Chapter 8
8
GRETA
‘Yum-eee,’ says Tiggy, ogling the photo of Harrison. ‘He’s a dish. If you don’t like him, can I have him?’
I snatch it from her. ‘He’s a person, not a handbag. I’m not lending him out. Besides, you’re already dating someone.’
‘Not exclusively. And it’s some- ones .’
I ignore her, my eyes perusing Harrison’s face and lingering on his bottom lip, which is much fuller than the top one. Tiggy’s right – he is a dish. Poppy’s advice comes to mind, about having fun with all this.
‘Well, he’s proper fit, he is – Mountain Maaan,’ she says, adopting a deep, booming voice.
‘Mountain Man?’ I ask.
Tiggy shrugs. ‘I don’t know – he looks like he chops down trees for fun. He does seem perfect for you – at least according to this.’ She’s not wrong; it’s the exact thought I had earlier. ‘So, again , no more complaining about this assignment.’
She stabs her straw into her G&T, making the ice clink against the sides, then sucks the rest of it noisily through the straw.
‘Please don’t say that. You’re the only person who knows about it besides Anjali. And you’re my bestie. Who else am I supposed to talk to?’
‘Hear that? That distinction? Talk to – yes. Complain to – no.’
‘And when everything goes pear-shaped?’
‘What could possibly go pear-shaped with him?’ She nods at the photo.
‘Oh, I don’t know. He could have bad breath or be a rubbish driver or?—’
‘Are we having another round?’ she asks, cutting me off to save me from myself.
We’re at my favourite bar for after-work drinks – Gin Palace – only mine’s half undrunk because I’ve been reading Harrison’s biography on repeat, fixating on the words ‘wants to be a father’, which appears on page two. It’s a weighty – and enticing – addition to the short, snappy summary on the top of page one.
I eye Tiggy’s empty glass. ‘I’ll happily stay for another, but only if you’re having a proper cocktail and not just a G&T.’
‘I like G&Ts.’
‘So do I, but they do make specialty cocktails here, you know.’
‘Are you doing that thing where you’re a bossy cow because everything else feels out of control?’
I break into a grin. ‘You’re lucky we’re best friends,’ I say, shaking my head.
‘No, you’re lucky we’re best friends,’ she says, returning my serve with a winner.
I wave over the bartender and order Tiggy another G&T and a Convent for myself – a sweet, fizzy cocktail with a hint of ginger.
I take a sip of the cocktail in front of me, my gaze sliding back to the photo. I’m guessing that if Harrison works as a voice actor, he must have a deep, velvety voice to match those looks, something I’m especially drawn to.
An unbidden memory pops into my mind of Darren, the bloke I dated throughout my final year of uni. He wasn’t especially good-looking, but he was clever and funny and had the sexiest voice I’d ever heard. I would have married him had he asked. I’m glad he didn’t, though. He was sleeping with two other girls at the same time he was dating me, something Tiggy discovered one night at a party across town.
I’d been so cross with her for telling me, which is ridiculous, of course. With a nudge from my mum, who was providing post-break-up sanctuary by ferrying toast and tea up to my childhood bedroom where I was wallowing, my rift with Tiggy didn’t even last the weekend. By late Sunday afternoon, I was on the doorstep of her share flat, tail between my legs and bearing a bottle of her favourite plonk as an apology. Typical Tiggy, she called me a ‘daft cow’, hooked an arm around my neck in one of her I-am-so-much-taller-than-you hugs and invited me to share the wine while we bitched about Darren.
The realisation hits hard: Darren was my last serious boyfriend. I can’t have been (practically) single for twelve whole years! I count back. Yep. Twelve years of the occasional date and the odd hook-up. And I mean ‘odd’ literally as well as figuratively, because there was a bloke called Miles who was visiting Tiggy’s friend, Trav, from out of town and, foolishly, I thought it was a good idea to take him home after a very boozy night at the pub. I woke up the next morning and he’d stolen my towels. All of them, including the flannel. Maybe he was setting up house.
I’ve been in my head for minutes now and look over at Tiggy, who’s scrolling Instagram.
‘I’m not great company tonight, am I?’
She angles herself towards me. ‘Eh,’ she says with a shrug, ‘you’re fine. I do have a question for you, though.’
We’re interrupted by our drinks arriving and we both thank the bartender.
‘What?’ I ask when we’re alone again. I down the rest of my first cocktail and slide the empty glass away from me.
‘Just…’ Something in the tone of Tiggy’s voice makes my head snap up. She meets my eye. ‘What happens to the assignment if you and Harrison hit it off and fall madly in love?’
‘Oh.’ I know immediately what she means, and I’m surprised I didn’t consider this before. Bollocks!
