The One That I Want (The Ever After Agency #3)

Chapter 1

1

GRETA

Today is the day!

I’ve been working at the magazine for twelve years and today marks the biggest day of my career to date: the launch of my very own online magazine. Well, not mine per se – technically, it’s part of Nouveau ’s new online platform – but it is very much my baby. I conceived it, designed it, staffed it, and edited it within an inch of its soon-to-be-out-in-the-world-for-all-to-see life.

Of course, it wasn’t all me. Despite Nouveau Life being my vision, it wouldn’t have come to fruition without the hard work of my carefully chosen team, or without the support of my boss and mentor, Anjali.

She’s only in her mid-forties, but Anjali’s professional accomplishments are the stuff of (my) dreams. She became editor-in-chief of Nouveau India when she was twenty-five; by twenty-eight, she’d moved to Nouveau Britain , our flagship edition; and within two years, she was appointed head of editorial.

That’s when she hired me as a (lowly) staff writer straight from university. I was eager but green and she took me under her wing, teaching me practically everything I know about the magazine business – mostly how to be cutting edge and a leader in the industry, rather than just staying ahead of the curve. Her guidance – and her belief in me – is how I have achieved this incredible milestone at the relatively young age of thirty-five.

My phone chimes with an incoming message – it’s Mum.

Viel Glück, mein Liebling. Wir lieben dich!

Mum is German and even though she’s lived in the UK for forty years – and I was born here – she always messages me in German. I understand German, but beyond the basics, I’m rubbish at replying. I’m positive it’s an enormous disappointment to her I’m not properly bilingual.

Still, her well wishes are always welcome, as is her telling me she loves me.

Danke! *smiley face*

After replying, I tuck my phone into my handbag and turn to face the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. When you work at a fashion magazine and don’t look like Kaia Gerber (or her mum, for that matter), there are countless approaches to developing your signature work look.

While some of my colleagues are always on trend, my look is classic and chic, which works perfectly with my petite and curvy frame. As Coco Chanel said, ‘Dress shabbily and they remember the dress; dress impeccably and they remember the woman.’ And I want to be remembered – especially for being clever and brilliant at my job.

Today, I’ve chosen an empire-line shift dress in dove grey with a matching tailored jacket and my three-inch Lorenzo heels in silver (which are far more comfortable than they look). My strawberry-blonde hair is pulled into a loose up-do that looks effortless but took me ages, and my make-up is natural-looking save for my glossy peach lips.

If I do say so myself, I look fantastic .

‘Time to take the magazine world by storm,’ I tell myself with a lifted chin.

Talking to yourself may be thought of as quirky or odd or even a sign of madness, but I consider it one of my superpowers.

When I arrive at Nouveau , my assistant editor, Bex, greets me with a squeal as I step out of the lift.

‘Good morning, Bex.’

She bounces on the balls of her feet. ‘I’m so excited. Isn’t it just beyond ? Your look is fire , by the way,’ she adds before I have a chance to reply. ‘Very classy.’

‘Thanks. Not long to go now!’ I gesture for her to walk with me towards my office and she falls into step, chattering the entire way. I barely register half of what she says – most of it about engagement on socials – because the closer we get to my office, the more surreal this begins to feel.

As we navigate the halls, my colleagues send me smiles and nods, with a couple of winks thrown in. Roger from accounting lifts a thumb into the air from across the office. Are all accountants called Roger? Or is it that all Rogers go into accounting? I think, my mind landing on an absurd thought.

‘Greta!’ Ivy Jones rushes towards me and pulls me into an awkward hug. ‘So excited for the Nouveau Life launch,’ she says when she releases me.

‘Oh, thank you.’ Having never really worked together, we’re cordial colleagues at best, so this exchange feels somewhat inauthentic.

‘And do keep me in mind if you’re looking for ideas. I have lots of them.’ Ah, so that explains the effusive congratulations.

‘Thank you, Ivy,’ I say.

‘That was weird,’ whispers Bex as we walk off.

‘Yep.’

Crossing the threshold into my office, Bex on my heels, I’m suddenly overcome by an intense roaring inside my head, something I’ve never experienced before.

‘Er, Bex, would you mind closing the door?’

‘Sure thing,’ she chirrups.

I skirt around my desk, plop into my chair, and turn on my laptop. Bex remains standing by the door, an inquisitive look on her face.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks.

‘I’m not sure,’ I reply. The roaring has intensified and now my heart is racing. Is this a panic attack? I pick up a notepad from my desk and start fanning myself.

‘It’s going to be brill, I promise,’ she says in a comforting tone.

‘Oh, yes, no doubt.’

I glance her way and she’s still watching me, her brows knitted together. ‘Do you need anything from me? Or the others – they’re already here. Actually, I’ve been here since seven.’

‘Seven?’ I ask with a jolt.

She shrugs. ‘Excitement, I suppose.’

