Ross noticed the dreary girl waving at him, and realised with a start that he’d seen her already this morning. She had walked past the gym. Presumably she lived in the poky little flat next to it, although it would be a stretch on her salary; he had seen it advertised at £1,500 a month. He hoped she was his neighbour, because otherwise, she must be stalking him. He shuddered at the thought. Tall, flat-chested redheads would never be his type. Shapely green-eyed blondes were a different matter. He must return to the Diamonds casino soon, see Kat again and ask her out. She’d really appreciated being offered champagne last night, although she’d said sorrowfully that she wasn’t allowed to drink at work. They had chatted for a while, though, about mathematics and probability and cards. It was refreshing to meet a woman who understood him, especially such a stunner.
It had been a lucky night. Ross had only visited Diamonds because a group of friends were going. While he regularly supplemented his salary with online poker winnings, he hadn’t expected to make money at the casino. Chance was against him, as he had explained to the attentive Kat. To his surprise, he had pocketed several hundred pounds during the evening, as well as enjoying a free bar. He grinned to himself. He would definitely be back.
It was annoying that the coffee machine next to his desk was out of order, all the more because the dreary girl had decided to join him at this one.
“Hi,” she said.
He gritted his teeth. “Hi.”
“I’m Amy from Marketing,” she said, extending a hand.
He didn’t take it. “Ross,” he said, curtly.
“Where do you work, Ross?”
He gazed around the open plan area. “What do you think? I’m here at Veritable, like you.”
“I mean, which function?” She seemed to be sensing his reluctance, because she said, “Oh, I remember. You’re an actuary. Kat told me.”
He stared at her, open-mouthed, flattered that Kat would talk about him but wondering why she’d chosen to do so with Amy. “How do you know her?” he asked.
“She’s my flatmate,” Amy said.
Ross laughed. In an effort to hide his excitement, he remarked, “Two of you? There’s barely room to swing a kitten in there.” He recalled visiting the small basement flat when a caretaker had lived there, before the freeholder for the block realised how much money could be made by renting it out. If Amy shared the flat, that explained how she could afford to rent in Fitzrovia. Even so, she might have a trust fund, or rich parents. He’d heard rumours that the CEO had given a junior marketing job to a young relative. Perhaps it was her.
Ross could imagine himself as CEO one day. Like David Saxton, he would be a commanding presence, strolling through the office as if he owned it, driving a Jag, giving interviews to the Financial Times. “I hear Davey Saxton has a niece in the marketing department,” he said to Amy.
She shrugged. Maybe it wasn’t true, then. It certainly couldn’t be her. Her voice had a common edge, betraying state school origins in London, or more likely a dull dormitory town nearby. Saxton’s family would doubtless send their offspring to be privately educated, as Ross had been himself. He opened the small fridge next to the coffee machine and made a pretence of looking for milk, so he no longer needed to make eye contact with Amy and she would see their conversation was at an end.