Chapter 13
13
POPPY
‘Well, that’s a bit of a bugger,’ I mutter after I hang up from Greta.
‘Everything all right?’ asks George, his head popping up over the top of his monitor.
‘ How did you hear that?’
‘I have excellent hearing,’ he retorts, getting up and coming over. ‘So, what’s going on?’
‘I’ve just been fired.’
‘Fired?!’ he exclaims, and several other heads pop up.
‘Not from a case,’ I tell the entire office. The other heads disappear.
‘From what then?’ asks George. ‘Oh, from Nouveau Life ?’
‘They’re scrapping the advice column. Something about Panache beating us to it.’
‘Wait.’ George rushes to his desk where he forages in his messenger bag. Triumphantly, he raises a rolled-up magazine above his head. ‘Latest issue,’ he explains. ‘I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.’
He comes back and leans against my desk as he thumbs through the magazine, stopping about a quarter of the way through. He gasps, then shows me the page. ‘Look!’
I scan it. ‘Oh, bugger.’
‘Is it the same as yours?’ he asks.
‘More or less,’ I reply, thinking of the edits Bex sent over. When I saw how much of my original submission she’d changed, I had to remind myself I’m a matchmaker, not a writer – I shouldn’t care that she didn’t like my work. That took the sting off a bit.
‘Wait,’ says George, pulling me from my thoughts, ‘what does it mean for your cover? If you’re not Nouveau Life ’s advice columnist, what are you? You can’t keep showing up if they’ve sacked you.’
I sit back against my chair. ‘To be honest, I don’t think it’s critical that I’m there. Greta and I have established a strong working relationship – and she knows the real reason Anjali brought me on. We can keep working closely together without me going into the office – we’ve already been meeting outside of Nouveau .’
‘But I could still go visit Mimi in The Wardrobe, though, right?’ he asks.
‘George, the woman herself invited you to The Wardrobe, so you do you,’ I reply.
‘Oh, good point,’ he replies, beaming with pleasure.
My laptop notifies me of an incoming email and I glance at the screen, seeing that it’s from Marie.
‘Ooh, this will be about Ewan Wilder,’ I say.
George slots in behind me and reads over my shoulder.
‘So, that’s why… and of course, he’s the… ah, yeah, that makes sense,’ I say.
‘You’re talking in riddles,’ says George, doing nothing to mask his annoyance. ‘And what’s The Daily Grind?’ he asks.
‘ That’s the coffee shop near Nouveau , the one where Greta introduced to me to Ewan. He’s the owner.’
‘ Oh , I see. Does Greta know that?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so – I reckon she would have mentioned it if she did. Look,’ I say, pointing to the second paragraph of the email. ‘He was in a long-term relationship but that ended nearly a year ago.’
‘So, he’s single,’ says George, a hint of excitement in his voice.
‘Yep, potential number two is single.’
‘Wait, so you’re officially adding him to the list?’
‘He’s definitely a contender, especially as Greta already knows him. But he’s also less of a known quantity, so…’
‘So Harrison Reid stays at number one?’ he asks.
‘ I think so – based on his profile and the number of compatibility markers he shares with Greta. Don’t you?’
‘I do, yes. But we’re sticking with the current plan, right – Greta goes out with Harrison but only after she dates the duds?’
‘Well, obvs,’ I say, rolling out my fave Britishism.
‘Don’t do that, Poppy,’ he rebukes. ‘With an Australian accent? Just… no.’
Well, I guess I’ve been told then.
Greta
‘Hello, you,’ I say to Ewan.
I’m sat at what’s become ‘my table’, furthest from the door and tucked in the corner next to the floor-to-ceiling window – an excellent spot to watch the world go by any time my mind wanders, which is often these days.
For the past fifteen minutes, I’ve been pretending to work while pretending not to be scouring the coffee shop for Ewan (it’s positively teeming this morning). It’s silly really, my behaviour. We had a lovely time the other night and I should have asked for his contact details rather than hoping to run into him by happenstance.
‘Hello,’ he replies. ‘ Small confession. I saw you come in, so I lined up to get you this.’ He places a paper bag on the table.
‘Oh, a mystery confection,’ I say, eyeing the bag. ‘How did you know that’s my favourite?’
We share a smile.
‘May I?’ he asks, indicating the chair opposite me.
‘Please.’
He sits and we regard each other for a moment.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ he asks, his gaze dropping to the paper bag.
‘Oh, sorry.’
I unfold the top of the bag and out wafts a delectable aroma, but when I look inside, I’m confused.
‘Not the prettiest of pastries, but I assure you, they’re delicious.’
I laugh. ‘But what is it?’
‘A cronut.’
‘Now you’re just making up words.’
He crosses his forefinger over his heart. ‘I promise, they’re a real thing. They’ve been taking America by storm for more than a decade.’
I tear open the bag, and the smell of cinnamon is like a slap to the face – a soft, delicious slap.
‘Halvsies?’ I ask. It smells incredible but there’s no way I’m eating the whole thing by myself – it’s enormous .
‘Why not?’ he replies.
He tears the pastry down the middle and we each take a half, then a bite.
‘So,’ he says after he swallows. ‘How’s your article going – the one about the bloke with all the muscles?’
A chunk of cronut goes down the wrong way and I cough and splutter.
‘Are you all right?’ Ewan asks, half standing and reaching around to pat me firmly on the back.
I hold up one hand to signal I am. ‘Yes, you just took me by surprise.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ he says, concern etching his features. He sits down.
I should have been prepared for him to bring up my lie from the other night but, stupidly, I’m not, and we’re quiet for a moment.
