Chapter 3
3
GRETA
‘You took the right one this time.’
It takes me a moment to realise that someone’s talking to me and when I look up from my laptop, there he is, the James McAvoy lookalike – Owen. Or maybe it was Ewan?
I smile and pick up the now-empty cup. ‘Ah, yes. Although, I’ve been here every day this week and they’re still getting my name wrong.’
‘So, not Gretal then?’
I shake my head. ‘Nope.’
‘Is it close to Gretal?’
I nod. ‘Mmm-hmm. So close it’s almost forgivable.’
‘Only almost?’
‘I’ve been here five times in five days. I even spelled it out this morning.’
‘Well, that’s less than forgivable in my book. Are you going to reveal how badly the baristas are murdering your name?’
‘It’s Greta. Greta Davies – German mum, Scottish dad.’
‘Greta’s a lovely name.’
‘Thank you. I don’t love it, but I suppose it could be worse. My poor brother got lumped with Dolph.’
His eyes widen and he breaks into a lopsided smile. ‘Dolph, as in Lundgren?’
‘Yes – although he’s far too young to know who Dolph Lundgren even is. And he goes by Ru.’
‘Ru?’
‘Yep. He likes to pretend his real name is Rudolph, which he’s shortened to Ru. We all call him that – his friends, his teachers, even my dad. Everyone except Mum.’
‘She’s sticking to her guns.’
‘She is.’
‘And how old is he? Obviously not old enough to have watched Rocky IV .’
‘Is anyone else here that old?’ I ask, casting my eyes about the coffee shop, and he laughs.
‘Ouch. I’ll have you know I was only two when that movie came out.’
Note to self: find out when Rocky IV came out. Second note to self: Owen/Ewan has a lovely laugh – see if you can make him laugh again.
‘Though my friends and I watched it about a dozen times when we were twelve,’ he continues.
‘Well, this is a coincidence – that’s Ru’s age. He was a surprise – for all of us. I had just started working at Nouveau when he was born. I’m old enough to be his mum!’
‘That was going to be my next question.’
‘The age gap between me and my brother?’ I quip.
‘Where you work. I figured it was close by.’
‘Three doors down, to be precise.’
I really want to steer the conversation back to names, as I’m now even keener to know if he’s Owen or Ewan. I opt for a clumsy segue.
‘Anyway, my guess is that once Ru starts drinking coffee and has to give his name to a barista, they’ll spell it R-O-O, like in Winnie the Pooh .’
‘You’ve given this some thought.’
‘More than I realised until this precise moment.’
His mouth quirks and that lopsided smile returns.
‘Well, sorry for interrupting your work. I just wanted to say hello.’
‘Hello,’ I say, with a winsome smile.
‘Hello,’ he replies, his sky-blue eyes creasing at the corners.
He holds my gaze for a moment, then looks away. I can tell he’s about to leave me be, but I don’t want to be left be. I quite like chatting with Owen/Ewan. Bollocks, is this one of those situations where it’s now too late to ask his name?
‘Greta, you’re not replying to your messages.’ In a feat of not-so-perfect timing, Luca has just shown up.
‘Er, sorry?’ I ask.
He points to my laptop. ‘Anjali’s been trying to get hold of you. She said if I saw you on my coffee run to ask you to pop back to the office – pronto .’
I look at my laptop, which is displaying the lock screen. ‘Oh, bollocks.’
I’ve taken to working in the coffee shop for an hour most mornings, a change of scene that’s helped me free up some brain space amid the busiest time of my career. But I’ve promised my team – and Anjali – that I’ll always be reachable.
‘I’ve kept you from your work,’ says Owen/Ewan. ‘Sorry ’bout that.’
‘No, no,’ I say as I stand and start gathering my things. ‘Not your fault.’
