Chapter 7
7
POPPY
‘George, you seriously need to let this go.’
The case name ‘Handsome and Greta’ was vetoed by Paloma, and George hasn’t stopped whingeing about it the entire way to Nouveau .
‘But, Poppy?—’
‘No, no “but, Poppy”. I don’t particularly like case names based on fairy tales either. And didn’t Hansel and Gretal get eaten by a witch or something?’
‘They were rescued .’
‘I genuinely don’t care.’
He pouts. Wonderful, I’m sitting in a client’s office with a grown-arse man who’s sulking. Why did I bring him with me again?
‘You’re attached to the play on words, that’s all,’ I say, adopting a more soothing tone. Huffy sigh. ‘Look, we’re moments away from meeting the client. Can we please shelve this discussion?’
This alludes to me being willing to discuss it further, which I’m not. This is now ‘The Greta Davies Case’, which George will discover the next time he brings it up. He finally acquiesces to my plea and sits up straight, adjusting the sleeves of his sportscoat to show off his cufflinks: fluffy bumblebees which complement his bright-yellow shirt.
While we wait for Greta, I sip the tea that Bex brought us – it’s not terrible but it’s not good either. From my experience, the quality of tea relies heavily on the skills (or lack thereof) of the maker. Bex was also a little stand-offish with me, which surprised me considering we’ve worked together before.
‘Poppy,’ says an out-of-breath Greta as she bursts into her office. She stops short and looks between us. ‘Oh, it’s only you,’ she says to George.
George and I look at each other, confused.
‘Oh, thank god! Thank god!’ Greta skirts around her desk, where she dumps her laptop and handbag, then sits heavily in her chair. She gulps from a takeaway coffee cup, tipping it up to finish it.
‘Greta, is everything all right?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ she says, depositing the now-empty cup on her desk. ‘I… I thought you were him ,’ she says, flapping a hand towards George.
‘ Him? Oh!’ I exclaim. ‘No, we wouldn’t do that, Greta – spring a potential match on you without warning.’
‘I realise that now, but when Bex sent the message…’ She heaves out another sigh and sits back against the chair, making it rock back and forth.
George and I exchange glances again. His lips are pressed together so hard, they’ve all but disappeared. Greta is clearly on edge – it’s a good thing she isn’t meeting her match today (so to speak).
‘That’s on me, Greta. I should have told you that George was coming with me today. He’s not staying – he just?—’
‘I just wanted to see the mothership,’ he says, his tone hopeful. It’s a weird thing to say but Greta responds positively.
‘Of course you did,’ she replies, breaking into a relieved smile. ‘So, how about I show you both around before I introduce Poppy to the team?’
‘Oh, yes, please.’ George bounces in his chair like an excited toddler – I guess that means his disappointment about the case name has been put on the back burner.
Greta stands and comes around to our side of the desk. ‘This way!’ She leads us out of her office, George scampering after her and me following.
Greta
I don’t know if I’ve ever been more relieved in my life. Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but an over-eager matchmaker who loves all things fashion is far better than meeting some random man I’m expected to fall madly in love with.
And a tour of Nouveau ? The perfect procrastination tactic. The longer I can put off introducing Poppy to the team and orienting her as a (pseudo) new staff member, the longer I can put off the real reason she’s here.
Ninety minutes later, I’ve taken them to all the floors of interest, including the studio where we watched ten minutes of a photoshoot, and now it’s time for the pièce de résistance : The Wardrobe (capital letters intended).
‘Oh. My. God,’ says George breathlessly. He’s like a child in a sweet shop.
If Nouveau is the mothership, The Wardrobe is the engine room.
I look about with fresh eyes. The Wardrobe really is remarkable and it’s enormous – you could fit my entire flat in here four times over. There are dozens of aisles with racks of clothes on either side and all four walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving. The Wardrobe showcases every aspect of fashion from shoes to bag to belts to jackets to trousers to dresses, and everything in between, and each season, everything but the museum pieces are rotated.
