Jacob doesn't plan to look into the whole Starrick-expo-sponsor thing himself. That's what he has people for. As far as he's concerned, there is literally no point in being in charge if you can't abuse the hell out of your position every now and then.
"Ned, my good man," he says, poking his head into Wynert's darkly-lit office. "Looking sharp today."
Wynert is intently watching a glowing wall of security footage, his arms folded. "What do you want, Frye?"
"An erotic Swedish massage from Emma Watson," Jacob replies instantly. "Also, I brought you coffee."
Wynert extends his arm to accept the coffee without looking away from the screens. "I meant what do you want from me, you twit."
"Definitely not an erotic Swedish massage." Jacob likes to think of Wynert as the Q to his James Bond. That is, of course, if James Bond hailed from Crawley, favoured beer, and had never seen a real tuxedo in his life. And if Q had much scarier friends. "But a 'thank you' might be nice. Also, I'd like to find out what connection Starrick Financial Industries has with the tech expo we're covering next week."
That gets his attention. "Why?"
"Need-to-know basis, Wynert."
"So you don't have a good reason?"
"Maybe I have a very good reason that I'm just not telling you."
Wynert raises his eyebrows. "I highly doubt it."
"Maybe the reason is that I'm your boss, you Yankee dickhead."
Turning back to his screens, Wynert heaves a sigh of the deeply-aggrieved. "These are abusive working conditions. I'll file a complaint."
"You wouldn't dare."
Wynert kicks the door shut in his face. "I brought you coffee!" Jacob yells through it.
Later that day, when Jacob and his rowdy team rock back into the office post-training exercise, he finds a post-it note with Wynert's precise writing on his desk.
Crawford (shit name, wow) Starrick is cousins with Pearl Attaway, head of Attaway Transport. AT is doing a highly anticipated first demonstration of prototype self-driving cars at expo. The two companies have recently been seen in business negotiations. I can dig up more but that's the basics. Why are you looking into this?
Jacob smiles. He should have asked Evie for two weeks of dishes.
He can tell that Evie is already home from the muted sounds of the TV through the front door. She's hunched over on the sofa, back to the door as he shuffles in.
Her voice is a bit muffled. "Cottage pie in the oven."
Jacob freezes as he's pulling his shoes off. Cottage pie is comfort food, Evie's go-to in the face of adversity. It was their Mother's recipe, and Evie only bothers with it when she's particularly feeling the need for the reassuring embrace of childhood.
He gently edges into the room until he can see her properly. She's got something in her lap, and when he moves a bit further he can see that she's under a blanket, eating Ben and Jerry's straight out of the tub. That's bad.
She shifts a little to lift the remote and he sees that the tattered grey tracksuit has made an appearance. Fuck. This is DEFCON 1, everyone. Stay calm.
"Is everything okaaaaay…?" he asks, voice trailing off.
She stabs her spoon into the ice cream with a little more force than is probably necessary. "Starrick's personal assistant is a cow," she spits out. "I made a fifteen-minute mistake in the scheduling software today and she came out and fucking screamed at me in front of everyone." She stuffs the ice cream in her mouth. "She threatened to have me let go, Jacob. I've barely got a basic list of Starrick's associates and I haven't even gotten close to getting into the good stuff, and this- this bitch- is shrieking at me that I'm incompetent because I made one stupid little mistake on my third day."
Jacob snorts. Evie is many things- nosy and tone deaf, for example- but incompetent is not one of them.
"She insulted my education and my intelligence and even accused 'my generation' of being lazy even though she can't possibly be more than five years older than us, and- hang on, where are you going?"
She looks over at him as he laces his shoes back up. He slings his bag back over his shoulder and shrugs. "To assassinate her, obviously. What else am I good for?"
She blinks at him and half-smiles.
He grabs his keys. "I really think tea isn't going to cut it, so I'm going to pop down to the off-license and get some wine before they close."
"Cool," she mumbles, already hunched back over her ice cream. "Something red, please."
So much for a relaxing night, he thinks, as he trots down the stairs. Oh well. At least he'll get some cottage pie for supper.
A full plate of meat and potatoes, the rest of the ice cream, and four big glasses of Merlot later, Jacob has mostly talked Evie down from the ledge.
