Chapter 24
24
POPPY
Several calls later – made and received – Marie is officially on the case, and I have permission to accompany her to the Nouveau meeting. I’m having to abandon my Sunday-picnic-in-the-park plans with Tristan (boo), but he sends me off with a kiss and a wave of Saffron’s (indifferent) paw.
Outside our building, I only wait a minute or two before the town car pulls up and I slide into the backseat.
‘Hi, Carl,’ I say to the driver as I buckle my seatbelt.
‘Hello, Ms Dean.’
‘Are we picking up Ms Maillot or is she meeting us there?’ I ask.
‘Paul’s collecting her, and we’ll meet them there.’
‘Great, thanks.’ It was sheer luck that Marie is in London today – and available this afternoon. No wonder the agency pays her the big bucks – she’s ostensibly at our beck and call.
When we pull up at Nouveau on the Strand a short while later, Marie is waiting outside dressed, as always, in head-to-toe black leather despite the warm weather, and drawing deeply from a cigarette – lit this time. As I approach, she takes a final drag then puts it out with the heel of her boot and reaches down for the butt so she can toss it in the nearest bin. She may be a chain smoker, but at least she doesn’t litter.
She gives me her typical perfunctory greeting and we head towards the main doors, having been told a security guard is expecting us and will let us in.
‘Poppy!’ I turn around and Greta is running towards us.
‘Hi, Greta,’ I say as she joins us, a little out of breath. ‘This is Marie Maillot, the agency’s investigator. Marie, our client, Greta Davies.’
‘ All? .’
‘Hello.’
‘I’ve already briefed Marie,’ I tell Greta, ‘and if you like, I’m happy to make the introductions when we get inside.’
‘Right, yes,’ she says, but even though her breathing has steadied, she’s clearly still flustered.
Greta, who’s known to the security guard, leads us into the building and in the lift, I hear her muttering to herself, some kind of affirmation. By the time we reach the correct floor, she’s added bouncing on her toes to her repertoire of nerves.
Just outside the lift, as the doors close behind us, I gently take her arm.
‘Hey, are you okay?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘Nope, far from it. Nouveau Life is about to implode and that’s probably my fault. And if it was me who let the fox into the henhouse, I’ll likely get the sack. I’m also dating half of London, but no one is a match, including my perfect-on-paper crush – isn’t that an interesting twist? And for some reason, I decided to dress for a normal workday when clearly this day is anything but normal and everyone else is dressed—’ She stops herself and glances at me in my T-shirt and jeans, then Marie. ‘Well, not like this ,’ she says, indicating her business attire.
She stares at the floor, breathing noisily through her nose. I cannot let her go in there like this.
‘Marie, could you give us a minute?’ I ask.
Marie shrugs and wanders towards a large window that overlooks an atrium. She takes out a cigarette and sucks on it, even though it’s unlit.
Satisfied she can’t hear us, I turn back to Greta.
‘No matter what’s revealed or what the solution to this problem is, you’ve got this, okay? You’re smart and capable, and you’ve brought a secret weapon.’ I jerk my head in Marie’s direction. ‘Like I said on the phone, if anyone can weed out the mole, it’s Marie. Okay?’
Greta’s cheeks puff out as she exhales a long breath. ‘Okay.’
‘Just remember, you are Greta Davies and you’ve got this.’
She breaks into a smile.
Now, my pep talks are good, but this is a complete one-eighty.
‘What?’ I ask. ‘Did I say something funny?’
‘Just… Tiggy said something similar to me recently. Only she said, “You’re Greta Fucking Davies,” and then she called me a badass magazine editor.’
‘Well, she’s right. You are Greta Fucking Davies and a badass magazine editor. So, let’s get in there and figure this out.’
She nods, and with her head high, she walks towards a large glass-walled conference room. I call for Marie, who trots over, and we follow Greta into the lion’s den. I may have given her a pep talk just now, but I’m expecting this could be brutal.
Greta
Oh my god, there she is. Amelia Windsor. Do not fangirl. Do not fangirl. Do not fangirl.
And in a weird and wonderful twist of fate, she’s also wearing a shift dress, and I send a silent thank you to my previous self. I’m just about to introduce myself to Amelia Windsor ( always her full name inside my head), when she looks up from her phone and her mouth falls open.