The mistress of this fashion wonderland is called Mimi and I spy her tiny form, dressed entirely in black à la Audrey Hepburn, way in the back, supervising a refresh of the nude shoe section, where three staff members buzz about her like worker bees doing her bidding. I have no doubt George would happily join them – he’s even wearing bumblebee cufflinks today, I noticed earlier.
I wave for him and Poppy to follow me, which they do – George with a lolling tongue and eyes like saucers.
‘Hello, ladies,’ I say as we approach.
Mimi turns to me, her bright-red lips stretching into a smile. Even though I’m five-foot-two, she has to lift onto her toes to kiss me on the cheek.
‘Hello, darling,’ she says, her eyes drifting over my shoulder towards George and Poppy.
I make the introductions and George steps forward as if he’s meeting royalty. Although, I suppose Mimi isn’t far off – at least in fashion circles. She’s been around almost as long as Nouveau , and even pre-dates editor-in-chief and international style icon, the Amelia Windsor.
‘Oh, goodness,’ says George – he looks as if he’s about to curtsey. ‘I cannot believe I’m meeting Mimi Prouse. I have adored you ever since I can remember.’
‘Thank you.’ I can tell Mimi’s enchanted by him – she adores being adored.
‘No, honestly, I mean it. I’m almost positive that my first word was “Mimi”, not “Mama”.’
Mimi tosses back her head and laughs heartily. ‘Oh, Greta,’ she says through her laughter. ‘Where did you find this one? He’s delightful. And so well dressed!’ She runs an appraising eye over George’s outfit.
‘Oh my god,’ says George, fanning his face with one hand. He looks to Poppy with a wide grin and shrugs his shoulders.
‘Isn’t he just?’ I say, playing along to avoid explaining who George really is. ‘Right, we should leave you to it.’
George utters a deflated ‘boo’.
‘Come on, George,’ says Poppy, linking her arm through his.
‘But come back and visit us properly sometime,’ Mimi calls after him.
‘Really?’ he asks, spinning around.
‘Of course!’
We make our goodbyes and when we’re out of earshot, I say, ‘You know, George, Mimi doesn’t invite just anyone to come visit her.’
‘I am literally going to die,’ he replies, his hand pressed to his chest, and Poppy and I share an amused glance.
Once George left, still on cloud nine from his encounter with Mimi, I took Poppy to properly reacquaint her with Bex and meet the others in the Nouveau Life team.
Staff writer, Taj, who loves the idea for Poppy’s advice column, peppered her with questions and made suggestions for its look and feel. Editorial assistant, Lisa, was warm and welcoming, asking Poppy about her articles in Psychology Today , an Australian publication she’s written for in the past.
But Bex… well, ever since I briefed the team earlier in the week, she’s made it clear she’s not on board. This baffles me – she’s worked with Poppy before, and the advice column concept is a strong fit for our vertical.
Maybe Bex senses how I’m feeling about my assignment, even though she doesn’t know I’m the contributor – a decision Anjali made to help ensure my anonymity. We debated this aspect of the assignment – I don’t like keeping things from my team – but Anjali believes this will give me the freedom to write candidly.
Regardless, I need to address this matter immediately. As Poppy’s primary contact and the editor of the column, I need Bex to be fully invested or it won’t succeed. I just hope Poppy hasn’t picked up on Bex’s reticence.
After the team meeting, Poppy and I head back to my office, and the roaring inside my head starts up again, increasing in volume the closer we get. When I close the door behind us, Poppy takes a seat in the chair across from mine, while a hurricane rages inside my head.
I take a seat and a steadying breath, then meet Poppy’s eyes.
‘Um…’ she starts, ‘have I done something to upset Bex?’
Part of me is relieved at not having to dive into the matchmaking discussion right away, but this topic is hardly any better.
‘That’s an astute question,’ I reply, deflecting.
‘It was pretty obvious,’ she says with a wry smile. ‘Do you think it’s because of the Elle Bliss/Lorenzo article? Bex essentially had to re-write the entire thing, but I still shared the byline, remember? To sell my persona as a fashion journalist?’
The penny drops. ‘Oh, of course. And was Bex looped in? That you’re not actually a fashion journalist?’ She reported to Anjali at the time, so I’m not sure how the assignment was handled. It suddenly occurs to me that Bex may know Poppy’s true profession. No, no, no.