‘Of course – also a big day for you, and well deserved.’ She beams. ‘And thank you for asking, but no, there’s nothing I need.’

Ahh, that must be the reason I’m feeling like this. I’m at a loose end. The launch of Nouveau Life , which has consumed me for months now, has been meticulously planned right down to the tiniest detail. And with every logistical facet having been automated, the site will go live at 10a.m. and dozens of posts will feed out to Nouveau ’s social media accounts – all without anyone lifting a finger.

And, as I won’t need to start on the weekly blog posts or next month’s issue until this afternoon, for the next hour there is literally nothing for me to do (and I mean that in the literal sense, not ironically).

I can’t remember the last time I had a full hour without a meeting or a phone call or an email to answer – or without an article to write or edit. I’m now positive that’s the reason I’m out of sorts. I’m not busy . I glance at the time at the bottom of my laptop screen – ugh, still more than an hour to go.

I’d intended to spend the morning clocking the number of hits on the website, reading comments from readers, and graciously accepting congratulatory messages from my colleagues. Anjali has booked a celebratory lunch for the Nouveau Life team at Cicchetti, which I am very much looking forward to, but in my current state, I’m not sure I can sit here all morning simply observing . Especially if Bex is going to keep staring at me like that.

I slam my laptop shut and stand.

‘Are you going somewhere?’ she asks.

‘Er, yes… coffee!’ I declare as if I’ve suddenly remembered it exists. ‘I think I’ll pop down to the new coffee shop on the corner that everyone’s been raving about.’

‘Did you want company?’ she asks. ‘Or I can run out and get you something.’

‘Actually, if you could stay here and man the desk, so to speak, that would be fab.’

She sends me an odd smile, confusion marring her features, and I scuttle past her, laptop under my arm and my handbag slung over my shoulder.

The ride in the lift feels like it takes an aeon, as does the walk through the lobby, but stepping outside Nouveau , I inhale deeply. Somehow, the smell of exhaust fumes is soothing, as is the thrum of traffic along the Strand.

I’m about to head towards the coffee shop when a silver Mercedes pulls up right in front of me. The back door opens and a long leg wearing a very high red heel stretches out, followed by the rest of Anjali. Terrible timing to execute an escape.

‘Greta!’ she says warmly. ‘Happy launch day!’

‘Thank you.’

She closes the car door and tucks her wavy, black bob behind her left ear. ‘Where are you off to?’ She eyes my laptop, and now I feel foolish for bringing it along.

‘I was just popping out for a coffee,’ I reply, as if my behaviour is perfectly normal.

‘Are you all right?’

Clearly not if everyone keeps asking me that – well, so far it’s only been Bex and Anjali, but still. ‘Er, yes, I think so.’

‘Nerves?’ she asks with a tilt of her head.

‘Possibly.’

‘Understandable, but are you sure a double shot of espresso is the answer?’ She pauses, her eyes narrowing. ‘Just joking,’ she adds with a laugh. ‘I’m gagging for a coffee – I’ll join you.’ She looks in both directions. ‘Any preference?’

‘I was thinking about that new place on the corner,’ I say, indicating the direction with a turn of my head.

‘Perfect.’ She heads off and I rush to catch up to her. We may both be wearing heels – she’s also in Lorenzos – but she has a good nine inches on me height-wise and her strides are much longer than mine.

‘Hopefully the nerves aren’t all-consuming,’ she says when I’m beside her again. ‘I want you to enjoy this day; you’ve certainly earned it. Though I’m one to talk. If I think back on any of my professional milestones, they’re all a blur and before I knew it, it was a week later, and everything was humming along.’

She’s mentioned this before, how she only has vague memories of her professional ‘firsts’ – she’s always been open with me about this type of thing – but today, her words have more meaning.

We reach the coffee shop – amusingly called ‘The Daily Grind’ – and she swings open the door, holding it for me.

The décor is inviting, if a little austere. It has a Scandinavian vibe – lots of blond wood, including the wall panelling, the counter, and the tables and chairs – and there are more plants than in a garden centre. The air quality in here must be excellent.

We queue up and order, then wait to the side for the baristas to work their magic on the giant espresso machine. I watch their precise, rhythmic movements as Anjali chats to me, but as with Bex earlier, I’m not taking in any of what she’s saying. The roaring is back.

I smile and nod at her, hoping I’m doing a reasonable facsimile of listening, which I clearly am. ‘So, what do you think?’ Anjali asks, catching me unawares. ‘Should we sack him?’

‘What? Sack who?’ Panicked, I conduct a mental roster of the several hims who report to Anjali. I can’t for the life of me think who she might be talking about – they’re all brilliant at their jobs.

‘The tiler.’

‘The ti— Oh , sorry.’

She angles her head – she’s either confused or amused, probably a mix.

