Chapter 5
5
GRETA
I’ve always loved visiting Richmond – it’s such a picturesque part of London – but today, the roaring inside my head that started the day Nouveau Life launched is back. I cannot believe I’m doing this.
I’m greeted at reception by a smiling woman, who introduces herself as Anita. She stands and comes around to my side of the desk. ‘This way, please,’ she says as she leads me across the office towards a meeting room.
When I enter, Poppy’s there with a man – early thirties (my best guess), lean, with strawberry-blond hair, pale skin, and the type of handsome looks that scream ‘pop-culture vampire’. He could easily be an Edward or a Lestat.
‘Hi, Greta. Come on in,’ says Poppy. ‘This is George – he’ll be working on your case with me.’
George – a good name for a vampire. My mind’s doing that thing it does when I’m uncomfortable – fixating on absurd thoughts. Between that and my ‘noisy head’ (as Anjali calls it), I’m going to have to properly focus to get through this meeting.
George and I exchange pleasantries, then I turn down Anita’s offer of a beverage, even though she mentions a fully stocked bar and it’s nearly 5p.m. I may regret that decision later.
After Anita leaves, Poppy sends a welcoming smile my way. ‘So, you’ve brought the completed questionnaire?’
‘Oh, yes, I have it right here.’ I take the enormous document out of my handbag – it barely fit – and slide it across the table. George picks it up and starts looking through it. As he reads, his brows knit together.
Good sign or bad? I wonder.
‘So, how did you get on with it?’ asks Poppy.
‘Er, not bad. A few tricky ones in there,’ I say, severely downplaying how excruciating an exercise it was.
Tiggy and I started on Friday night – stupidly after we’d finished the first bottle of Tempranillo and before the Indian food arrived – and at first, it was a laugh.
‘Favourite colour?’ Tiggy asked.
‘Mustard!’ I declared.
‘Favourite food?’
‘Mustard!’
We fell about laughing and barely got through favourite song – Demi Lovato’s ‘Confident’ (I know all the words) – and favourite movie – Bridget Jones’s Diary (I can recite most scenes verbatim) – before dissolving into laughter so intense, we barely made any noise, just the occasional squeak. The poor delivery guy was totally bewildered when I opened the door to him, still laughing and with tears rolling down my face.
Saturday morning’s hangover, however, cast a grim pall over the questionnaire and I spent the rest of the weekend treating it like the proper homework it was. I’d rather have written an article on the trials and tribulations of adolescence from the perspective of a short, chubby, red-headed bookworm (spoiler: that was me at fourteen).
‘Excellent,’ Poppy replies warmly.
Seemingly, I’ve pulled off ‘confident professional on assignment’ even though ‘pathetic single in want of a baby daddy’ may be closer to the truth. As I spent most of the weekend in deep retrospection, prompted by the behemoth George is now casually perusing, I suspect it may be.
‘So, a quick update from our end,’ Poppy continues. ‘George and I have been working on a long list of potential matches, and once we’ve reviewed your questionnaire, we’ll narrow that down to a shortlist. But, first, we need to know what you and Anjali have decided.’
‘Decided?’
‘Regarding how you’ll approach the series of articles,’ she replies.
George looks up from the questionnaire. ‘The angle,’ he adds.
‘Ahh… Well, we haven’t decided yet.’
The truth: after Anjali sprang Poppy and this (ridiculous) assignment on me Friday morning, I made a point of avoiding her for the rest of the day. Same again today. In fact, I spent several hours working from the coffee shop instead of in my office just to steer clear of her. I’m grasping onto a sliver of hope that she’ll soon realise how unsuitable this concept is for Nouveau Life .
‘Well, regardless of the angle, we’re recommending that you write anonymously,’ says George.
‘Oh, really?’ I look to Poppy, and she nods in agreement.
‘That will allow you to be more candid in the articles, don’t you think?’ she asks. ‘And it’s more respectful to the potential matches if they remain anonymous too.’
