Chapter 18
18
GRETA
When I approach The Daily Grind, there’s a line out the door – great for the owner of a new business in the centre of London, not so great for a person who’s just admitted she messed up at work and wants to retreat to her favourite spot.
I join the queue, taking out my phone to mindlessly scroll through socials, like most of the people ahead of me. Only my mind can’t cope with even this simple task. I can’t believe I missed how discontented Bex has been. I really am a terrible boss. I adore Bex and she’s right – she’s clever and capable and I’ve been too focussed on other aspects of Nouveau Life to fully leverage her abilities and make her feel valued.
I know! Bex should edit my articles.
This would mean looping in yet another person on my so-called ‘secret’ assignment, but it’s Bex. She’s trustworthy – and what’s one more person excavating the ruins of my love life?
I should ask Poppy to join us. If I want to show Bex I trust her unreservedly, she can learn the real reason we brought Poppy on. Hopefully, that will make amends and wipe the slate clean.
‘Right, a plan of action,’ I mutter to myself. Now knowing how to address my managerial misstep, I recommence the mindless scroll on my phone as I shuffle forward.
I’m watching a video of a cat who lives on a boat as I reach the head of the queue and when I look up to place my order, Ewan is there. Behind the counter. Wearing a forest-green apron with ‘The Daily Grind’ embroidered across the top.
My mouth falls open as my mind tries to interpret what I’m seeing.
‘The usual?’ he asks, flashing his signature lopsided smile.
‘Er, yes – please ,’ I add as an afterthought.
He punches something into the register and when I hold my phone to the card reader to pay, I see ‘0.00’ on the screen. I look up at Ewan, even more confused.
‘On me,’ he says with a wink.
‘Oh, okay.’
This is the part where I’m supposed to step aside and let the next person order, but I’m rooted to the spot as if I’m in a horror movie and I’ve just spotted the scary man with the axe.
‘Why don’t you find a place to sit, and I’ll bring it over,’ Ewan prompts.
I nod and wander off, coming out of my stupor as I realise most people in the queue must have been getting takeaway. Nearly all the tables are free. I head to my favourite one, far from the caffeine fray, and sit facing the rest of the coffee shop.
That really is Ewan, and he really is serving behind the counter of The Daily Grind.
As I’m watching him, he switches places with one of the young men who works here and takes off his apron. He hovers near the espresso machine and when the barista pops the lid on a cup, he takes it from them, and heads towards me.
‘Think, Greta. What are you going to say?’ I ask myself out loud.
Ewan’s eyes light up as he approaches, and I beam back at him.
‘Good morning,’ he says with a bright smile. He places my coffee on the table and slides into the chair opposite me.
‘Good morning, Mr Coffee Man,’ I say, immediately regretting it. Mr Coffee Man – what a muppet ! You wouldn’t know I make a living as a wordsmith.
Ewan chuckles good-naturedly and dips his chin, maintaining eye contact. ‘I was going to tell you the night we had dinner, but then the conversation moved on and it never really came up again. Then I worried I’d left it too long and… well… Ta-da! I own The Daily Grind,’ he says, his arms out wide.
Well, that explains why I didn’t know sooner. And Ewan’s positively radiating pride, as he should be, only the pride is underpinned with something else: an uncertainty in his eyes.
‘It’s totally fine – just unexpected is all. You’re obviously making a success of it – there’s a line out the door!’ I say, hoping to make at least a dent in that uncertainty.
He chuckles and looks over his shoulder, then returns his gaze to me. ‘My first time behind the counter today…’ he says, shaking his head.
‘Well, you did brilliantly. Although, please tell me you’re not giving away free coffee to everyone.’
‘Oh, no, only to people I like,’ he says, imbuing the word ‘like’ with more meaning than I can unpack right now. I return the comment with a smile.
‘So, what are you doing when you’re not back there?’ I say, indicating the counter.
‘I spend most of the day in the office.’ He nods towards a door tucked at the back of the coffee shop that, somehow, I’ve never noticed before. ‘But there’s no natural light in there, so I prefer working out here – especially when people I know come in.’
‘And why a coffee shop?’
He bites his top lip and sucks in a breath through his teeth. ‘If I tell you, will you promise not to tell a soul?’
‘Of course I won’t,’ I say, suddenly serious.
He leans in and I do the same. After glancing left, then right, he says, ‘I’m actually an MI6 agent and The Daily Grind is a front.’
I tut and sit back in my chair, pretending to glare at him. ‘You had me going then.’
‘I could tell,’ he replies, sniggering.
‘Is there a real reason or…?’
‘It’s going to sound wildly out of character.’
‘I’m all ears,’ I say.
‘Well, I was with a mate at a pub, and I told him I was considering stepping away from my job for a year?—’
‘Is this the mate with the sick toddler?’
‘Different mate – he doesn’t work in finance – he’s a teacher, actually… Anyway, we started “riffing”, I guess is the best word, on the sorts of things I could do instead. And we ended up in this word association game and he said, “Whatever you answer to the next question – you have to do something related to that,” or something similar.’
