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“Can I book you again?” I typed. “Properly. I won’t panic this time. I promise.”
The dots went for a long time.
“You want to book me. Knowing it’s me.”
“Knowing it’s you is the whole point.”
Another long pause. I imagined her on the other side of Manchester, in bed, staring at her phone with her eyebrows up.
“That’s either the most romantic or the most mental thing a client’s ever said to me. Possibly both.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a let me think about it.” Then, ten minutes later: “Here’s the thing, Ben. If you book me, you get Sienna. Sienna is great. Sienna is very, very good at her job. Sienna does not cry at Toy Story 3 with you or tell your sister anything.”
“And if I don’t book you?”
“Then you get Tess. And Tess is a lot more complicated, and she has opinions, and she might not want to be paid by someone she’s known since she was twenty-one.”
I read it four times.
“So which one is it?” I typed.
“Your choice. You booked. You decide. Tomorrow night, same time. Or I can just say goodnight and we’ll pretend this conversation was a dream.”
I looked at the ceiling. I looked at the envelope, still on the kitchen counter, still full.