As I’m about to leave, I catch Luca glancing at Owen/Ewan. It’s obvious he’s going to introduce himself, which is perfect – I’ll learn Owen/Ewan’s actual name. Intrigued, I watch my former work crush hold out his hand to my… my… what? My nice-man-at-the-coffee-shop-with-the-kind-eyes-and-lopsided-smile?
‘I’m Luca,’ he says with his most charming smile.
They shake hands.
‘Ewan.’
Ewan – right. Ewan, Ewan, Ewan , I chant in my head, committing his name to memory.
‘And how do you know Greta?’ Luca asks.
Wait, was there a bit of an edge to his question, or was that my imagination?
‘Just from here. We’re newly minted coffee-shop friends,’ says Ewan, which I think is a perfectly lovely way to describe us.
He flashes me that smile and even though we’ve only had two exchanges, I get the sense that he’s right – we are becoming friends. And if my daily visits to the coffee shop include a brief conversation with Ewan, all the more reason to continue.
‘Right – apologies, but I must dash. Luca, thank you for passing on the message. And Ewan, nice to see you again.’ I give them each a smile, then leave.
Out on the footpath, I congratulate myself for such a grown-up exit. ‘Nicely done, Greta – and now you know Ewan’s name.’
As I walk back to the office, it strikes me that I don’t really have any male friends – colleagues, yes, but a man who is just a friend? None. That is, until today!
I was today years old when I made my first male friend.
I drop my things at my desk, then make my way to Anjali’s office. She was right about the first week after the launch passing in a blur. I can’t believe it’s Friday already.
And I’m thrilled to say, we’re a hit! Readers love us and so do Nouveau ’s number crunchers, who are pleased with both site traffic and increased advertising revenue. When Hello Britain mentioned us this morning, our hits quadrupled within minutes.
These are terms I use now: hits and site traffic. Despite having a rather challenging relationship with technology – it drives me bonkers on a regular basis and I’d swear it’s out to get me – I’m having to stretch myself professionally. Not only am I curator of all things editorial, including blog posts, I’m expected to master (at minimum) a foundational understanding of our behind-the-scenes success measures.
I suspect this is why Anjali has called me into her office – to go over the numbers and debrief on the week that was.
‘Come in, Greta. I’d like you to meet Poppy Dean.’
Or perhaps not.
‘Hi, Greta, nice to meet you.’ Poppy is a dark-haired woman of medium height in her thirties, who seems vaguely familiar – or she could just have one of those faces. From her accent, I can tell she’s Australian.
‘Hello, Poppy,’ I say, extending my hand to shake hers. We exchange smiles and when I glance in Anjali’s direction, she’s grinning like a proud mum.
What is this about? I wonder.
‘Let’s sit over here, shall we?’ says Anjali, gesturing towards her sitting area.
Poppy and I settle on the sofa and Anjali sits across from us on an armchair, still wearing that odd expression. It’s like the Anjali look on steroids.
I turn to Poppy. ‘Have we met before?’ I ask. ‘It’s just that you look so familiar.’
‘I don’t think so, but I’ve been into Nouveau before – back in March.’
Pieces of the puzzle begin to slot into place. ‘ Oh , you co-wrote that piece with Bex – on Elle Bliss and Lorenzo. You’re “P Dean”.’
‘That’s right,’ she says, dipping her chin modestly.
‘So, are you hoping to write for Nouveau Life ? Is that why you’ve come in?’
We’re already staffed and have a stable of regular freelancers to draw from, but I’d be willing to hear Poppy’s pitch.
‘Umm, not exactly…’ she replies right as Anjali says, ‘Well, ish…’
Wonderful – this is one of Anjali’s ishes! What on earth is going on?
‘So, what exactly were you thinking?’ I ask them, fixing what I hope is a pleasant smile on my face. Though, I suspect I look more like Pennywise the Clown.
‘Actually, I’d like us to bring Poppy on as a staff writer,’ Anjali replies.