‘So, have you seen our spy friend?’ I ask, hoping to lighten the mood.
‘Actually, yes,’ he says, his face lighting up. ‘He was in earlier – ordered his usual.’
‘English breakfast with a shot of espresso?’
Ewan nods, grinning. ‘I’m determined to find out what he’s about. Maybe we should hire a private investigator or something.’
‘Or follow him!’ I suggest.
‘Would you be any good at that, do you think?’ he asks. ‘Spy craft?’
‘Looking like this?’ I ask with faux incredulity.
I’m not sure why I said that. Now I sound like I’m up myself.
Ewan just laughs. ‘You’re right. An attractive redhead would probably stand out too much. It would need to be me. Less obvious.’
‘Except the whole I’m-the-spitting-image-of-James-McAvoy thing.’
Oh, bollocks . I just keep digging myself in deeper. I eye my nearly empty coffee cup, wondering if it’s been spiked with whisky or something.
But Ewan only laughs harder, which sets me at ease.
‘What?’ I ask with a laugh. ‘That can’t be the first time you’ve heard that, surely?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, definitely not. In fact, my ex?—’
His eyes widen and he stops talking. He may also have stopped breathing, because he’s completely still, save for blinking.
‘Sorry,’ he says, recovering. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned Sally— Well, shit, now I’ve done it again.’
‘Hey,’ I say gently. ‘I don’t mind.’ Actually, I’m pleased he feels comfortable enough to mention her to me. ‘And that’s what friends do, right? Talk about their lives?’ I add.
His expression sours slightly and his eyes drop to the table. There’s another beat of silence, then he meets my eyes, giving me a forced smile.
‘Quite right. So, as I was saying… Sally had this brilliant idea for my costume for a fancy-dress party.’
‘Oh, you didn’t ?’
‘I’m sorry to say, I did. Not the older Dr Xavier, the bald one, but the younger version, when he still had the use of his legs.’
‘And his hair,’ I add.
‘Yes, and his hair. Nothing wrong with going bald, but I wasn’t about to shave my head for a one-off event.’
‘Well, it’s such glorious hair,’ I say.
Greta! Yet another instance of speaking without thinking.
Ewan smooths his hands over his head. ‘Why, thank you.’
A longer silence descends – then we swap awkward smiles before speaking at the same time.
‘So, you were say?—’
‘What are you up to?—’
‘You go ahead,’ I say.
‘I was just going to ask if you’re free tomorrow night.’
‘Oh,’ I reply. I hadn’t expected that.
‘A friend of mine owns an art gallery over in Soho and there’s a new exhibit opening. I thought we could grab a bite after work, then head over.’
‘That sounds lovely,’ I say.
It truly does, but Poppy has scheduled my second date-with-a-dud tomorrow night. Unfortunately, I’ve led with the wrong part of my reply and Ewan perks up.
‘Except that I already have plans. I’m so sorry,’ I add quickly.
‘Interviewing another subject for your article?’ he asks, his disappointment clear.
‘Er, yes, actually,’ I reply, sticking as close to the truth as I feel comfortable with.
He nods, his lips disappearing between his teeth. ‘Well,’ he says, donning a joyless smile, ‘another time then. I should, er…’ He hooks a thumb over his shoulder as he stands. ‘See you next time,’ he says.
Then he’s gone and I’m left feeling rubbish with a mostly uneaten cronut.
I endured exactly thirty-eight minutes of my date with Aman before I dredged up the excuse Marcus used on me last week, and rushed off to take my non-existent sister to the airport.
It wasn’t that, at fifty, he’s considerably older than me, nor that he clearly doesn’t care one iota about his appearance (or hygiene), nor that he’s an IT specialist, who considers arts and humanities a waste of a university degree. It also wasn’t that he doesn’t read fiction because it’s ‘indulging in frivolity’, nor that he would have voted for a certain tangerine-tinged ex-President were he an American.
Based on any of those traits alone – or combined, for that matter – I would have stayed longer, purely to get some juicy fodder for my article.
But Aman lives with his mother.
And not as in ‘I live with Mum because her health is in decline and I’m there to take care of her’. Aman lives with his mother so she can take care of him . He even bragged about how she does all his washing and cooks for him every night. Or any night he’s not on a date.
Once he dropped that into the conversation, I gaped at him open-mouthed for a good ten seconds, then trotted out the fake sister and got the hell out of there.
Where did Poppy even find him? He clearly has no intention of leaving his mother’s house. Is he really looking for a partner or is he a sadist who enjoys torturing women with bad hygiene, questionable values, and insults?
As I head home (not to Gatwick with my fake sister), I think about Ewan’s invitation to the gallery opening. I wish I had rescheduled the date with Aman and gone with him instead. It’s probably not too late to show up, but I don’t know where it is other than somewhere in Soho. And I can’t ask Ewan because (stupidly) we haven’t exchanged phone numbers yet.
I also need to crack on with my assignment. Anjali cornered me today, asking how I’m progressing. I gave her a vague response, but I could tell she’s getting restless. And Anjali is not one to be fobbed off. She’ll keep asking until I send her my first article, so tomorrow, I’m getting to work. And proper writing – not just scribbling down notes and half-baked ideas. Because the sooner I get through kissing the frogs, the sooner I get to meet my prince.
Blimey, if I keep on like this, I’ll get a call from Disney asking for the rights to my life story for their next animated feature. The Thirty-something Princess and the Frogs of London coming to a cinema near you.
‘Oh, Greta, you doughnut – or rather, cronut ,’ I say to myself with a chuckle.