Chapter 4
4
GRETA
‘I am literally dying right now.’
Tiggy – best friend since nursery school, partner-in-crime, giver of tough love when needed, and frequent overnight inhabitant of my sofa after too much wine – rolls her eyes at me.
‘Babes, you’re too old to be using “literally” non-literally,’ she replies with a smirk.
‘Fair, but how would you react if your boss felt so sorry for you, she employed a matchmaker to set you up on dates?’
‘I don’t have a boss. I work for myself.’ Tiggy is a (brilliant) freelance graphic designer.
‘Semantics,’ I retort.
‘Regardless, it doesn’t mean she feels sorry for you. It’s just an assignment.’
‘Hah! Oh look,’ I say, pointing out the window, ‘a flying pig.’
Tiggy chuckles.
‘God, I’m mortified .’
‘Clearly. You’ve necked that wine way faster than usual.’ She leans across the coffee table to top me up.
‘Thank you,’ I say without thinking – my mind is still chewing on my dilemma. ‘I was completely blindsided. It was bad enough thinking that Anjali had brought Poppy on as a staff writer without consulting me. Then they dropped the real bombshell. And am I really expected to believe Anjali was just wandering about Richmond and happened upon a secret matchmaking agency, then thought, “Oh, I’ve just had a brilliant idea for a series of articles for Nouveau Life ”? My arse, she did.’
I gulp down more wine. Tiggy’s right, I’m drinking this way too fast. Not only am I risking a monster hangover tomorrow, but it’s a decent bottle and I should be savouring it. I get up, setting the glass on the coffee table, and wander over to the window to look out at Parkland Walk. No pigs, flying or otherwise, just people walking, some solo, some with dogs. There’s also a handful of joggers. It occurs to me that I’ve never seen a jogger with a smile on their face – they’re always grimacing.
I take in a deep breath and exhale so forcefully, condensation forms on the window.
When I glance back at Tiggy, she’s eyeing me curiously. ‘So, you legit have to go on dates for work?’ she asks.
‘Yep. I’m like Kate Hudson’s character in How to Lose a Guy .’
‘Andie,’ she states matter-of-factly. Tiggy is a walking encyclopaedia of romcoms, which is ironic considering she’s practically anti-love.
‘Andie, exactly. And how sad is that? I may as well start writing listicles.’
‘You’re not going to start writing listicles. It’s Nouveau , not Woman’s Weekly . Besides, if it’s really about the articles, isn’t it something Bex could do?’
‘Right? Bex is far better suited to this assignment than I am. She’s unattached, she’s twenty-six, she’s not running an entire online magazine…’
‘Well, why not suggest that instead?’
‘Because I already did, and Anjali insisted that it be me. That’s why I’m onto her,’ I say, my eyes narrowing. ‘I let slip how I want to fall in love, and she concocts this writing assignment. Then she pretends one has nothing to do with the other. She even made up some bunk about studies and news reports. “People with careers are prioritising love and relationships now more than ever, Greta. We need to do a deep dive into this important topic – our readers want to know how to navigate the dating landscape. And what a perfect follow-up to the dating apps piece.” Hah! If those were the actual reasons, I could write it as an investigative series – without going on dates!’
‘You do a shitty impression of her, you know.’
‘ Thanks ,’ I say sarcastically. My indignation starts to fizzle out and I meet Tiggy’s eye. ‘A bloody matchmaker , Tig. I just wish I hadn’t opened up to her the way I did. So stupid of me – we don’t have that type of relationship.’
‘You are close, though. You spend more time with her than with me.’
‘Yes, but that’s “work close” not “real-life close”. And with everything that’s going on, I’d hoped she’d forgotten. Why did I do that? I’ve never told her anything about my love life bef?—’
‘You mean, your lack of love life.’ She’s smirking again, plainly enjoying this.
‘Yes, thank you for the reminder, but I haven’t had time for love. I’ve been too busy building my career. Then suddenly I lift my head and – bam – I’m in my mid-thirties and alone. Oh god,’ I say, resting my forehead against the window, ‘those are the exact words I said to Anjali! What was I thinking ?’
‘Um, I take exception to the “alone” part.’
‘What?’ I ask, turning towards her. ‘Oh, sorry. You’re right, I’m not alone . I’m not even lonely – I’m surrounded by wonderful people.’
I don’t add that besides my immediate family and Tiggy, most of those ‘wonderful people’ are my colleagues.
‘Present company included,’ she quips before stuffing her mouth with Wotsits. You’d never know it to look at her – five-ten and nine stone – but Tiggy’s diet is 50 per cent snack food. Wine and Wotsits is her version of wine and cheese.
‘Well, obvs,’ I say in response to her I’m-fishing-for-a-compliment comment. ‘Mind if we get back to me now?’
She mumbles her agreement through her mouthful.
‘I was going to say that until a few weeks ago, I’d barely thought about love at all.’
I head back to the sofa and flop onto it, then retrieve my glass and take a small sip. It really is delicious – a Tempranillo from Spain.
