Chapter 3
3
KATE
Tuesday morning, my eyelids flutter open and I peek at the time. Fifteen minutes till my alarm but there’s no sense in trying to get back to sleep – if I’d been asleep to begin with. Thank god I don’t have a waterbed. I was tossing and turning so much last night, I would have made myself seasick.
Though, it would have been worse if I hadn’t talked Margot out of setting up camp at mine while I ‘process what’s happened’. The woman snores like a grizzly bear.
In the pre-dawn light, I stare up at the lampshade above my bed, thinking for the fiftieth time that I should replace it with something less… well, seventies. Then my mind wanders to darker waters, to Friday night before my world came crashing down.
I’d had a massive week at work – hitting three competing deadlines and putting out several fires, something I excel at – and I was shattered, but happy.
Well, if not happy, then content. I have a good life – very good. If I were an influencer, I’d be hash-tagging ‘gratitude’ and ‘blessed’ all over the damned place.
I’m on track professionally as a senior project manager, the variety of my work keeps me motivated, and I get to stretch myself with each new project. I love my flat (seventies light fittings aside), which I purchased two years ago with my life savings, a little help from my great-aunt, and a mortgage that would scare some people, but which I plan to pay off by the time I’m fifty (if not before). I have a decent social life – a handful of colleagues who have become friends and a few of Margot’s mates who’ve ‘adopted’ me. And most Sundays, I head to the pub for a roast lunch and chitchat with the locals.
Rounding out this audit of my (until four days ago) contented life, I’m engaged.
‘To a scam artist,’ I mutter out loud. ‘Ugh,’ I groan, scrubbing my hands over my face. ‘And it’s was , Kate. Was engaged.’
I lift my left hand – much lighter now I’m not wearing that (let’s face it) monstrosity – and run my thumb over the pale, ring-shaped indentation where the ring used to be. I took it off on Friday night and shoved it in a drawer under the tatty knickers I only wear when I’ve got my period.
I stupidly forgot to put it on for work yesterday – a bare ring finger raises suspicions and I’m not ready yet for pitying looks from my colleagues – and eagle-eyed Sue asked where it was. I told her it was being cleaned, but I won’t be able to use that excuse forever. At some point, I will have to end this ‘engagement’ and then I’ll have to tell everyone it’s off, enduring whatever well-meaning words pop out of their mouths. I suspect, based on something Margot let slip while we were at Mayberry’s getting facials, that my parents won’t be disappointed.
And what’s the etiquette for keeping a ring given to you by a cheating liar? Maybe I can sell it back to the jeweller. No doubt it would be a significant sum, making a nice dent in my mortgage. Although, I can imagine Margot’s reaction if I don’t spend the money on something less practical – like one of those ridiculous designer handbags she’s had her eye on since I can remember. Who spends thousands of pounds on a handbag ?
I reach for my phone – habit – and check my messages – also habit. My loins (and the rest of me) are heavily girded for a message from Jon telling me how much he misses me all the way from Madrid. I have no idea where he really is. He could be right down the road for all I know, laughing his arse off at how gullible I am and congratulating himself for duping me.
I navigate to my messaging app. Nothing from Jon – thank god – but there is one from Willem, and my telltale heart flutters. I ignore it. No matter what Margot says, crushing on Willem is a terrible idea.
Besides, I’m sure it’s only happening because my subconscious is in chaos and it’s trying to distract me. Look, Kate, look at the handsome man who could scoop you up in his arms and carry you upstairs without breaking a sweat, then do wicked, wicked things to you with those enormous hands of his.
‘Other parts of him are probably enormous too,’ I mutter, making myself snigger. I read the message:
Adriana plans to introduce Dunn to our parents next week. I could really use your help.
Oh right. I haven’t agreed to go to Amsterdam yet. The smile falls from my face as unease ripples through me. It may be the right thing to do, but am I ready to entangle myself further in Jon’s web of lies?
Lies, such as Jon saying he was going to be in Sweden next week (not Amsterdam), flying the Stockholm/Bangkok route for two weeks. He probably googles flight routes and picks the ones he likes the sound of. I can’t imagine where he gets the trinkets he brings me – a tiny, carved Buddha from Thailand, lingonberry jam from Sweden, a silk scarf from Istanbul. Does he simply order them online? He must have a great laugh at my expense when I ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over them.
I read Willem’s message again. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t even know I was one of two women engaged to the same man. Does that make me indebted to him?
My alarm chimes while I’m holding my phone, catching me off-guard, and I turn it off, shelving that question for another time. I fling back the duvet and climb out of bed, heading straight to the shower. Big day today – and I’m of two minds about it.
One of those minds is dreading going into work.
This is a first for me since I landed my dream job at Elev8te, a coaching organisation for C-level executives. I love my job – not only the work itself, but also my colleagues. And I am fully ‘drinking the Kool-Aid’ with Elev8te. We help organisations build a positive workplace culture, making people’s working lives better. My boss, who founded the company, should be knighted. Or, as she is a woman, damed .
But yesterday, I was so consumed by this situation with Jon, I was completely useless – couldn’t concentrate to save myself. My colleagues started looking at me oddly and exchanging loaded glances. I ended up faking a migraine and going home early – also a first. This puts me half a day behind, which I aim to make up by lunchtime, and I’ll have to lie about ‘feeling better’, which makes me uncomfortable. It’s one thing telling a small fib about a missing engagement ring, another to fake a malady.
