5. Nell
5
NELL
Chloe and Mica were dead against this idea, but I think it’s brilliant.
I mean, what better way is there to prove my dedication to this internship – plus cement my general all-round hire-ability – than by rocking up on my second day with coffees for the whole team? Chloe was all, ‘Nell, I’m warning you, you’re setting a precedent. They’ll expect you to do it every day.’ And Mica was like, ‘Yeah, they’ll totally start taking advantage of you . . .’
But they both work in finance – which is clearly full of precedent-setters and advantage-takers. I mean, we’ve all seen Industry. Whereas comedy people are just . . . nice. Right?
Anyway. Yesterday, I made a mental note of what Nate, Talia, Noah, Rich, Anna and Kerri ordered at Pret, so here I am again, bright and early the following morning, ordering the exact same things – right down to Nate’s stupidly complicated half-caf-oat-milk-latte-with-a-sprinkle-of-nutmeg.
I give the barista my order, then open Tinder for something to do while I wait. Chloe and Mica badgered me into signing up to, like, six different dating apps as soon as I arrived on Sunday. I tried to explain that I am down here for one reason and one reason only – to bag my Dream Job. Not to hook up with a load of randoms. But they were insistent. Mainly because I’ve been – to use Mica’s poetic phrasing – ‘living like a fucking hermit for the last twelve months’. She’s kind of right, to be fair: the ‘dating pool’ in Tealby is made up exclusively of boys I used to go to primary school with. It might be nice to meet some men who aren’t on first-name terms with my mum.
Initial impressions aren’t great though. I swipe left on about a dozen pictures of topless boys pouting in gyms – I’m really not a fan of muscles. My weak spot – unsurprisingly – is guys who are funny. I’d take James Acaster over Austin Butler any day. All these super-earnest Love Island types don’t really do it for me.
Eventually, I get to a guy called Tim, 28, who is much more my type – tall, lean, scruffy-haired. The only problem with Tim, 28, is his photo. It’s absolutely ridiculous. It looks so staged: he is stood outside a hospital, laughing casually at something out of frame, while wearing a lab coat with a stethoscope slung around his neck. He might as well be holding a sign that says: IN CASE YOU CAN’T TELL, I AM A DOCTOR.
Is there a ‘bit’ in this, I suddenly wonder? Like, people on dating apps who are so desperate to get across their impressive job. You could push the concept into complete absurdity: a fireman giving a thumbs up in his photo, while hosing down a burning building full of screaming people. Yeah . . . There might be something in this. Maybe I can speak to Talia today and pitch a sketch about –
‘Nell!’
I jump at the sound of the barista barking my name. ‘Sorry, yep, that’s me!’
I squeeze through the crowd of people ring-fencing the pick-up area and collect my order. I lay my phone on the counter and start stacking up the coffees, making sure I know exactly which one is which.
It’s only when I’m out of the door and halfway down the road that I hear someone else calling my name.
‘Excuse me? Nell?’
I turn to see a random guy jogging out of the cafe towards me. He’s tall, with choppy, sandy-coloured hair and he’s wearing black jeans and a slate-grey shirt. He actually looks a bit like a blond version of Tim the Obvious Doctor – but with a cuter smile. Much cuter. He sweeps said sandy hair out of his face and waves something at me.
Shit – my phone.
‘You left this on the counter,’ he says, with a grin.
‘Oh my God! Thank you so much.’
‘No worries.’
I cradle the coffees in the crook of my elbow as he hands the phone back to me. Under his long, dark lashes, I can’t tell if his eyes are blue or green. I realise I’ve been staring a second too long, and look away, flustered.
‘I think he’s a keeper, by the way. Deffo swipe right.’ His smile stretches wider, revealing a dimple in the centre of each cheek. My pulse flutters. ‘Sorry. Couldn’t help noticing the screen.’
I glance at it as I take it from him. The screen is still live, still in Tinder, still on Tim, 28’s profile. I feel myself blush. ‘Ha. Not sure he’s The One, actually.’
‘Really?’ The guy wrinkles his brow. ‘I mean, he’s a doctor.’