‘And not just because of that,’ she says, pointing to Harrison’s biography. ‘But because you’re amazing and he’ll adore you.’
‘I, er… Well, thank you.’
‘’Course,’ she says with a shrug. ‘But you didn’t answer my question. Do you have to keep dating blokes you’re not in love with?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that. I have no bloody idea!’ I wail.
Her brows lift and she presses her lips together, telegraphing something that resembles sympathy – or is that pity?
Poppy
‘Hi, honeys, I’m home!’ I call out. I dump my bag on the hallstand and step out of my heels. Even these, which are known for comfort, can be a bit much by the end of the day. I think I’ll switch back to ballet flats or sneakers for the rest of the week.
‘Tris?’
I know he’s home – his keys are in the catchall on the hallstand – but he doesn’t answer. He must be in the loo. We’re a closed-loo-door couple, something that’s supposed to keep the romance alive. Even if romance weren’t a factor, I’ve never understood those couples who do their business in front of each other. Um, hello, why ? Even Saffron prefers privacy when she uses her litterbox.
I wander further into the flat and am about to flop onto the sofa when there’s a heavy knock at the front door. I rush over, only realising when I get there that this is a secure building. Who could that be ? No one buzzed and no one was announced.
‘Um, yes?’ I say loudly to the solid door.
‘Darling, it’s me.’
I fling it open and there’s Tristan, holding a wide-eyed Saffron. ‘What the hell?’
He pushes past me, releasing her onto the lounge room rug, and I close the door.
‘She ran out of the flat right as I got home,’ he says breathlessly. ‘And, of course, like an idiot, I ran after her without thinking to grab my keys. Then she got into the lift and the doors closed before I could stop them.’
‘Oh my god, Saffron, you naughty girl!’
She ignores me, undaunted by my admonishment, and commences her ablutions in the middle of the floor, one leg raised and her little pink tongue dangerously close to her bum.
‘She is such a little minx.’ I turn back to Tristan, who’s leaning against the breakfast bar, pale and clammy. ‘Hey, she’s okay. She couldn’t have got far.’
‘She got off the lift on seven. And while I was madly trying to find her, along with the entire concierge team, Maisie Stimpson had dressed her in doll’s clothes and was about to have a tea party. Thank god I found her and that you were home when I did.’
I don’t mention that the concierge team would have let him into the flat – they’ve done it for me when I’ve (stupidly) left without my keys.
Then my mind switches gears and the visual of Saffron wearing doll’s clothes is too much. Laughter erupts uncontrollably and Tristan and I lock eyes. He starts laughing too and soon we’re grasping onto each other, barely able to breathe.
When the laughter dwindles, I look across at Saffron. ‘Oi, Saffron Dean Fellows,’ I chide, using her full name. Her tiny tongue pauses mid-lick and she looks at me as if to say, ‘What? ’
‘I’ll tell you what, missy. You’re the most spoiled, most loved cat in the world. Don’t you ever scare your papa like that again or we will give you to Maisie Stimpson and you will have to wear dolls’ clothes every day for the rest of your life. Do you understand?’
She pauses for a micro-second, then goes back to licking the fur around her bum.
‘Well, you told her,’ says Tristan, setting us off again. I wipe tears from under my eyes with my forefingers, and my phone rings.
‘No rest for the wicked,’ Tristan quips.
I retrieve my phone from my handbag and see that it’s Greta Davies. I mouth, ‘I need to take this,’ and Tristan mimes, ‘Want a drink?’ I nod and head over to the sofa where I make myself comfortable before answering.
‘Hello, Greta. What can I do for you?’
‘Poppy, I think we’ve made a terrible mistake.’
Greta
I’m so glad Poppy answered. I have no idea what I would have done if my call had gone to voicemail – probably left an incoherent message, babbling on about finding the love of my life in the midst of an important writing assignment and possibly losing my job.
All right, I may be catastrophising a little – it’s unlikely my job is on the line – but there’s certainly merit to my other concerns.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks. ‘You sound really upset.’
‘I’m not, no. I was out with my best friend tonight after work – Tiggy, she’s called – and she asked this one question and now I can’t see how this can possibly work – the dating… the writing assignment.’
I hate that my voice sounds all pitchy but if I’m going to wail to anyone about this, Poppy’s the perfect person – she’s part of the reason I’m in this situation and she’s a trained psychologist.
‘It must feel overwhelming.’
‘Well, yes, it does,’ I reply, calming slightly. Even just being heard offers some relief.
‘That’s completely understandable.’
‘It is?’
