Anything for Love

Chapter 1

I am a legend. A force to be reckoned with. An icon.

I am also someone who just dribbled caramel latte down her black, AllSaints, recycled-wool-blend, dry-clean-only coat. Regardless, that does not change the fact that I, Sophie Smalls, just happen to be a marketing genius. A brand behemoth. A badass pitch-bitch.

I pause at the traffic lights wondering whether it would be weird to high-five myself in the middle of City Road.

Probably not. Everyone in London is too busy being busy to care.

Too busy to notice that they are in the presence of marketing greatness.

I had three weeks to implement a new marketing strategy for the dating app Flirt First, which allows the user to connect based on initial flirting rather than photos.

It was challenging, given that the idea is bloody awful, but the client, Eddie Bailey, a forty-year-old man with the personality of a brick, loved it, especially the potential influencer partnerships.

To be fair, some influencers are brilliant and very business savvy, but some would partner up with Guantánamo Bay if they got a free orange jumpsuit out of it.

Excitedly, I call my best friend, Naomi, to tell her the news. She’s my oldest friend from Whitby and the best person I know. For thirty years she has been there for me, come rain or shine. I can always count on her. She is my rock.

She doesn’t pick up.

I try again. Straight to voicemail. I don’t bother leaving a message as I know she won’t listen to it.

According to Naomi, only people with landlines and fond memories of dial-up internet still check their voicemails.

Everyone else just waits for the imminent text which, of course, I send three seconds later.

Gimme a call when you get a min. I have good news.

It’s fine, I tell myself, she’s obviously up to her eyes in it as usual.

I’m sure I would be too if I had a husband, twin six-year-old sons and two dogs named Sid and Nancy to contend with.

Our lives couldn’t be more different on paper.

She’s an outgoing, artistic, chicken-owning, tattooed mother while I can barely draw a circle, don’t even have my ears pierced and live alone.

As friends, we shouldn’t work but somehow, we do.

In our second year at the University of Westminster, Fine Arts student Naomi was getting engaged to Philip, while I was doing shots in the student union bar and rocking low-rise jeans which, these days, I wouldn’t be able to get over my calves.

At twenty-nine, I was scraping together a deposit for a tiny, one-bedroom flat, while Naomi was happily feeding chickens at her cottage just outside of Whitby.

At thirty-five, while I was fighting to get promoted, she was struggling to get pregnant.

Ten years, one huge promotion and twin baby boys later, we are both exactly where we want to be.

I do miss her, even though she comes to London three or four times a year.

I think deep down I still yearn for our student days.

Life was fun back then. Hell, I was fun!

These days, between work, bills and the monotony of routine, there isn’t a whole lot of time for fun.

When the green man appears, I dash across the road and head towards Old Street underground, tossing my empty coffee cup with its dodgy lid into the bin outside.

As usual, it’s mobbed, a sea of miserable commuters with blue Oyster cards moving swiftly through the barriers.

I breathe through my mouth as I’m squashed against a man who smells like beer and an untreated infection.

Still, only an hour until I get home to my mortgaged-up-to-the-eyeballs one-bedroom flat with a splendid view from my bedroom of my neighbour Pete’s fish van.

Sometimes I think it would be easier to live in the centre of London like some of the younger staff in the office but then I remember that I’m forty-five and would rather live in Pete’s fish van than deal with flatmates.

The tube reaches Edgware and I try Mum’s mobile.

I haven’t spoken to her in a couple of weeks.

She doesn’t answer either. Unlike Naomi, Pamela Smalls doesn’t have anything to contend with unless you count ‘liking strangers’ photos on Facebook for no reason’ as a viable pursuit.

Failing that, she’s probably out with Derek or George or whoever she’s dating these days, I can’t keep up.

Even at (an admittedly young-looking) sixty-four, she hasn’t given up on finding the one, even if the one is still living next door to his eighty-year-old mother (I’m looking at you, George) and has an active interest in duck herding.