‘So, what changed? What’s the catalyst for all this angst?’ she asks, digging her hand inside the Wotsits packet again.
‘It’s silly really.’
‘Just tell me.’
I meet her gaze and she stares at me expectantly, her head cocked to one side. She knows I had an awkward conversation with Anjali that night – I told her the next day – but she doesn’t know the catalyst for the conversation or how much it’s been on my mind ever since.
‘All right. So, I was editing this article for Nouveau Life about dating apps and there was this section about successful matches – people who’d got married after meeting online – and it got me thinking. I mean, I’m thirty-six next birthday?—’
‘We both are,’ she interjects.
‘Yes, but you haven’t always thought you’d fall in love and have a baby.’
‘Thirty-six isn’t too old to have a baby.’
‘Well, no . But even if I met someone now and had a whirlwind romance and got pregnant right away, I’d be at least thirty-seven by the time the baby came. And did you know that any pregnancy over the age of thirty-five is considered a geriatric pregnancy? Geriatric , Tig.’
‘What about your mum? She was a lot older than that when she had Ru.’
‘She was forty-eight, but?—’
‘See? You’ve got plenty of time to find a nice bloke and have a baby. Maybe even get married.’
‘Ugh. Just the thought of that is exhausting – dating… finding the right person… telling each other your dreams… your secrets… letting them see all your faults… falling in love … If only I could have parlayed my crush on Luca into a ready-made family of three – no dating, no pregnancy, just a scrummy hubby and an adorable baby in the blink of an eye.’
Tiggy laughs at that. ‘You really are a right muppet. And Luca’s a cad. You’d have been a single mum before your baby’s first birthday.’
‘That may be true.’
‘It is definitely true.’
‘Oh, I envy you, Tig,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I have no idea how you do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Have a love life,’ I reply.
‘First, it’s not a love life, it’s a sex life.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Second, I’m not a workaholic.’
‘Well, no,’ I reply, acknowledging that it’s no secret I am one – by choice . It’s a core part of my identity, one I am exceedingly proud of! (I know, I know, methinks the lady doth protest too much.)
‘And third, there is a big difference between what you want and what I have with my…’ She trails off without attaching a fitting label – Tiggy detests labels. She also detests the idea of being tied to one person. Her bedroom should have a revolving door.
‘Lovers?’ I ask.
She grins at me, shaking her head. ‘You cow. You know I hate that word. It’s icky . Right up there with panties and?—’
‘Moist!’ we shout together.
We fall about laughing. Idiotic really, but we’ve been laughing at the word ‘moist’ since Food Technology in Year 8. Our teacher couldn’t stop exclaiming how moist Trevor Landry’s flapjacks were and by the end of the lesson, all thirty pupils were in fits. Poor thing. She could barely look at us after that.
Our laughter subsides and, in unison, we sigh one of those contented I-needed-a-good-laugh sighs.
‘Right, so back to you and your assignment,’ says Tiggy.
I groan, then drink a generous glug of wine. We should probably order food soon or I will definitely be hungover tomorrow. I reach for my phone and open the delivery app.
‘Are you listening?’
‘Sort of,’ I admit.
‘Greta, look at me,’ she says in an appalling Australian accent. This is her doing Kath from Kath and Kim , something we were obsessed with in our final year of school. We’d recite entire scenes together, but my accent was much better than hers. Don’t tell her I said that.
‘All right! I’m looking at you.’
‘Good.’
‘Good.’
She rolls her eyes again and I stifle a laugh. This type of bestie banter is par for the course with us, especially this far into a bottle of wine. ‘Do you want to hear what I think?’
‘Do I have a choice?’ I ask, already knowing the answer.
‘No.’
‘Then proceed,’ I say with a flourish of my free hand. I down the rest of my wine and reach for the bottle.
‘Less than a month after you have this major realisation, this epiphany that you aren’t getting any younger and there may be more to life than work, a professional matchmaker practically lands in your lap. For free . You’re looking a gift horse in the mouth. So, instead of moaning about it, you might as well take the assignment and see what comes of it.’
‘I hate it when you make sense.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she retorts.
‘Even if it means I have homework to do over the weekend.’
‘Homework?’ she asks.
I point to the quarter inch-thick stack of paper sitting on the coffee table. ‘ That is the client questionnaire for the matchmaking agency.’
‘Good god!’ She picks it up and starts thumbing through it.
‘I know – and it’s more evidence that they are actually trying to match me. Why else have me complete it?’
‘There’s less paperwork than this to get a mortgage,’ she says, ignoring my comment about the mounting evidence. ‘Haven’t they heard of online forms?’
‘Apparently, they get more candid responses from a paper one.’
She looks up from the ream of paper and sets it back on the table. ‘Hmm. Worth it, though. And not just ’cause you’re nearly past it.’
‘Ouch!’
‘You also spent far too long crushing on the wrong man,’ she continues, undeterred.
‘Double ouch.’
‘Come on, how many years did you waste on Luca? He was never husband material and you know it.’