‘Marie Maillot, you scamp. I didn’t know you were the renowned investigator.’
Marie half coughs, half cackles as Amelia Windsor stands and crosses to Marie, where they exchange four cheek kisses.
‘Let me look at you,’ says Amelia Windsor.
‘How can you see anything ?’ barks Marie in a strong French accent. She snatches the signature dark sunglasses off Amelia Windsor’s head, eliciting a girlish laugh I’d wager no one at Nouveau has ever heard. ‘That’s better,’ she says, giving Amelia Windsor the side-eye. ‘How do you still look this good when I look like an old leather saddle? We’re the same age!’
Amelia Windsor waves her off. ‘Oh, you. First, I wear these day and night,’ she says, taking her glasses back and letting them dangle from her fingers. ‘And you look terrific. Very chic. You always did march to the beat of your own drum,’ she says, appraisingly.
Marie cackles again and Poppy, who is standing next to me, pokes me in the arm. I meet her eye and she gives me a can-you-believe-it? look. No, Poppy, I can’t, and when I look over at Anjali she’s clearly as bamboozled as we are. She shrugs at me with a mystified smile.
‘Right, everyone,’ says Amelia Windsor, ‘I suppose we should get started.’
‘Er, yes,’ says Anjali, taking back control of the meeting. ‘First, thank you, everyone, for giving up your Sunday afternoons.’ She gestures for us to sit, which we do, then she introduces Poppy to Amelia Windsor, mentioning that she works for the Ever After Agency as a matchmaker and has come onboard as a consultant.
‘You look familiar,’ she says to Poppy, her infamous icy tone returning. ‘Were you at the Lorenzo show in Paris?’
She eyes Poppy coolly before sliding her sunglasses back into place.
‘Yes. I was there with?—’
‘Elle Bliss,’ says Amelia Windsor. ‘I remember.’
It’s unclear whether this is a positive memory or not, but I watch the exchange fascinated, Amelia Windsor’s reputation for having a laser-sharp memory and never forgetting a face playing out before my eyes.
Note to self: do not cross Amelia Windsor.
Like cocking up by hiring a mole into your team, Greta?
I gulp.
Then Anjali launches into the details of our dilemma and, as I’m across all this, my mind wanders, trawling through that bizarre exchange between Marie and Amelia Windsor.
Questions. I have so many questions! If they’re the same age, are they school friends? If so, was Marie in London for school or was Amelia Windsor in France? And how old is ‘the same age’? Marie looks like she could be Keith Richards’ older sister, whereas Amelia Windsor looks like a very well-preserved sixty-something. Maybe she made a pact with the Devil or something – that would certainly explain her reputation. I once heard a fashion assistant call her ‘Medusa’ – well, an ex -fashion assistant. They were sacked shortly after.
‘ Greta? ’
‘Oh, er, yes?’
Bollocks. Anjali has just thrown to me, and I wasn’t listening. I am going to get the sack.
‘I was just saying that you’d like us to consider proceeding with “Dating Horrors of London”. Would you care to talk Amelia through that?’ she says, giving me a lifeline.
‘Oh, absolutely.’
Fortunately, I can speak off-the-cuff about Nouveau Life at length, a by-product of having lived and breathed it for so long. I explain the concept of the column, including our plans to add readers’ anonymised contributions, and Amelia Windsor nods along as she listens.
I conclude with, ‘So, even though Panache has likely stolen the general concept, I’d still like to launch it tomorrow. I think they’d be hard-pressed to replicate our exact angle, as there’s no way they have a professional matchmaker on the team, particularly one of Poppy’s calibre.’
Greta Fucking Davies, badass editor at your service!
While I pat myself on the back for staving off a panic attack and proving my professional mettle, Amelia Windsor leans across to confer quietly with Anjali.
Bollocks, is that a good sign or bad?
Anjali nods and says, ‘Understood,’ and Amelia Windsor settles back in her chair and addresses me.
‘I appreciate Ms Dean’s – as you put it – “calibre” as a consultant…’
I perk up.
‘ But …’
Oh no, a premature perk-up.
‘Based on what I’ve heard, I don’t think the horrible dating column is Nouveau . Let Panache publish trite rubbish like that and see where it gets them.’
I’m not keen on her depiction of my column, but there is no way I’d ever challenge Amelia Windsor .