I gaze at her, totally bewildered. Nouveau Life doesn’t need a staff writer, which Anjali knows – she helped me build out my editorial team. I also have complete creative control over the vertical, including hiring decisions, so when Anjali says ‘us’, who exactly is she talking about?
‘For Nouveau ?’ I ask.
‘For Nouveau Life ,’ she replies, her eyebrows raising in excitement.
It takes me a moment to find my voice. When I do, all I manage is, ‘Oh,’ which I say with a bobbing head and that ridiculous clown smile on my face.
I don’t want to be rude to either of them – highly unprofessional – but I am very confused.
‘So,’ I say, turning towards Poppy, ‘what would you write about? We cover a little bit of fashion, but that’s not our key focal point.’
Poppy and Anjali glance at each other.
‘I’m not actually a fashion journalist,’ she replies – which is not actually a reply. ‘I’m a matchmaker.’
There’s every chance I now resemble a goldfish – all bug eyes and gaping mouth.
‘You’re what?’ I say, abandoning any hope of maintaining a professional fa?ade.
‘A matchmaker,’ says Anjali, as though that explains everything. It doesn’t. ‘We thought we’d bring Poppy on as an advice columnist – you know, readers send in problems with their love life and Poppy helps solve them. Before she worked as a matchmaker, Poppy was a psychologist – so, you see, it’s a match made in heaven. So to speak.’
Anjali’s terrible pun aside, I don’t hate the idea.
‘Right, I can see the potential there,’ I say noncommittally. ‘And you’re really a professional matchmaker?’
‘Yes, I work at the Ever After Agency in Richmond. The article I wrote with Bex – that was for a case. I was undercover.’
Realisation dawns and my expression morphs into one of awe. ‘Oh my god, you matched Elle Bliss and Lorenzo.’
‘I did,’ she says, beaming.
I press a palm to my chest. ‘I’m totally starstruck. I adore those two. They are the most adorable celebrity couple. Did you know that I’m the one who coined their couple name?’
‘Ellorenzo? Really, that was you?’
‘That was me,’ I say proudly.
Hmm. Moments ago, I was ready to execute a mutiny and overrule Anjali’s decision – especially since it should have been mine to make – but now… now , I can envision how Poppy might fit into the team – and how well an advice column will play with our readers.
‘So, just to be clear, you’d still be matchmaking?’ I ask.
‘Yep, I’d keep my job at the agency, then write for you part-time.’
‘We were thinking once a month to start, so part of the regular publication cycle,’ says Anjali, ‘with the possibility of going weekly if Poppy builds up a significant following.’ This is something else that should have been my decision – the machinations – but I’m starting to get excited about this column, so I don’t say anything.
‘There’s a tiny catch, though,’ Poppy says. With a head tilt, I invite her to expound. ‘Outside of the two of you, no one can know I work for Ever After. Our agency is… well… clandestine. We don’t advertise and we don’t promote our services. We take on cases strictly by referral, so when I’m writing for you, I’ll need a nom de plume.’
‘But you wrote for us before as “P Dean”.’
‘I did – which was risky, but I was also writing about fashion. This will be a little closer to home, so…’
‘Right, that does make sense,’ I reply with a nod. ‘You know, when you first started telling me about this, I wasn’t convinced?—’
‘You don’t say,’ Anjali teases.
‘An open book, apparently,’ I tell Poppy, pointing to my face with both index fingers. She’s gracious enough to wave me off. ‘Anyway, so how about you come in next week?’
‘Perfect.’
‘In the meantime, I’ll brief the team and get to work.’ I stand, figuring the meeting is over, but Poppy and Anjali exchange another look and if I’m not mistaken, this one is slightly panicked.
‘Er, there is one more thing, Greta,’ says Anjali. Her eyes dart towards Poppy again.
‘You might want to take a seat for this,’ Poppy adds.
I look between them and slowly sit, more confused than I’ve been at any other time in this conversation.
And then, Poppy completely and utterly blows my mind. And not in a good way.