"Just remember," he says, patting her reassuringly on the knee, "She's Lucy Thorne, Personal Assistant to Some Guy, AKA Nobody. You're Evie Frye, Intrepid Reporter and Writer Extraordinaire. She doesn't know it but she's completely outclassed."
Evie nods vaguely and hums. She looks like she's about to fall asleep, and the credits of Raiders of the Lost Ark are finally rolling. He's seen the film so many times that he can quote the whole damned thing word for word, but it's her favourite, so he figured he could deal with it.
His mobile buzzes. FREDDY (WITH THE HOT BUTT) is lit up across the screen.
When he swipes the alert open, some of the old messages are displayed:
Shift ends at 6, where are we meeting?
ill find u at scot yrd south exit
Sure, see you then.
Hey it was nice to see you last night.
I'm at Pret near your office, want anything?
Work is terrible today. Serious asshole parade.
What is it about Mondays?
Along with the newest one:
Are you getting these messages?
Jacob sighs and chews the inside his cheek, thumb tapping at the screen.
Evie is looking at him curiously, so he stuffs the mobile back in his pocket for now. "Work stuff," he mutters, hoping he sounds casual. "Now are we putting on the next one or will you let me watch the Leicester City game?"
They do put on the next movie, but Indy has barely managed to parachute out of the first plane before Evie's fallen completely asleep.
Jacob hauls her to her bed like a deadweight, tossing her on top of the covers. He even goes back to leave some water and paracetamol for when she wakes up, partly he's a good brother, but also because she's done this for him a frankly embarrassing number of times.
Stripping down to his pants and dragging his duvet and pillow from the corner wardrobe, he turns out the lights and tries to close his eyes and relax.
He can't settle, even though the neighbourhood is remarkably quiet for once. After twenty minutes of tossing and turning, he finally sighs and reaches for the trousers that he chucked on the floor, digging his mobile out of the pocket.
There are two more messages from Freddy.
If you don't want to see me that's ok.
I just want to know.
Jacob cringes a little. Freddy can remarkably direct over text, given how shy he is in person.
It isn't that Jacob doesn't like Freddy. In fact, the problem is rather the opposite. He likes Freddy. He likes Freddy a lot.
They first ran into each other in neighbouring lanes in a shooting range. Jacob was initially a bit nervous when he learned that Freddy was Sergeant Abberline; coppers don't tend to look very kindly on his chosen profession. But Freddy, as it turned out, wasn't an average cop.
After a few different sessions comparing shots, Jacob found himself asking Freddy if he wanted to grab a pint. Freddy looked awkward and surprised (Jacob would later learn that this was not personal; Freddy looked like that a lot) but said yes.
This became a regular habit until one evening, they had a few too many- or maybe just enough- and ended up snogging in an alleyway.
They started to meet up more often after that. They had coffee in some of the painfully earnest hipster cafes that seem to pop up and disappear at a furious rate in Soho. They checked out some seedy concerts and Jacob had to bully Freddy to stop him from arresting people for drug use. Freddy took him as a date to a friend's costume party; Jacob went as Victorian Sherlock, and Freddy reduced Jacob to tears of laughter when he showed up fully decked out as an old woman.
Freddy is hilarious, in his own strange way. He's kind and a good kisser. Even his agonizing awkwardness tickles Jacob in all the right ways.
The issue is that even though Freddy is only a few years older than Jacob, he feels like there's a much bigger gulf in development. Freddy has a mortgage and a car. He probably knows what his credit score is. He doesn't make out with random strangers at bars, and Jacob knows without having to ask that Freddy wants a family. It's intimidating as fuck and it's starting to make Jacob anxious.
He looks at the glowing screen of his mobile again. Sry, he types out, v. busy week. It's painfully inadequate and he knows it. He presses send anyway.
After a moment's hesitation, he quickly types out dinner nxt week? and presses send again before he can lose his nerve.
His phone buzzes almost immediately, which means that Freddy must have been waiting for a response. It makes Jacob feel like the world's biggest asshole.
Hey no problem. I understand.
And again,
Sure. Tuesday?
Sounds good c u then, Jacob types back, and tosses his phone back on the ground with a groan.
Staring at the ceiling, he suddenly realizes that he never got a chance to tell Evie about Starrick and Attaway transport. Making a mental note to grab her before she leaves in the morning, he curls into the couch.
When he falls asleep, he dreams of convincing an embarrassed, somewhat hairy (and yet still handsome) sergeant to dance.