Page 37 of An American in London

I set the cup on the saucer with a satisfyingclinkand head back down the corridor to my desk. I’m just a few yards away when Mr.Jenkins opens his door, his eyes wide and blinking like he’s experiencing daylight for the first time. He scans Gail’s desk and, seeing it empty, his eyes narrow.

“I’ve made you a coffee, Mr. Jenkins,” I say, holding out the cup like I’m presenting him with a prize.

“You have? Don’t be telling HR.”

“Of course not,” I reply. I turn at the ping of the elevator, expecting to see Gail. Instead, Ben strides down the corridor. My heart lifts in my chest, and I’m not quite sure if it’s because it will put Mr. Jenkins in a good mood, or if it’s for my own, more selfish reasons.

I push my lips together, trying to dissuade the grin threatening to unfurl. He just looks so different in his suit from the last time I saw him padding around his Ken Dream House, but my, he wears his suit even better than he wears his sweats.

He sees me, and we lock eyes as he walks toward the two of us. My heart rate picks up speed, and I shift my balance from one foot to another. I should look away. I don’t want Mr. Jenkins to pick up on the fact Ben and I are spending time together outside the office. But somehow, I can’t, and he doesn’t seem to be able to either. It’s like we’re magnets; however hard we try to look away, basic physics means it’s impossible.

As he approaches, I back away slightly, as if I’m expecting him to grab me and kiss me right there in front of my boss. But when he’s a few feet away, Ben manages to shift his focus to Mr. Jenkins. I slip back to safety behind my desk.

“Thought it was only fair to come and congratulate you,” Ben says.

A bubble of anxiety or guilt or something fizzes in my stomach as I wonder what Mr. Jenkins needs congratulating over, when I realize they must be talking about soccer. I make a mental note to do an internet search about when Mr. Jenkins’s team plays. I flick back a page on my notepad: Chelsea.

“Very gracious of you, I must say,” Mr. Jenkins says.

“It was a good win,” Ben replies. “There’s no doubt about it.”

“Agreed. And Arsenal only lost by a fraction. Bad decision by the ref if you ask me.”

Ben nods. “Maybe.” He glances at me, and I try my best not to meet his gaze ... and fail as my eyes slide to meet his. His pupils flare, and he clears his throat before returning his focus to Mr. Jenkins. “But we have to take bad luck on the chin and focus on playing well.”

“Very good,” Mr. Jenkins says. “Very good.” He pauses and turns his attention to me. I keep my focus on the computer screen and pretend I’m not listening. “You’ve met our new project manager, haven’t you?” He narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to remember.

“Last time I was here.”

I look up at them both.

“She’s looking over some very exciting opportunities for investment in South America. I thought I might take you through them during our annual review.”

Ben nods carefully. “I’m happy to review that investment.” The way the words come out are uncomfortable. It’s as if he’s being asked a question in court and needs to be careful with every syllable. I pull out a pen and scribble a note in my notepad. There’s something about his expression I need to understand further. Just below my scribble from the first day of how Mr. Jenkins likes his coffee, I write:Ben. South America. Investments.

Ben and Mr. Jenkins trade a few more remarks about soccer, then Ben leaves without another glance at me. I’m half relieved and half disappointed.

“Was that Ben I just saw again?” Gail says as she arrives back at her desk.

“Came to congratulate me on the Chelsea game,” Mr. Jenkins says, sipping his coffee. “He’s a good man, that one.”

“We don’t normally see him so often,” she says. “Are you sure he’s not measuring the place up, getting ready to sell?”

Mr. Jenkins laughs and then stops himself. “Don’t say things like that. He gives us a good rent. We don’t want anything changing.”

Gail takes in Mr. Jenkins’s coffee cup and frowns. “Did you make your own coffee?”

“Tuesday did. Very nice too.”

I know it’s just coffee, but getting it right for him feels good. Maybe it’s not a guaranteed place on the fast track, but it can’t hurt.

Mr. Jenkins goes back to his office, and Gail returns to her desk.

“Thank you for making James’s coffee,” Gail says.

I beam at her. “It was my pleasure.”

She returns my smile, but it’s a little forced. “How are you finding London?” she asks.

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