‘And what was the next question?’ I ask, literally on the edge of my seat as I inch closer, my eyes fixed on his.
‘He asked, “What’s the one thing – not a person, nothing essential, and nothing abstract – that you couldn’t live without?”’
I blink at him, my mind instantly chewing on the question from my own perspective.
‘You’re trying to figure out what your “one thing” is, aren’t you?’
I nod.
‘Don’t think about it too much – just say whatever comes to mind.’
‘Reality competition shows,’ I blurt. I clap my hand over my mouth. ‘That’s so ridiculous. I’m sorry. I could have said any number of things. Like magazines, for example!’ I shake my head at myself and take a sip of my coffee.
‘Ahh, but that’s the thing – in your profession, magazines are essential.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Which makes yours a perfect response.’
‘Maybe…’ I say, still feeling a little foolish. ‘So what did you say?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he asks with a smile. ‘I said, “Coffee”.’
‘ Oh , of course.’
‘And I thought, “Why not?”. It was as far away from my profession as I could get, and I have a friend in commercial real estate and another in small business management… I called in some favours and bit the bullet and?—’
‘Other pertinent idioms.’
‘And other pertinent idioms and’ – he throws his hands out wide again – ‘I’m the proud owner of a thriving coffee shop in Central London. Who knew?’
‘I suspect that deep down, you knew it would take off.’
‘I honestly didn’t. These past months have been the steepest learning curve of my life.’
‘But you’ve loved it.’
He grins. ‘I have.’
‘Oh, I’ve just realised… The Daily Grind… You named the coffee shop after what you were leaving behind.’
‘That’s it exactly.’
‘Well, I love it – very clever.’
‘Thank you,’ he says, dipping his chin to accept the compliment. When he meets my eye again, his friendly smile warms me from the inside.
‘Are you working on your article today?’ he asks.
His question breaks the spell and I nose-dive back into reality. Ewan’s not the only one who hasn’t been forthcoming about his work. And given my confrontation with Bex just now and the repercussions of keeping these things hidden, I’m wondering if I should confess to him about the real subject of my articles.
‘Er, yes. I’ve got a couple of articles I need to polish – my boss is waiting on them.’
He squints at me curiously. Oh, bollocks, is he onto me, even without a confession?
‘Are you really able to work in this environment?’ he asks. ‘What with the noise and everyone coming and going?’
‘Oh!’ I exclaim out of relief. He looks at me quizzically and I try to pass off my overreaction as ‘normal’ by adding, ‘I get asked that all the time. I’m just fortunate really – I can work anywhere. I once wrote an entire article on my phone in the middle of Euston station while waiting for a delayed train.’
I’m rabbiting. Why am I rabbiting? Any moment now, I’ll spout long, fluffy ears.
‘Well, it’s an impressive skill,’ he says, regarding me thoughtfully.
‘Thank you,’ I reply. Only now I seem to have run out of things to say, which isn’t all that surprising considering the number of words I packed into one thirty-second-long ramble.
Ewan starts to rise. ‘Well, I should get back to it and leave you to your obsessions.’
‘My obsess— right, yes.’ So much for telling him the truth about my assignment but, just like he said earlier, the moment has passed.
‘So, do you think you’ll become a permanent fixture back there?’ I ask, nodding towards the counter where there are still a dozen people in line. I’m keeping him from his work, but I don’t want him to go just yet.
‘I hope not,’ he says with a laugh. ‘My shop manager’s already teeing up some interviews to hire more staff. I’ve also been thinking about adding?—’
‘Ewan!’
We both look in the direction of the voice – it’s a woman and she’s frantically waving him back to the counter. And no wonder. A large group has just entered and have bunched up near the door.
‘Go, go,’ I say. ‘You can’t keep coffee drinkers waiting – un-caffeinated people can turn rabid in an instant.’ There, that was far wittier than the ‘Mr Coffee Man’ remark.
‘See you soon?’ he asks.
‘Same time tomorrow!’ I say cheerily.
‘Excellent.’ He goes but after a few steps, he turns back and points at me. ‘And dinner this week. Let’s make plans tomorrow.’
Before I can reply, he trots behind the counter and slips the apron on over his head.
He didn’t even ask about dinner – it was more of ‘this is what’s going to happen’ and I can’t say I minded one bit.
Bex gazes back and forth between us with her lips parted, stupefied. I steal a glance at Anjali, who seems unperturbed by her reaction, then at Poppy, who appears tickled.
Eventually, Bex speaks. ‘Wait, what ?’
Anjali is the one to reply. ‘It shouldn’t be too much of an addition to your workload, seeing as it’s a finite series that Greta’s writing and we aim to space it out over multiple issues. Do you think you’ll be able to take it on?’
‘Oh, yes, absolutely,’ Bex splutters, nodding eagerly.
Then she looks at me, clearly uncertain. ‘So, you’re really going on these dates?’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘With actual men?’ she asks.
‘Yes. That’s why we brought Poppy in. She’s a professional matchmaker.’ This, of course, is an even bigger reveal than my assignment.