The roaring ramps up. It also occurs to me that if I want to tell Poppy and George I’m onto Anjali and her obvious plan to marry me off, now would be the time. But would that be showing my hand too soon? Is there any advantage in keeping it to myself, at least for now? Without a clear answer either way, that’s what I decide to do: keep mum.
‘What do you think?’ Poppy asks.
‘Oh, yes, that makes sense. At the top of each article, we could state that the writer – and the subjects – have been anonymised to protect the guilty.’
Right as I say the word ‘guilty’, George says, ‘Innocent,’ and his eyes widen.
‘I was only joking,’ I say with a laugh.
He laughs along with me – though I imagine he’s just being polite.
God, I really need to get this meeting back on track – or, on any track really. I’ve been on the back foot since I got here. I need to take charge and lay out how this will go. Otherwise, I’ll be marching down the aisle, dressed in white, and married off to some suitable-on-paper bloke before I can say ‘romance is dead’.
Poppy is watching me with an inscrutable look on her face. ‘Greta, perhaps we should start again?’
Bloody hell, was she reading my mind?
She and George exchange a loaded glance, then she turns back to me. ‘Look, we know this is an unusual assignment, and that you’re not wholly comfortable with it.’
Understatement of the millennia.
‘That said, we’d like to make it as painless – and as fun – as possible. For whatever reason, Anjali has her heart set on these articles and she thinks you’re the perfect person to write them.’
The ‘whatever reason’ is that Anjali is playing matchmaker. She’s obviously convinced that I’m sad and lonely and (very possibly) in need of a proper shag. That last part may be true, but I do not want my boss thinking of me that way – or spending any time pondering my nethers.
Poppy leaps out of her seat. ‘Wait here for a sec,’ she says, disappearing out the door.
‘Is mustard really your favourite colour?’ George asks, his mouth twitching at the corners.
I laugh. ‘No, sorry, my bestie and I were having a laugh on Friday night, and I forgot to change it. Mustard is actually my least favourite colour. I’m always baffled when I see people wearing it. How about you?’
‘Totes agree. It’s right up there with camouflage and leopard print – or, god forbid, both at the same time.’ He screws up his face in distaste, making me laugh again. ‘I mean, just why ?’
We snigger together and, for the first time since I arrived, I start to relax.
‘Do you love working at Nouveau ?’ he asks leaning forward, his eyes locked on mine.
‘I really do,’ I reply.
‘Ahh… professional goals,’ he says with a sigh.
‘Wait, really? Surely you love working here?’ I ask, the journalist in me wading into the conversation. ‘It must be extremely satisfying, helping people find love?’
‘No, I do. I love it. But Nouveau … I mean, it’s the mothership.’
For the first time, I take in his thoughtfully put-together, highly fashionable look. Periwinkle-blue, single-breasted blazer, sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, revealing pink paisley lining, and a deeper-pink dress shirt with sky-blue collar and cuffs – also rolled up. I silently chastise myself for being so in my head I didn’t realise I’m in the presence of a true fashionisto .
‘Well,’ I say brightly. His head cocks with interest. ‘Now you have an in – to the mothership, I mean – and you’re welcome any time.’
His eyebrows shoot up and his jaw drops. A moment later, he breaks into a broad grin. ‘You’ve just solidified your place as my number-one girl crush.’
‘I didn’t realise I was a contender.’
‘Excuse me, with that ensemble’ – he waves his hand in my direction like a warlock casting a spell – ‘and that beat? Stun-ning. You being an editor at Nouveau is simply the icing on the cake,’ he assures me.
I did take extra care with my appearance today, going with the look-great-feel-great tactic, which, until this meeting, had barely made a dent in my apprehension about Anjali’s (misguided) plan. Thank goodness for George. His appreciation of the effort I’ve made is just the boost I need.
Right as he and I are basking in the glow of mutual admiration, Poppy returns with a portable whiteboard in tow. George pops out of his seat to help her get it through the door.
‘Thanks,’ she says to him, a little out of breath. ‘We should have one of these in every meeting room,’ she tells me. She’s right – we have them in all the offices and meeting rooms at Nouveau – you never know when inspiration will spark a brainstorming session. ‘But we’re making do sharing this one.’