‘To be honest, I haven’t heard a word.’ I tap on my temple. ‘I have this intense noise inside my head.’ Oops, I did not intend to mention that.

Though at least it’s not as embarrassing as what I told her the night we were working late a couple of weeks back. I still cringe every time I think about it.

‘My fault,’ she says. ‘I was trying to distract you by moaning about the utter mare of our renovations. And the noisy head – perfectly normal.’

Oh, thank god.

‘And, silly me, I completely forgot…’ she says. ‘Gordon sends his love and says good luck for today.’

Gordon is Anjali’s husband. He’s a lovely man – a bit older than Anjali and more traditional in many ways, but he’s always been kind to me. He also makes a mean G&T and enjoys trying new gins as much as I do.

‘We’ll have to have you over to celebrate properly – as soon as the sodding renovations are done.’ She says the last part through gritted teeth.

‘Angela, Gretal,’ calls the barista. Anjali and I swap amused looks – the solidarity of those with a ‘novel name’ – then push through the small crowd to the counter to collect our coffees, a latte for me, extra foam, and a long black for her.

She leads the way to the window, where we slide into seats vacated by two men mere seconds ago. She brushes some pastry crumbs onto the floor and pins me with a look. The Anjali look.

I’ve been the recipient of this look many times. It can mean anything from ‘I have some juicy work gossip and you mustn’t tell a soul’ to ‘I know you’ve worked sixteen days straight and I’m insisting you take a mini break to Tenerife’.

‘Now, Greta?—’

‘Ladies! I see you’ve discovered my new favourite haunt,’ says a familiar voice.

‘Hello, Luca,’ says Anjali, warmly accepting a cheek kiss from our colleague. She adores Luca – most people do. And not just because he’s handsome and charming, but he’s also a brilliant fashion editor – so talented. He can make or break a designer just like that (imagine me snapping my fingers) and meets regularly with the top designers and their trend forecasters. In fact, he’s considered the trend forecaster.

‘Grets!’ he exclaims, leaning down to land two kisses, one on each cheek. Luca may be London-born, but when he wants to be especially charming, he favours the customs of his Roman mother.

I graciously accept the kisses, mindful that not too long ago, this kind of attention from Luca would have sent shivers down my spine and set my nethers (as my mum calls them) alight.

Mine was an intense, several-year-long crush that had the power to derail everything from simple exchanges to editorial meetings to entire workdays. It came to a screeching halt the night I brought my best friend, Tiggy – a name she’s been stuck with since birth, because her sister couldn’t say ‘Elizabeth’ – to a staff function as my plus one, and Luca made a play for her.

She rebuffed him, of course – possibly the first woman ever to have turned him down – and he was so shocked, he made a big to-do about it. And just like that, it was as if a switch had been flipped and I saw him for who he really was: a talented, yet narcissistic playboy. End. Of. Crush.

‘Congratulations!’ he says. ‘So excited for Nouveau Life – bound to be a smash hit.’

‘It’s very exciting, yes.’

It’s ridiculous how intensely I use to long for him. Teens lust after Harry Styles with less fervour.

Luca, seemingly oblivious that he no longer wields any power over me, flashes a roguish grin. ‘See you back at the office.’

I turn back to Anjali. ‘You were saying?’ I ask brightly.

‘I—’

‘Excuse me, Gretal?’ When I look up again, a man is standing beside me – forty-ish, light-brown hair, kind smile, blue eyes. He reminds me instantly of James McAvoy – attractive in that unassuming, ‘everyman’ way.

‘Er, yes?’

‘I’m Ewan.’

Why is he telling me this? ‘Hello, Ewan.’ He continues smiling at me and I continue wondering why. ‘Er, have we met before?’

He shakes his head.

‘So how do you know my name?’ I ask, returning his bemused smile. He did say ‘Gretal’ but close enough – I’ve answered to worse.

He holds up a coffee cup. ‘I have your coffee.’

‘Oh.’ I look at the coffee cup I’ve been drinking from, which has ‘EWAN’ scrawled on the side. ‘Oh! I’m so sorry. I must have picked up yours.’

‘Yes,’ he says, a lilt of laughter in his voice. ‘Here.’ He sets my coffee in front of me.

‘I’m afraid I’ve already drunk from yours, but I’d be happy to buy you another one.’

He smiles again. ‘No need – I’ll sort it. Have a lovely day.’ And before I can thank him, he leaves.

I turn to Anjali, about to ask her for a second time what she was going to say, when she flicks her wrist to look at her watch. ‘Bollocks, we should probably go.’

‘But what were you going to tell me?’ I ask as we stand and gather our belongings.

‘We’ll chat about it later,’ she says, smiling enigmatically.

We’ll chat about it later . Well, thank you, Anjali, that doesn’t sound ominous at all! Oh god, I hope it’s nothing to do with what we talked about that night.

As we make our way back to the office, the roaring kicks into high gear.