The other of my two minds is eager for what’s happening before work. I’m returning to the Ever After Agency to meet with Poppy Dean, something I teed up while ‘convalescing’ on my sofa yesterday afternoon.
I was lying there, mindlessly scrolling through I can’t even remember which streaming app, when I thought about something Margot said on Friday night, about getting back at Jon. And in that moment of perfect clarity, I realised that if Jon’s deception has impacted me so severely, completely upending my world, including my ability to do my job, then I do want him to pay.
I’m not sure how Poppy can help with that, but it’s got to be worth asking.
* * *
Poppy
‘You’re ready early this morning, darling.’
Tristan, who’s usually up first, strides into the kitchen dressed in a suit and tie – standard work attire for an investment banker, even these days. As always, he looks like he’s stepped right off the runway in Milan. Though, my handsome hubby could make a sack cloth look good.
‘Mm-hmm,’ I reply, accepting a cheek kiss. I sip from my enormous mug of tea, watching as he begins the (overly complicated) process of making coffee with his new espresso machine.
‘So, something special on?’ he asks.
I wait until the loud grinding stops to reply. ‘I’ve got a client coming in for an early meeting – she’s had to squeeze it in before work. Actually, she’s a former client.’
‘ Former client?’ Tristan glances over his shoulder, then resumes fiddling with the machine. ‘Any idea what it’s about?’
‘Not really. The last time I heard from her, she’d matched through another agency. Maybe it fell through and she wants to re-engage us.’
The espresso machine starts gurgling and I take my tea and climb onto a stool at the breakfast bar.
‘Meow.’
‘Oh, good morning, you little minx,’ I say to our cat, Saffron. ‘Thanks for waking me up at two and then again at four. So appreciated when I had to be up at six.’ Though, Tristan and I also had a late-ish night, something I can’t blame on Saffron, as we’re trying to get pregnant.
Saffron sniffs the air, then struts past me, beelining for Tristan, who’s her favourite. He lifts her up one-handed and sips his espresso, and Saffron starts purring loudly.
‘Has that happened before?’ he asks, resuming our conversation. ‘A client engaging two matchmakers at once? Seems a bit… unorthodox.’
‘It’s not the norm, but it does happen. Some clients like to cover their bases – especially if there’s a time crunch or some other mitigating factor.’
‘Such as having to marry in the next forty days or forego a sizeable inheritance?’ he asks with a twitch of his mouth.
‘That’s a very specific example, Mr Fellows. Did you just come up with that?’
‘Absolutely.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Right off the top of my head.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I sip my tea, eyeing him over the rim of the mug.
‘And if I follow that example through to its logical conclusion, I believe I should have engaged a second, or even a third matchmaker when I signed on with Ever After. Isn’t that so, Ms Dean?’ he asks, his eyes twinkling.
‘Oh, absolutely,’ I deadpan. ‘It was grossly remiss of you to put all your eggs into one basket. I mean, it worked out for you .’ I stare at him wide-eyed, impressed that I’m keeping a straight face.
‘And for you, I would hope?’ he asks, frowning.
‘Other than breaking the cardinal rule of falling in love with my client and risking my career – a career that I love …’ Tristan’s frown deepens and I’m not entirely sure we’re still playing. I reach across for his hand and clasp it. ‘Yes,’ I say quietly. ‘It worked out for me as well. Better than I could have imagined.’
He breaks into a broad smile, then lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it.
‘I knew it,’ he says with a wink.
I snatch my hand away and he sniggers. ‘You cheeky bugger,’ I chide, which makes him laugh out loud.
I hold off as long as I can, giving him my best I’m-being-serious glare before I start laughing. ‘Dag,’ I say – my way of giving him ‘the win’.
But we’re not really one of those couples who compete. Tristan is my person – my biggest cheerleader and my safe place to land when it all goes to shit, which of course, it does sometimes. Him walking into the Ever After Agency a year and a half ago, in need of a wife and in a short time frame, was a pivotal moment in my life.
We fell in love – completely, utterly, undeniably in love.
Was it inconvenient? Was it unprofessional? Yes to both. But when you know, you know. And that’s one of the aspects of matchmaking I love the most – seeing that spark ignite, witnessing a client finding everything they’ve ever wanted.
I’m in the business of happily ever afters – or HEAs – and it is both a privilege and a pleasure. So, if Kate Whitaker needs my help – no matter what this is about – I’ll be there for her.
‘Right,’ says Tristan, downing the rest of his espresso. ‘I’m off like a bucket of prawns in the hot sun.’
‘Really?’ I ask, blinking at him.
‘What? Don’t you loike it when I speak Strayan?’ he asks, bunging on a dreadful Australian accent.
‘No, babe. I prefer it when I’m the Aussie and you sound like you .’
‘Which is…?’
‘Like a BBC news presenter circa 1964.’
We hold each other’s gaze, both smiling mischievously, then he springs into action, depositing his tiny cup into the dishwasher and checking his briefcase. I glance at the time, realising that I need to get going too. I drink another glug of tea, then quickly tidy the kitchen. After saying our goodbyes to Saffron – mine tolerated and Tristan’s embraced – we leave together.
It’s such a rarity, we indulge in a soft, lingering kiss in the lift as we ride to the ground floor. Outside our building, we part ways with another quick kiss and head off in opposite directions.