‘We’re dropping it,’ she says definitively.
‘All right,’ I reply, fighting off disappointment. I may have baulked at the assignment initially, but it’s evolved so much over the past month and now I’m invested.
‘ Panache has always been a grasping poor cousin to Nouveau ,’ she continues, ‘and no doubt, they’ll shoot themselves in the foot with their little blog .’ She says the word ‘blog’ as if she’s referring to a venereal disease.
‘Anji’ – Wait, she calls Anjali Anji ? – ‘I’m actually surprised you agreed to publish the horrible dating column in the first place.’
Anjali gives her a contrite smile, her mouth pulled into a taut line. She didn’t even know I was writing the column until I was two articles in, but she takes the rebuke without laying the blame on me.
‘Now, Marie, you’re going to find this mole for us.’
I note this is a statement, not a question.
‘ Mais, oui. ?a sera facile .’
‘Good. Right,’ says Amelia Windsor, casting her eyes around the table and standing, ‘if that’s all, I’ll get back to my garden party. I’ve kept my guests waiting long enough.’
OH. MY. GOD. She was hosting a garden party! That she hasn’t sacked me on the spot is a bloody miracle.
After four more cheek kisses for Marie, Amelia Windsor leaves the boardroom, her phone pressed to her ear. ‘I’m ready to leave,’ she says, presumably to her driver.
By unspoken agreement, no one says a word until the lift doors close behind her. Then we all – well, except Marie – emit a collective sigh of relief.
‘ How do you know Amelia Windsor?’ Poppy asks.
‘School,’ Marie replies, giving no additional information.
‘And you didn’t think to mention it before ? You knew we were meeting with her,’ she chides.
Marie shrugs, sucking on an unlit cigarette as if she hasn’t a care in the world.
‘Marie,’ says Anjali, ‘to get you started on your investigation, I’ve prepared this.’ She slides a manilla folder across the table and Marie opens in, her eyes scanning the first page.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘Just some thoughts on who might want to derail Nouveau Life . I’ve included everyone in your team.’
‘Right, of course. Wait – you said included ? Is there someone else you’re thinking of?’ I ask, grasping at the hope that it’s not a member of my team.
‘A couple of people came to mind – colleagues who might consider you a riva?—’
‘Who is Ivy Jones?’ asks Marie, interrupting, and my head snaps in her direction of its own accord.
‘Ivy?’
‘As I was saying…’ Anjali continues, and I look back at her. ‘You may have a rival or two.’
‘But not Ivy – she and I get along just fine.’
‘But she also wanted to lead her own vertical and got knocked back.’
‘Well, yes, because Ivy’s so-called idea wasn’t even remotely Nouveau . It was essentially The Daily Sun only more tabloid-y.’
Anjali looks at me as if I’ve just made her point for her.
‘Oh,’ I say, realising I have. And then I recall the strange exchange with Ivy on the day of the launch.
Could she really be the mole? She works in beauty, which is in a completely different division of Nouveau , but she’d be privy to enough information about Nouveau Life to do some serious damage if she wanted to.
‘ Alors ,’ says Marie, closing the folder and placing her palm on top. ‘I will have something for you in the next day or two.’
‘That soon?’ asks Anjali, which is exactly what I was about to ask.
‘ Oui ,’ she replies – as if it’s a stupid question.
When I catch Poppy’s eye, she’s smirking knowingly. She must be used to Marie’s quirky and arrogant ways.
‘All right,’ says Anjali, ‘with Marie working on outing the mole and Amelia’s decision about the “Dating Horrors” column, we have a strategy. Greta, you’ll need to sort pulling the column and the reader submission portal this afternoon.’
‘Of course. I’ll do that before I leave.’
‘And Poppy, any chance I can coax you into the office first thing tomorrow morning? I have another matter I’d like to discuss with you.’
‘Sure.’
The ‘other matter’ is me and my love life, which sends my already fragile stomach into spasms. Anjali still doesn’t know what I know about her ‘secret’ plan. I try to catch Poppy’s eye again, but I’m unable to, and after they’ve said their goodbyes, I’m left alone to pull the plug on my column.
Tiggy had better be up for a lengthy debrief session tonight. So much of my life has gone to shit in the past twenty-four hours, she’s going to get an earful.