She manoeuvres it into place at the head of the table and takes a marker from the tray.
‘Right,’ she says, ‘let’s nut this out.’
An hour later, after Anita popped her head in with another offer of beverages and this time I said yes to a G&T, as did Poppy and George, we arrive at these concepts:
1. Matchmaker, make me a match – engaging a modern-day matchmaker
(Completely anonymised – not just me and all my potential matches, but the agency too.)
2. The dating pool – avoiding the shallows and swimming in the deep end
(Catchy title, but a little nebulous.)
3. Ten first dates – how to make a first date feel like the third
(I don’t love this one – too close to the dreaded listicle.)
4. The best of both worlds – a career woman’s guide to finding The One
(I don’t love this one either – far too much pressure to create a definitive guide.)
Poppy steps back, her head at an angle as she regards our handiwork. George downs the rest of his G&T and crunches on an ice cube, then fishes for the lemon wedge with his fingers, and I sip mine, my editor’s eyes roving the whiteboard over the rim of my glass.
‘What do you reckon?’ Poppy asks, turning to me.
‘They’d all work,’ I say. ‘Though, that’s me with my editorial hat on.’
‘What about wearing your client-of-a-matchmaking-agency hat?’
I run my eyes over each item on our list again, really trying to imagine what it would feel like to be the subject of the ensuing articles.
‘The first one… that’s more of a behind-the-scenes take on the work you do, so…’
Although it’s the easiest concept from my perspective, it’s also the least personal, meaning readers may not engage with it as much as they would with the other, more vicarious, approaches. Hmm, that’s me with my editorial hat on again.
I continue, grateful that both Poppy and George are giving me space to sift through my thoughts.
‘I think two is too…’
‘Out there?’ Poppy offers.
‘It’s not really firmed up, is it?’ I reply.
‘Well, there are people who play a numbers game,’ says George, snapping his fingers in quick succession. ‘One date after the other, regardless of how wrong their dates might be for them, in the hopes that one of them might work out. I suppose this would be the opposite – more carefully curated dates, substance over volume.’
‘I like that,’ I say. George may have spent much of this meeting fangirling, but with one astute observation, he’s proven his mettle as a matchmaker.
‘What about number three?’ asks Poppy. ‘Too “women’s magazine-y”?’
I laugh at that. ‘How did you know?’
‘A few reasons,’ she says, ‘not the least of which was your sour expression when I wrote it on the board.’
We all chuckle.
‘Have you seen How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days ?’ I ask them.
‘Seen it?’ scoffs George. ‘It’s my second-favourite Kate Hudson romcom.’
‘Only second favourite?’ I tease.
‘ Fool’s Gold was grossly underrated,’ he replies earnestly.
‘We’re getting a little off track,’ says Poppy before I can respond. ‘I’m guessing you asked about How to Lose a Guy because the main character gets lumped with those awful how-to articles?’
I look between them, impressed. ‘Are you all across famous – and almost-famous – romcoms?’ I ask with a laugh. Perhaps it’s a job requirement.
‘Yes,’ they reply in unison.
I grin at them, delighted – even though they obviously missed my Kate Hudson/ Almost Famous reference. And I’m sure the gin is playing its part, but I’m far less apprehensive about this assignment than when I arrived. I feel like I’m in good hands with Poppy and George.
‘Okay, number three’s off the table,’ says Poppy, redirecting our conversation yet again. ‘What about number four?’
I re-read it: The best of both worlds – a career woman’s guide to finding The One.
‘Bleh,’ I say candidly. ‘It sounds like something from Cosmopolitan circa 1985.’
‘Well, then we have a concept,’ says Poppy with a smile. ‘Here’s to the dating pool and avoiding the shallows.’ She lifts her glass in a toast and I do the same, then we both take a sip.
‘Oh, bugger,’ says George. ‘I’m totes dry.’
At that, I find myself laughing again. Perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.