Chapter 10
10
POPPY
I’d intended to work at Nouveau this afternoon, finalising my content for the advice column, which is due on Bex’s desk tomorrow. But there’s something more pressing to attend to – a man called Ewan Wilder.
The way Greta’s eyes lit up when she saw him and how they looked at each other during that conversation… There is definitely something between them. I wonder how long they’ve been meeting up at the coffee shop and – more importantly – if he might merit a place on Greta’s list of potentials.
I take out my phone to call Marie Maillot, the agency’s freelance investigator to see if she’s working near Richmond. I could brief her over the phone, but if she can meet me at the agency in an hour, I’d prefer to do it in person. As always, she answers almost immediately.
Fifty minutes later, I walk into the agency and spot George at his desk. I owe him a trip to Nouveau , as he’d planned to meet me there later under the guise of taking me to happy hour – really, he just wanted to see Mimi and The Wardrobe. From the way he’s slumped in his chair, I can tell he’s still pouting.
‘Hi, is Marie here yet?’
‘In there,’ he says, nodding towards one of the meeting rooms.
‘Coming?’ I ask.
He winces.
‘She’s not that scary, and you are my second on this case. Come on, put your big boy pants on.’
‘Fine.’ He stands, his lanky frame towering over me even though I’m five-six, and follows me into the meeting room.
‘Marie!’ I exclaim as I enter.
She looks up from her phone, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips – one of her many quirks – and grunts her greeting. Marie is quite the character. I’ve said before that she looks like Lisbeth Salander, the girl with the dragon tattoo, right down to the black hair, heavy black eyeliner, and copious tattoos – only Marie’s in her late sixties.
‘Thanks for coming in,’ I say, taking a seat. George sits next to me and eyes her warily across the table.
She removes the cigarette from her mouth and holds it aloft.
‘Well, what else have I to do but jump every time you call?’ she asks sardonically, her thick French accent adding an extra layer of disdain. Marie isn’t a bad person, but I suspect she’s suffered more than her share of fools during her lifetime and at some point, she decided enough was enough. George is terrified of her.
‘I need you to look into someone for me,’ I say, getting straight to the point, something I know she appreciates. No chit-chat for Marie.
‘Ewan Wilder, approximately forty years old, works somewhere in the vicinity of 400 Strand, WC2, and he looks like this.’ On my phone, I navigate to the photo I downloaded on the way here and show it to her.
‘That is James McAvoy,’ she says drily.
‘Yes, I know. But believe me, there’s a striking resemblance.’
Marie purses her lips and draws from the cigarette, then blows non-existent smoke into the air.
‘Anything else?’
Having worked with her several times before, I know she’s asking if I have any other information about Ewan, not if I need anything else.
‘That’s all I’ve got.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as possible.’
She nods. On occasion, Marie has found the information we’ve needed within a few hours but based on the little I’ve given her to go on, it will likely take longer than that.
‘Give me a day, perhaps two,’ she says and without saying goodbye, she leaves the meeting room.
‘Don’t you think Ewan Wilder sounds like the romantic hero from a Sandra Bullock movie?’ asks George dreamily.
‘Hah! I hadn’t thought about that but now you’ve mentioned it, yes.’
‘And does he really look like that?’ he adds, peering at my phone.
‘Yes, he does.’
George emits a guttural purr. ‘I adore James McAvoy. So scrummy.’
‘Hmm, anyway ,’ I say, getting back to the case, ‘you should have seen them together, George.’
‘Fireworks?’
‘Less obvious than that, but definitely something, you know?’
George’s eyes dance with excitement. ‘Can you imagine if Mystery Man Ewan Wilder turns out to be the love of Greta’s life?’ he asks dramatically.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need to see what Marie digs up before we get too excited. He could be a serial killer for all we know.’
‘God, you’re so dramatic , Poppy,’ he says, rolling his eyes without a trace of irony.
Greta
I’m in my office, attempting to edit an article for next month’s issue, but I’ve now read the same sentence five times. Ordinarily, it would be a compelling read – the connection between what we eat, gut biome, and brain health – but my mind keeps drifting.
‘Do you have a minute?’ Bex is at the door.
‘Yes, come on in,’ I say, grateful for the reprieve – anything to distract me from the errant thoughts my monkey brain keeps tossing up.
‘Have you seen Poppy’s column?’ she asks, perching on the edge of the chair opposite me. ‘The draft she submitted?’
I haven’t and Bex knows this, as she’s the editor of the column. I can tell she’s only asking to preface an issue.
‘Is there something wrong?’
‘I’ve just emailed it to you. Would you mind taking a look?’
I navigate to my emails and open the file, skim reading it to get the gist. ‘Oh,’ I say about halfway through.
‘So it’s not just me?’ asks Bex.
