impressed with most of the games I see. At the back of the building, I find the members' bar. Clutching a manila folder close to my chest I scan the room. Every table is taken, filled with after-work drinkers who look ready to kick back and relax.
“Amy.” A voice calls from my left. I swing around in time to see Callum stand to greet me, a pint of bitter in his hand. “We're over here, come and join us.”
We turns out to be Callum and Daniel, with no sign of his entourage. Both men have slightly flushed faces, their hair still damp from showering. But it isn't their cleanliness that draws my eye—and that of every other woman in the bar. It's their natural elegance and indifference to scrutiny. They seem to harness a raw, almost dangerous, confidence.
“Hi.” I pass Callum the folder and he flicks through it casually. While he's checking the contents I turn to Daniel, who's drinking what looks like a pint of orange juice. “Who won?”
Daniel smiles. “It was a draw.”
“Bollocks.” Callum puts the folder on the table and grabs his wallet. “Would you like a drink?”
It takes a moment to realise he's talking to me. Then when I do, I feel a blush steal up my chest and neck. It only deepens when I look up and really see him for the first time. Water droplets cling to his dark red hair, dripping on to his unbuttoned collar. His jaw is shadowed with stubble that stops halfway down his throat, leading to pale, unblemished skin.
“A drink?” he prompts again.
“Yes... no, are you sure?” I babble. “You two probably have lots to talk about.”
“Join us, please. I don't know about Callum, but I could do with a break from business talk.” Daniel leans back, stretching his arm across the back of the chair. I notice a racquetball-shaped bruise on his left bicep and wince. I'm guessing they didn't go easy on each other.
“Okay,” I say, taking a seat in the chair next to Callum. “Can I have a glass of white wine, please?”
“Coming up.” Callum turns and walks to the bar, and from this vantage point I realise he's wearing jeans. I wonder if he keeps a spare set here or if somebody brought them over for him. That fires my imagination; I start to speculate whether he has a girlfriend or wife. There haven't been any female callers to the office, and there are no photographs on his desk, yet somehow I can't picture a man like him being alone. Instead I picture a tall, blonde girlfriend, an ice-queen with Slavic cheekbones and crystal blue eyes. A contrast to his muscles and dark red, messy hair.
“... college?”
I catch the last word of Daniel's question and turn to him in horror. “I'm sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?”
He bites down what looks like a smirk. “I asked you what you liked best, work or college. Callum told me you've just joined him as an intern.”
“I'm not sure yet,” I tell him. “It's been a bit of a baptism of fire if I'm honest. There's definitely something nice about putting all that theory into practice but...” I trail off, shrugging. “I kind of like learning the theory, too, you know?”
We get into a discussion about the college system in the US, and Daniel confesses he never finished his final year. He tells me about the part-time stock market speculation that grew and grew until he couldn't find the time for school work. It's strange, because I'm sitting here talking to the sort of entrepreneur I've been studying, and yet he puts me totally at ease.
“So tell me.” He leans closer. “What do you really think of Callum?”
“I... um...”
“She called me a fox.” Callum hands me the wine glass, and grins broadly at me. “Did I get it right?”
“That wasn't me,” I protest, remembering that stupid instant message I sent to Charlie. “It was somebody else.”
He's still grinning as he sits down, grabbing his beer and taking a long mouthful. “I didn't see you disagreeing.”
“A fox? As in a little ratty animal that...” Daniel prompts.
“Eats shit and empties dustbins.” I finish for him.
“Well, I was going to say trash can, but you're pretty much there.”
We both turn to look at Callum. Two mouthfuls of wine have started to mellow me, lending a glow that suffuses my body. I like the way they're making me feel as though I'm their equal, even though hierarchy and experience tell me I'm anything but. In the morning, I might regret this, but for now I'm having fun.
Callum's staring at me. It isn't the casual glance of an acquaintance, or the quick flicker of a disinterested observer. His scrutiny feels stronger and deeper, as if he's assessing and calculating. “She also called me an elitist arsehole.” His eyes don't waver as he speaks. I find myself watching his lips, the way they move and curve around each syllable.
“You called me mouthy and opinionated,” I say, softly. It feels as if the whole room is burning, heat soaking into my skin. “Does that make us even?”