‘She’s a… she’s a—’ Bex stammers. She looks over at Poppy, who raises her hand in a small wave, and her eyes widen as her mouth stretches into a perfect ‘O’ of comprehension. Then she throws back her head and, one hand to her chest, starts cackling with laughter.
‘ Bex ,’ says Anjali firmly.
Bex stops immediately and clears her throat. ‘I’m sorry, I just… That article about Elle Bliss and Lorenzo and then the advice column… It all makes sense now and I?—’
It’s comical how forcefully the second realisation lands. ‘Oh my god. Did you match Elle Bliss and Lorenzo?’ she asks, her voice shrill. ‘You did, didn’t you? God, that’s so exciting. I want to hear everything .’
I catch Anjali’s lips tightening with distaste, signalling that it’s time to take this discussion anywhere other than her office.
‘Let’s head back to my office and discuss this further,’ I say, standing and shepherding Bex and Poppy out into the hallway.
‘Oh, and Greta,’ says Anjali.
I pause in the doorway. ‘Yes?’
‘After Bex calms down, can you please have her edit your first article? I’d like it on my desk by noon tomorrow.’
‘Of course,’ I say, ‘Actually, I’ve got two ready to submit.’
‘Very good.’ She smiles at me politely, then puts her reading glasses on and opens her laptop.
I leave, feeling like I’ve just been dismissed from the principal’s office. It’s not that Anjali seemed cross, but something was off about how we left things just now, which leaves me feeling unsettled.
I arrive at my office to find Bex bombarding Poppy with questions. I should have anticipated that she’d be ultra-curious about Poppy’s job once she learnt the truth, but I need her focussed, not fangirling over the engagement of two fashion designers.
‘Says you,’ I rebuke myself softly. ‘Several weeks ago, you were doing the exact same thing.’
‘What was that?’ Bex asks me.
‘Nothing, never mind. Right, if you’ve finished interrogating Poppy, we need to get to work. Anjali wants to see the first two articles by lunchtime tomorrow. I’ll email them to you now.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Bex says, popping out of her chair. ‘And how do you prefer your feedback?’ she asks. ‘Tracked changes and comments, or I can send it in paragraph form, if you like?’
As Bex has never been my editor before, I understand her reticence in asking. This is a significant shift in our power dynamic.
‘Tracked changes and comments is fine,’ I reply.
‘Perfect,’ she says with a grin. ‘And thank you again for this opportunity.’
‘As you told me this morning, you’ve earned it.’
She beams, but then she glances at Poppy and her smile falls away. She not-so-subtly jerks her head towards the door, telegraphing that Poppy should leave.
‘Poppy’s staying for a bit,’ I say.
‘Ah, okay.’ Bex gives me a terse smile and pulls the door closed after her.
‘That went reasonably well,’ says Poppy when Bex is gone.
Falling into my chair, I expel a heavy breath, then send her a wry smile. ‘You have a very strange idea of “well”,’ I say.
‘Was it your assistant editor behaving like a teen at a Taylor Swift concert or your boss sending us away as if she were a monarch weary of the peasants?’
‘How did you— You’re very astute about people’s behaviour and relationships, you know.’
She shrugs immodestly.
‘Anjali was a little taken aback by Bex,’ I say, stifling a giggle.
‘She physically recoiled,’ retorts Poppy dryly.
I giggle. ‘I suppose it’s been a while since she was in the magazine trenches. If she only knew how younger colleagues behaved these days… They’re effusive about everything ; whereas I suspect Anjali entered adulthood fully formed, serious, and single-minded. That would certainly explain her meteoric rise in the world of magazines. And here’s me – thirty-five and a massive Swiftie. I saw Taylor Swift twice last year – in the same week!’
‘Impressive.’
‘I know you don’t like her.’
‘I never said that,’ she says with a shake of her head. ‘I just… She’s not my favourite.’
‘Fair,’ I concede.
‘Can you imagine Anjali at a Taylor Swift concert?’ she asks with a smirk.
‘Don’t laugh, but she took her eldest last year.’
‘Anjali Bennett?’ Poppy asks, incredulous. ‘At a Taylor Swift concert?’
‘Well, her son’s a fan, and she said she went with an old school chum and her daughter. Saskia, I think – the mum, not the daughter.’
Poppy’s eyes go wide, then she bursts out laughing.
‘What? What’s so funny?’
‘Saskia…’ she says through her laughter. She points to herself. ‘She’s my boss.’
‘What?’
She nods. ‘And she’s just like Anjali – we call her “The Swan”. Oh my god…’ She flaps her hand in front of her face, barely getting out, ‘Can you imagine?’ Then she launches into a mime of a very posh woman at a pop concert, one who bops along to the music, but in an extremely reserved way, and instantly has me in hysterics.
I am so glad to be working with Poppy on this assignment – she’s become a bit of a fairy-godmother. I wonder if we’ll stay friends after it’s over. When it’s over , I think with a jolt. When I’m either matched or deemed unmatchable. And it’s unclear which of those outcomes triggers the roaring inside my head.