I look up from my laptop. ‘It’s very dry, isn’t it? Almost clinical.’
‘Mmm-hmm. I’m not sure our readers need that much detail about pleasure receptors in the brain.’
‘Are you able to… you know…?’ I mime typing with both hands.
‘Completely re-write it like I did the last time Poppy wrote for Nouveau ?’
Ah, so this is why Bex was lukewarm about the column. She knew she’d probably have to do the heavy lifting to make it publishable. And as far as she knows, Poppy has legitimately been engaged by Nouveau as a contributor. She must be as confused as she is frustrated.
‘I was going to say, “Work your magic”.’
The corners of her mouth curve downwards, proving my suspicions.
‘If you leave it with me, I could have a go?’ I offer.
She blinks at me in surprise. ‘Haven’t you got enough on your plate?’
She’s right, I’m already behind schedule for next month’s issue, but I can’t tell her why, so I wave her off. ‘I’m happy to do it.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘It’s all right. I’ll edit it. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t completely off base.’
‘You were on base,’ I say, eliciting a small smile at my play on words.
She gets up and starts to leave. ‘You look especially gorge today, by the way,’ she says.
‘Oh, thank you,’ I reply with a tight smile.
She sends another appraising look my way and leaves, and I slump against my chair. I’m meeting with the first of my ‘Dating Horrors of London’ dates tonight. Poppy set it up.
Teeming with nerves this morning, I took extra care with my appearance, even curling my hair with barrel tongs. But perhaps looking ‘especially gorge’ is the wrong approach when meeting someone I (almost definitely) won’t like and (probably) will never see again.
Wonderful – the bloody roaring is back. I press my palms to my ears but that just makes it worse.
‘Grets, have you got five?’
Perfect timing, Luca , I think with a metaphoric roll of my eyes. He leans against the doorframe, hands in his trouser pockets, as if he’s posing for one of his photoshoots. I once told Tiggy that his likeness should be carved out of marble and placed in a piazza somewhere, and she laughed at me for a full minute.
‘Sure, what’s up?’ Even if I could concentrate on editing this article, constant interruptions aren’t helping.
‘Actually, it’ll be more like twenty,’ he says, feigning sheepishness.
I lace my fingers together and prop my elbows on the desk, looking at him expectantly.
‘I’m in the middle of a photoshoot and I need you to come to the studio with me. Just a second set of eyes on something. I honestly can’t decide, and my team are locked in a dead heat.’
‘Wait, are you asking me to consult on a fashion -related matter?’
He pushes off the doorframe and swaggers into my office, bringing with him the scent of Italian sunshine that accompanies him wherever he goes. The scent stirs remnants of my crush, but I quash the flicker of attraction before it takes hold.
‘Yes,’ he says, his brow furrowed. ‘Does that seem odd to you?’
‘Just that you never have before,’ I reply coolly.
‘An egregious oversight on my part,’ he says, throwing up his hands theatrically. He really does like to play into the Italian stereotype. ‘You’re as stylish as anyone else at Nouveau – more so than many, as you have a certain je ne sais quoi . Like today. Look at you – just stunning.’
I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. If he continues heaping praise on me – and looking at me like that – that flicker may turn into a roaring fire.
‘ Do you have time? I know you’re mad busy, but your vote will be the decider. We’re at three-all and it’s one of the rare occasions in which I’m torn and can’t make the call. Pretty please?’
Clocking his pleading look, I give my nethers a firm talking-to – No, you don’t want the sexy scoundrel! – and stretch my mouth into a professional smile. ‘Happy to cast the deciding vote,’ I say, standing and stepping out from behind my desk.
‘Brilliant. You’re a star, Grets.’ He leads the way out of my office, turning towards the lifts. ‘And after work – you, me, and cocktails. My treat as a thank you,’ he tosses over his shoulder.
I fall into step beside him, realising that Luca has ostensibly asked me out – not on a date, as such, but it’s rare we get together outside of work and if we do, it’s never just the two of us. If this were several months ago, I would have cancelled on Marcus the fitness fanatic, then obsessed all afternoon about how to act around Luca and what to say to him.
Well, I’m no longer that Greta.
‘Sorry, Luca, I can’t tonight. I have a date,’ I say with great delight.
There’s a slight hitch in his stride and he gazes down at me, his expression showing a mix of disappointment and shock with a smidge of ‘I’m impressed’. It’s hard not to be insulted by the ‘shock’ part, but I do my best.
‘So, that’s why you look particularly glam today. Who’s the lucky fellow then?’
We’ve stopped in front of the lifts and as much as I’d like to change the subject, there’s no escaping Luca’s brazen curiosity. I lift my chin and channel Poppy, giving Luca as enigmatic a smile as I can muster.
‘Oh, you wouldn’t know him,’ I say with a slight shrug of one shoulder.