His mock-serious expression almost makes me laugh out loud. ‘True. I think his doctorliness is a bit too on the nose for me though. Stethoscope and lab coat? Really?’
He nods. ‘Yeah, he could dial it down a little. Like, chill out, mate, we get it: you’ve got a good job.’
This time I do laugh out loud. ‘Exactly. He knows he’s only got that split second between swipes to make a good first impression, so he wants his photo to scream: I have money and I can take care of you. It’s actually kind of patronising. Paternalistic.’
I feel my cheeks flush again. I’m not quite sure where that comment came from – it’s something I would have said to Chloe or Mica, rather than a total stranger. But something about this guy is disarming. I think it’s the blue-green eyes. And the smile. It’s . . . hard to look away from. Cheeky and warm and kind of sexy all in one.
He raises his eyebrows and exhales. ‘Wow. This conversation is really making me reconsider my own profile photo choice.’
‘Why – what’s your photo?’ I ask, as my pulse flutters faster. If he’s on the apps that means he’s single.
He jams his hands in his pockets and shrugs. ‘It’s just me, holding a sign that says: I HAVE MONEY AND I CAN TAKE CARE OF YOU.’
More laughter – this time from both of us.
OK. So . . . he’s cute and funny. That explains why the flustered feeling is not letting up. I’m suddenly very aware of his eyes on me. Something thrums inside me, like a guitar string being plucked, and I’m suddenly aware of just how long it’s been since I last had sex.
He smiles again, and I smile back, and there’s a strange moment when we’re both just standing here, smiling at each other, two total strangers, letting the commuters bustle past us. He takes his hands out of his pockets and ruffles his sandy hair. ‘Well, I’d better go and grab my coffee. Heard them call my name just as I spotted your phone, but I was like, “No, the phone is more important.”’
I shake my head. ‘And they say chivalry is dead.’
He makes a smug gesture with his hands, as if to say, ‘Yet here I am.’
I laugh. ‘Seriously, thank you. For the phone.’
‘No worries.’
He pauses and I find myself hoping he won’t just turn and go. That he’ll ask for my number before he leaves.
‘Well,’ he says.
‘See you.’
‘See you.’
He gives me one last flash of his dimples and then walks back into Pret.
As soon as I get to the office, I head straight for the bathroom.
Maybe it’s the encounter with that guy, but I suddenly have an even stronger desire than usual to faff in front of the mirror and make sure I look OK. The whole thing just feels like such a weird coincidence. There I was, wading through the London dating pool, eyes peeled for My Type, when an actual, living, breathing embodiment of My Type comes running out of the cafe after me.
I feel a pang of regret that he never asked for my number. Which I immediately scold myself for – I could just as easily have asked for his. Maybe he works around here? My Tinder is set to a five-mile search distance, so maybe, if I keep swiping, I’ll find him. I grin as the perfect opening line drops into my head: Glad to see you’ve changed your profile picture . . .
I suddenly realise I’ve been daydreaming and hair-faffing for way longer than I intended. I’m slightly concerned the coffees have now gone cold. But as I hurry towards the writers’ nook, I see that no one I know has even arrived yet. Talia isn’t at her desk. Neither is Nate. In fact, there’s only one person in our section . . . And he is sitting at my desk.
Before he even swivels round on the chair – my chair – I notice the grey shirt and the sandy hair, and my heart leapfrogs into my throat.
‘No way!’ he laughs, turning to face me. ‘This is so random! What are the chances?’
It takes me a couple of seconds to find my voice. I am suddenly very glad I did all that mirror faffing. ‘Yeah, so random!’ I say, sounding way more high-pitched than I would like. ‘So, you work here too?’
‘Mm-hm, yeah.’ He takes a sip of his coffee. I wait for him to say more – introduce himself, tell me his job, explain why he’s sat where I’m supposed to be sitting – but he doesn’t. He just looks up at me, grinning that dimply grin. Is he an IT guy or something? A hot IT guy who’s come to fix my computer? I can’t see any wires or leads or computer-fixing tools. He hasn’t even switched the computer on.