‘Absolutely. You’re an accomplished professional, you excel at what you do, and you’ve been thrust into a situation where you’ll be putting your private life out there for everyone to see. Even with the anonymity, it’s still, at its core, you .’
In less than a minute, Poppy has pinpointed the root of my concern, and my heart rate begins to slow.
‘Listen, why don’t we discuss exactly what’s troubling you and see where you land?’ she offers.
‘Are you sure? I know I’ve phoned you after hours.’
‘That’s what I’m here for,’ she replies, though I seriously doubt Anjali engaged Poppy the Matchmaker to be my counsellor. Still, she’s offered a friendly ear, so why not?
‘And there’s still time to back out if you’re not 100 per cent comfortable with it,’ she adds.
I don’t tell her that when Anjali gets an idea in her head, she becomes single-minded. If I tell Anjali I’m not up to completing this assignment, she’d just find a way to convince me. But I may as well give Poppy the entire picture, which pre-dates Anjali’s ‘fairy godmothering’.
‘I think it goes back to the day the vertical launched, when I started experiencing this intense rushing sound inside my head, like waves crashing on the shore. It was the first time I’d experienced anything like that.’
I pause, waiting for Poppy to interject, but she doesn’t.
‘Anyway, I let it slip to Anjali and she assured me it was part and parcel of launching such an enormous initiative – that she’s experienced the same thing each time she’s approached a significant milestone. She said it would go away and she was right. By the end of the day, when I knew the launch was a success, no waves crashing in my head.’
‘That’s good to hear. And Anjali is right: it’s perfectly normal to have a physical reaction to the stress and excitement of launching Nouveau Life .’
‘Right, but it came back – the noise.’
‘And when was tha— Oh, when you got this assignment.’
‘Exactly. And I know you said it might be fun and I’d love to believe that, but right now, trepidation is trumping gleeful anticipation,’ I say, layering sarcasm over ‘gleeful’.
I hear her murmur ‘thanks’ to someone and then she comes back to me. ‘So, what was the question Tiggy asked you, the one that’s got you out of sorts?’
‘Well, we were talking about Harrison…’ I pause, not sure how to explain, and Poppy leaps in with a follow-up question.
‘Oh, is he not a good fit?’
‘No, it’s not that. He’s almost too perfect. We have a lot in common, we want the same things out of life, I like how he expressed his desire to be in a relationship… That’s why Tiggy’s question threw me. She asked what would happen if I fell madly in love with him. I mean, I probably won’t because?—’
I stop myself before I lie to Poppy – and to myself. There is every chance I could fall in love with the handsome man who’s passionate about teaching, wants to be a father, and (probably) has a very sexy voice.
‘What I mean to say is… if I did fall in love with Harrison – or any of my dates – how do I complete this assignment? How do I keep dating half of London when my heart belongs to one person?’
Poppy is so quiet, I wonder if the call has dropped.
‘That’s an excellent question,’ she says eventually.
It’s hardly the answer I was hoping for, so I say the one thing I’ve been thinking about – and dreading – ever since I left the bar. ‘Poppy, what do you think of me dating some unsuitable men?’ She doesn’t reply right away, and this time the silence is deafening. ‘Poppy?’
‘Sorry, I’m just thinking…’
‘You see, that way I would have enough material for a series of articles before meeting… well…’
‘Someone who might be your match,’ she says, finishing my thought.
‘Exactly. I know what you said before about why you had me complete the questionnaire – and really, with Harrison, you seem to have done a stellar job – but I feel that sticking with the original premise of the series… well, it puts me in a precarious situation.’
That’s putting it mildly, I think. Just tell her you know what’s going on. Kill the series and go out with Harrison! my mind bellows. Hah! If only…
But I don’t have the courage to do that – namely because I’d have to confront Anjali about her plan and who knows what that would do to our relationship. But I’m also invested now. Tiggy was right. I have this startling realisation about the state of my love life and an actual matchmaker appears on my doorstep. I’d be bonkers not to take advantage.
‘I can understand why you’d feel that way,’ she says. ‘How about you leave it with me and I’ll confer with my colleagues?’
‘Thank you, Poppy,’ I say, both grateful and relieved she’s taking my peculiar request seriously.
‘Of course,’ she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. ‘Your case is my number-one priority. We’ll sort this out, I promise.’
We end the call and I nestle into the throw pillows on my sofa. My case may be Poppy’s priority, but which version? Providing me with suitable fodder for my writing assignment or the version in which she’s trying to find my perfect match?
I glance at Harrison’s photo, which stares up at me from my coffee table. If Poppy’s as good at her job as I suspect she is, there’s every chance he could be my match.
This thought instantly ignites the roaring in my ears, but is that because Harrison might be The One or because he might not be?