‘I don’t think so. Apparently, she was told it was a trial – that Nouveau was considering taking me on as a freelance contributor.’
I heave out a sigh.
‘Are you okay? You’re not, are you?’ she asks, her understanding tone setting me at ease.
‘No. It’s just… this assignment and keeping it from my team… then the way Bex was with you just now…’
‘You’re also wondering if she knows I’m a matchmaker,’ Poppy says, picking up on my additional concern. I don’t even question how she determined that – just another example of my face broadcasting every thought and emotion.
‘Yep, that too. All of it,’ I reply.
‘Look, I know we’re supposed to get started on your assignment today, but if you want to leave it till next week, I can go smooth things out with Bex and start working on the column. Taj said you’ve already received quite a few reader queries.’
Poppy’s right – there is work she can do on the column. We’ve opted for a soft launch, adding a thumbnail to the main page that invites readers to send us their romantic problems – just to see if there was any interest. We’ve had an excellent response so far, with dozens of queries pouring in.
But as tempting as Poppy’s offer is, that would just be kicking this can (of worms) down the road.
‘No, let’s just get on with it.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ she says, making me laugh. ‘I really do want to make this as painless as possible for you,’ she says. ‘And, who knows, you might even have fun.’
I give her my we-both-know-that’s-a-lie face, which makes her laugh.
‘Okay, okay, maybe not rip-roaring fun, but aren’t you at least curious?’
I sit back against my chair and take in her encouraging expression. ‘You know, I haven’t really thought about it like that. But now you’ve mentioned it… I suppose matchmaking is a rather interesting endeavour.’
‘It is – from both sides.’
‘Do you really think I could have fun with this?’
‘Well, the alternative doesn’t seem very appealing,’ she says, the corners of her mouth twitching.
‘Going on dates and having a miserable time?’ I ask and we both chuckle.
‘Exactly. But what if you go into this with an open mind? Think of it as a chance to meet nice, interesting people, explore some of London’s hotspots… If you take that approach, then, yes, it could be quite fun. You also get to write anonymously, which gives you a lot of freedom.’ There’s that word again. ‘Surely, that’ll be enjoyable in its own way?’ she concludes.
‘How do you know the men are going to be nice and interesting?’
She grins. ‘That’s my job.’
‘Right. I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘It’s also why I had you complete the client questionnaire. No sense in setting you up with wildly unsuitable men if you’re expected to explore the depths of modern dating, right?’
‘Oh, good point,’ I reply, realising she’s just addressed my biggest suspicion about her methods. ‘Even so, I’m not sure I remember how to do this. I haven’t properly dated since, well…’
‘Before the pandemic?’
‘ Way before the pandemic. Back then, I was listening to “Reputation” on repeat.’ I don’t mention that my favourite song from that album was ‘King of My Heart’, a song about being better off alone.
Poppy’s eyes narrow and she shakes her head slightly.
‘Taylor Swift,’ I add to clarify.
‘Ahh.’
‘Not a Swiftie, then?’ I ask.
‘One of the few people on the planet who isn’t.’
‘I won’t hold it against you.’
She smiles. ‘Good. Now, now back to you,’ she says, restoring me to the hotseat. ‘Are you ready to meet your first match?’
I take a bracing breath. ‘Why not?’
She reaches into her enormous handbag – a Lorenzo, like her heels – and takes out a folder. ‘This,’ she says, opening it and spinning it around so the contents face me, ‘is Harrison.’
Harrison is a broad-shouldered, handsome man with thick, brown hair, russet-brown eyes, and the type of stubble that looks ruggedly sexy but probably requires constant grooming. The summary at the top of his biography states that he’s forty, has never married, has no children, and loves to travel. He also teaches music at an inner-London school – a job he’s passionate about – and is a part-time voice actor.
And the clincher, a direct quote from the man himself:
I genuinely want to find someone who’ll be my best friend, my lover, and my partner.
He may just be the perfect man (on paper at least). Perhaps Poppy’s right – this could be fun.