Not that I’m complaining. I’ve spent the past ten minutes wishing I could see him again, and now . . . here he is.
‘Oh, cool! I see you guys have already met.’
I spin around to see Bishi standing behind me. She gives me a quick, tight, inscrutable look before beaming down at the guy in my seat.
‘We’ve half met,’ he tells her. ‘I know she’s Nell.’ He scuttles forward on the wheelie chair and offers me his hand. ‘I’m Charlie.’
‘Hey. Nice to meet you.’ I flush again as I take his hand. This is nuts. This is beyond coincidence. This is . . . fate?
‘Great, cool, so you know that you’re both . . .’ Bishi flaps her hands and laughs in lieu of finishing the sentence. I have literally no idea what she is trying to communicate.
‘Sorry, we’re both . . .?’ I let the words hang in the air.
‘Both interns,’ she says.
I blink at her. Then I look at Charlie. He is digging into his rucksack, unpacking a notepad and some pens, and laying them on the desk. My desk.
‘Both interns?’ I repeat dumbly. ‘But I thought –’
Bishi cuts me off. ‘Great, well, Charlie, it looks like you’ve got yourself settled here.’
Charlie nods. ‘Yeah – this is cool. Thanks, Bishi.’
Bishi looks at me, smiling through gritted teeth. ‘Perfect. So, Nell, shall we find you somewhere to sit now?’ Before I can answer, she points to the coffees I’m holding. ‘What are all these?’
‘I got them for the team,’ I murmur, still trying to wrap my head around the ‘both interns’ comment.
‘Oh, how thoughtful!’ Bishi trills. ‘OK, well, leave them here. Charlie can dish them out when the others get in.’
‘Will do,’ says Charlie, shooting me an innocent smile.
Wait . . . What? So not only is he stealing my seat, he’s also stealing my look-how-totally-hireable-I-am gesture? Is he going to pay me back the twenty quid I just spent in Pret too?
‘Off we go then, Nell,’ Bishi says breezily.
Charlie raises his hand and smiles at me. ‘See you in a bit, Nell. Still can’t believe it – so random!’
‘Yeah . . .’
Feeling light-headed, I turn and follow Bishi as she sets off across the office, her eyes darting left and right as she walks. ‘OK, let’s see where we can find a spare desk . . .’
‘Erm, Bishi, sorry?’ She’s striding so fast I can barely keep up with her.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s just that, I was actually sitting there yesterday?’
She nods impatiently as we turn a corner into a whole different department. ‘Yep, sorry, I know. I left Charlie there for a second and I guess he just sat down at your desk without realising. And it’s a bit difficult to tell him to shift, you see . . .’
‘Why’s that?’
She puffs her cheeks out and drops her voice to a whisper. ‘His father is Nick Francombe.’ She side-eyes me like I should know who that it is. I definitely don’t.
‘Who?’
Her eyes flick to the ceiling. ‘One of the top executives here, up on the twelfth floor. He asked Nate last night if his son could intern on the show this month as well. Nate couldn’t exactly say no. So we’ll have to find a way to make it work with both of you here.’ Her brittle veneer finally cracks and she gives me an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, Nell, I know that’s where you were sitting. But like I say, his dad is . . . who his dad is.’
As I am processing this information – or trying to – she jabs her finger at an empty desk right across the room. ‘Ah, there’s one, next to the IT bods!’
I’ve never even been to this part of the building before. We approach the desk – which is tiny, rickety and backing onto what looks like a janitor’s store cupboard.
‘Jarrod? Is this desk free?’ Bishi smiles at the man on the next desk over, who has an enormous pair of headphones clamped over his long, lank hair. He gives a half-nod-half-shrug and digs his hand into the family-sized bag of beef and onion Hula Hoops he is eating.
‘Great!’ says Bishi brightly. ‘Here’s you then, Nell. Sorry it’s so far away from the rest of us. We’ll email you as soon as we need you to come through. OK? Shout if any problems!’
And then she’s gone.
I flop down in front of my new computer and stare at the crumb-encrusted keyboard in front of me.
What the hell just happened?