She’s right. Too bad it took my nethers so long to get the memo. But maybe it wasn’t just my nethers. Maybe I crushed on Luca because pining after an unattainable man was easier than facing the terrifying prospect of being vulnerable with someone new.
Ugh. I’m too shattered to unpack that right now.
‘Okay, fine, you’re right,’ I say instead. ‘Now, can we please order food? I’m about thirty seconds away from eating the rest of your Wotsits for dinner.’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she says, grabbing the bag off the table and clasping it to her chest.
Poppy
‘Georgie Boy,’ I say to my fellow agent as I perch on the edge of his desk. ‘I have something to ask you.’
He slams his laptop shut but not without me seeing he was on Spill the Tea . If I ask him about it, he’ll lie and say it’s for a case, but the truth is that George is addicted to celebrity gossip. But as far as vices go, it’s fairly innocuous.
‘Hello, Poppy,’ he says, propping his chin on his hand. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘It’s about a case…’
‘Mmm…?’ he asks, feigning mild curiosity when I can tell his interest is fully piqued.
This is a well-practised routine of ours. Any time I’ve asked George to be my second on a case, I pretend I’m asking for a massive favour and he pretends to consider it. The reality: I bring my juiciest cases straight to George, because the juicier the case, the harder he works at it – and we both know that. I also adore working with him.
‘First, it’s Nouveau …’
‘The magazine?’ he asks, abandoning his coy pretence and sitting up ramrod straight.
‘The one and only.’
He leans in closer and purses his full lips. ‘Ooh, do tell.’
I paint the broad strokes of the case for him, each detail inciting an exclamation, wide-eyed wonder, or both. I conclude with, ‘The client’s coming this arvo with her completed questionnaire, but I’d love your help reviewing the long list of potentials. So, will you be my second on this one?’
‘Poppy, if you ask anyone else, I’ll never speak to you again.’
‘You were my first and only choice.’
He nods with a slightly smug smile, then leans back in his chair. ‘And what are your thoughts on the angle?’ he asks.
‘For the articles?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘I’ve actually left that to Anjali, and I imagine Greta will want to have a say. It’s her online magazine, after all.’
‘I’m thinking the articles should be anonymous, don’t you?’ he asks. ‘Otherwise, Greta will have to inform her dates. And can you imagine? “Oh, by the way, you don’t mind if I write about the size of your willy in my magazine, do you?”’
I inhale sharply. ‘George, I love you, you know I do, but if you dare say anything like that to Greta, I will slap you upside the head.’
He waves off my (supposed) threat with a flap of his hand. ‘Of course not.’
‘Because from my brief experience with Greta, she’s serious-minded and more than a little reluctant to take on this assignment.’
‘I’ll be gentle with her, I promise.’
‘Good. Remember, the guise is that this is simply a writing assignment, but we only succeed if she gets her happily ever after.’
‘Got it. So, what time is she coming in?’
‘Four-thirty.’
He starts to open his laptop.
‘Your calendar’s free, I’ve already checked.’
‘Right.’
‘And I’ll forward the long list of potentials in a moment,’ I say as I head off towards my desk.
‘Poppy?’ he calls after me.
I turn back around.
‘What were you thinking for the case name?’ he asks.
Sigh – the confounding quest for the perfect case name. My colleagues seem to love spending time on this, whereas (much to their disappointment) I’d happily refer to cases by the client’s last name or assign them a random set of alpha-numeric characters. Mainly because the name of a case has no bearing on its outcome whatsoever .
‘Um, how about you decide?’
‘What about “Handsome and Greta”?’ he suggests.
I don’t hate it, though I’d better appear more enthusiastic than that.
‘Fab,’ I reply with a smile and he beams. ‘Ursula will love it too,’ I add, referring to our colleague who names all her cases after fairy tales.
‘I’ll love what?’ Speak of the devil. Ursula, who is anywhere between fifty and seventy – a well-kept secret due to the amount of plastic surgery she’s had – sashays into the open-plan office amid a cloud of Chanel N°5.
‘The new case Poppy and I are working on: Handsome and Greta,’ George replies.
‘ Oh? ’
I leave George to fill Ursula in and return to my desk. Right as I sit, my phone chimes with a message:
Hello darling. The cousins want to see us. Next Sunday work?
He’s talking about Evie and Olivia, Tristan’s first cousins on his dad’s side who are in their mid-twenties. Last year, when he learnt about the terms of his grandad’s will, he reconnected with them after years of little or no contact. And after he received the inheritance, he created generous trusts for each of them.
I met them just before our wedding and absolutely adore them. Having no siblings of my own, they’ve become like younger sisters to me.
I send a quick reply:
Perfect. Invite them for Sunday lunch?
Tristan’s response comes in seconds:
You offering to cook?
I laugh out loud at that, causing several colleagues to glance over. It’s funny because I don’t cook – at all . I can assemble a lovely cheese platter and I’ve been known to microwave a ready meal, but I leave the culinary arts to my husband. That way, we both steer clear of A&E.
Hilarious. See you at home. Px