I guess when you’re widowed at fifty, you have one of two choices: have hope that you’ll be happy with someone again or remain alone for the rest of your days.

Mum and Dad got married at eighteen and I was born ten months later.

Mum has never been truly alone a day in her life.

Still, I cannot believe I have no one to brag to about my amazing day, which, now I think about it, doesn’t seem quite as awesome as duck herding. You win this one, George.

Unfazed, I stop on the way home at the Tesco Express to grab some wine and bottled water to complement the huge tikka masala I plan to order from the Old Delhi restaurant on the high street.

While it’s not a particularly fiery dish, my spice tolerance is embarrassingly low.

I once had dinner at a fusion restaurant where I mistakenly ordered a spicy Pad Thai.

Three forkfuls in, I thrust my tongue directly into a glass of water and left it there while my date quickly realised I was probably not the one for him.

Finally home, I kick off my shoes and proceed to the kitchen, where I sponge the coffee stain from the front of my coat.

My kitchen is messier than it needs to be.

I live alone with no pets and no frequent parties, so realistically I have no excuse to be living like an eighteen-year-old boy who has the house to himself while his parents are away.

I stare at the dishes in the sink and briefly wonder whether my washing machine could double as a dishwasher.

After a quick shower, I get into my pyjamas and dressing gown, like any sensible woman over forty would.

On Saturday night Deliveroo is known to take an additional three weeks to arrive, but the wine I purchased (two cheeky eight-quid chardonnay) has already been opened and sampled (half a glass to make sure I definitely like it) while I keep one watchful eye on the app’s delivery tracker.

I waste my time scrolling through Netflix and Prime Video, looking for my evening entertainment, already knowing that I’ll just rewatch The White Lotus because Jennifer Coolidge makes everything better.

Three hours and four (small) glasses (OK, large) of wine later, I check my phone to see if anyone has returned my calls, texted or even WhatsApped me a funny video clip.

Scare pranks are my favourite, though I will accept anything with Pedro Pascal or a porcupine making cute noises while they eat pumpkin.

Sadly, there’s absolutely nothing. God, I used to have a social life.

I miss having a real-life friend group and not just names on a screen.

There’s an Instagram notification informing me that my old university friend Jackie is live and no doubt wowing everyone with the filtered good side of her face while she bores on about hot yoga and armpit masks.

I’m not sure why I keep following her but most of my Instagram friends are people I went to university with, some work colleagues, a few friends and of course my mum.

She doesn’t use it much, though, and can’t quite grasp the newness of it all despite it being around since 2010.

Facebook is easier for her, and she’d be quite lost without the local gossip group, or ‘The Real Housewives of Whitby’ as they like to call themselves.

It’s just an excuse to complain about potholes, dog poo and the local receptionist at the medical centre who won’t let you near a consulting room without knowing the gravitational status of your pelvic floor.

I dismiss Jackie’s notification, open Instagram and start scrolling.

Celeste Barber dancing, a cat video that Naomi liked, Kieran from work with his new girlfriend Charlotte, and another university friend Kara with some friends, looking gorgeous.

How is it possible that in the past twenty years she’s only aged three of them?

As my eyes catch the post description, my heart gives a little flutter, a very particular flutter that I haven’t felt in years.

Amazing night at @Maya1987 and @charlieFox76 engagement party!

I yank my phone closer to my face, and peer at the man in the middle. Could it possibly be him? Tall, dirty-blond hair and a smile that, when directed my way, used to make me giggle like an absolute idiot who had never seen the opposite sex before.

It’s definitely him. Charlie Fox. Two years above me at university and the main reason I wore those bloody low-rise jeans when I hung around the student union bar.

He was charming, funny and the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen.

I was madly in love with him, and he never knew.

I’ve never longed so hard for another human being in my life.

Perhaps if I’d had the guts to tell him how I felt back then, things might have been different.