Chapter 25
25
POPPY
‘Hello, darling, welcome home,’ says Tristan from the sofa. ‘I’d get up to greet you but…’ He points at Saffron, who’s snuggled up on his chest. In his other hand, he’s holding his book at an odd angle so he can read it over her fluffy face.
‘Saffron, get off Tristan so he can greet me properly.’
One eye opens a sliver, then closes again. She doesn’t care – I’m convinced she’s convinced that they’re married and I’m just the interloper who feeds her.
I offload my handbag and keys on the hallstand then cross the combined kitchen–dining–lounge room to plant a kiss on Tristan’s lips. I scratch the top of Saffron’s head. She’s purring, which has nothing to do with me and everything to do with who she’s sitting on.
‘So, how was it?’ Tristan asks, inverting his open book on his stomach, spine up. Shaz would be appalled if he ever treated any of her books like that – though, he doesn’t exactly read romcoms.
I flop onto the sofa opposite him and stretch out, toeing off my ballet flats and rolling my ankles. ‘It could have been a lot worse. Though, they’re pulling the column Greta’s been working on.’
‘Another column?’
‘Yep. And this is the one she and I invented as a cover.’
‘A cover for…?’ he asks without judgement. As always, Tristan is privy to the ins and outs of my case, but with this one, there are so many intricacies and layers of deception, it’s no wonder he needs me to clarify.
‘That she doesn’t know her boss – that’s the V-VIP – hired me to match her.’
‘Which she did? The boss?’
‘Which she did, yes. And which Greta figured out almost immediately, but she doesn’t want her boss to know because that might make her – Greta’s boss – feel bad about wanting to match her – Greta – in the first place. And tomorrow, I have to spin the loss of this second column and the fact that I still haven’t matched Greta – because Greta has more or less kiboshed potential number one – so she doesn’t close the case. The boss, not Greta.’
He scrubs a hand over his face.
‘I’ve lost you,’ I say.
‘Just a bit. I make million-pound trades that are less complicated than that.’
‘How about I don’t explain it a second time and you join me in the bath instead?’
He raises his brows, his lips curling into a sexy smile. ‘Sorry, Saffy,’ he says as he lifts her off his chest and puts her on the floor. She mewls in protest, but he ignores her and rushes off to the en suite to fill the tub.
‘Sometimes it’s not all about you, Saffy,’ I say.
At that, she turns and, with a swish of her tail, struts out of the room.
Greta
‘I need a holiday,’ I groan to Tiggy. I’m stretched out on the sofa with an arm flung over my eyes like the heroine from a silent movie. ‘Today was…’ I sigh, leaving the sentence unfinished because today was a lot of things and none of them were enjoyable. ‘I just can’t believe we’re dropping my column – right after I became invested in it. I was sure it would be a hit.’
She doesn’t respond.
‘Are you even listening?’
I lift my arm and look about, but Tiggy’s not even here. ‘Tiggy?’ I call.
‘I’m in the loo,’ she replies, her voice muffled by the bathroom door.
I raise myself onto my elbows. ‘How long have I been talking to myself?’ I yell.
‘Dunno,’ she shouts back. ‘No more than usual.’
I snigger. ‘Probably time to stop moaning, anyway,’ I tell myself.
Tiggy returns, wiping her wet palms down the front of her jeans, leaving damp patches. ‘I’m starving. Can we order in?’
‘Course. Order what you like but don’t go mad – I’m not really hungry.’ I resume my silent-movie-star position on the sofa while Tiggy orders us dinner.
‘Right, that’s sorted,’ she says. ‘Now back to you. It’s shit you’ve spent weeks pining over a bloke you don’t actually fancy. And the work stuff… Well, there was no way you could have seen a mole coming, so that’s shit too. I mean, what kind of person would deliberately sabotage your online mag? What a cockwomble! Or cockwomblette – I suppose the jury’s still out.’
‘Exactly.’
‘That’s another reason I love working solo: no cockwomblery from co-workers!’ she declares. Ordinarily, I’d laugh at her silliness, but I don’t have it in me, and she must realise. ‘I really am sorry – it’s proper shit. All of it.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. I roll onto my side and prop my head on my hand.
‘Does it actually help me saying that?’
‘That everything’s gone to shit?’
She nods.
‘A little. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. I really thought Harrison was going to be a good fit, you know?’
‘Okay, we’re back on the bloke.’
‘Sorry, jumping around a bit – my mouth following my brain.’
‘Sooo… now that you’re not going to date Harrison, can I ?—’
‘No!’
She cackles with laughter. ‘I was just having a laugh, you muppet. You’ve started wallowing, which is becoming extremely boring.’
I snigger despite myself. ‘What did you order, by the way?’
‘I thought you weren’t hungry.’
‘Humour me.’
‘Pizza.’
‘Hmm. Actually, that sounds g—’ My phone interrupts me with a notification of an incoming message. Tiggy scoops it up from the other end of the coffee table and tosses it to me. ‘Ow,’ I say, rubbing my boob where it landed.
‘Oops.’ She grimaces at me. ‘Sorry.’
Still rubbing my boob, I check my phone and immediately sit up, staring at the screen.
‘Ooh, is it Harrison?’ she asks, sitting up and craning her neck to see.
I shake my head. ‘No – Ewan.’
I read the message.
Hope you’ve had a lovely weekend. Fancy dinner tomorrow or Tuesday?
‘What? What does it say? And why are you grinning?’
‘I think I might have a date.’
‘Gimme.’ She wags her fingers at me, and I pass the phone to her like a civilised person, instead of lobbing it across my lounge room.
‘Seems pretty straightforward to me. He’s asked you out and you like him.’
Tiggy’s evaluation of my situation elicits a pressing question: is Ewan the reason I didn’t feel a spark with Harrison last night?
I conjure a mental picture of him: his blue eyes that twinkle when he’s making a joke… his wavy, brown hair with the slight cowlick in the front… his cheeky smile, which lights up his whole face… how he smelled when he kissed my cheek, all sexy .
And he is sexy, I realise with a jolt – maybe not in an obvious way, like Harrison, which – ironically – had little effect on me when I actually met him. But definitely sexy. And clever and funny and thoughtful.
Most of all, I think of how I feel when I’m with him, how he makes me laugh, how much I look forward to seeing him at The Daily Grind, and how easily we can fill a whole evening just talking, eating, and laughing…
‘Oh my god, you’re right. I’m such an idiot.’
Tiggy gets up from the floor and heads into the kitchen. ‘You’re not an idiot, except for when you don’t realise that I’m always right. Can I open some wine?’ she asks rhetorically.
While Tiggy opens a bottle of red she took from the wine rack, I stare at the message. Tomorrow night might not be a good idea considering how tomorrow could play out at Nouveau . There’s every chance I’ll want to head straight home, install myself on the sofa with the remote control, and watch repeats of Britain’s Best Bakers while munching on a block of Monty Bojangles – or maybe even a box.
But Tuesday… Even if everything is still pandemonium at work, at least that gives me forty-eight hours to get my head straight about Ewan.
‘Hello?’ Tiggy’s standing beside me, holding out a glass of wine. She shoves it in my direction and the wine nearly sloshes over the rim.
I take it. ‘Thanks.’
‘Have you replied?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Penning the perfect response?’
‘I’m thinking.’
She adopts a higher-pitched voice. ‘Dear Coffee Shop Bloke?—’
‘ Ewan ,’ I say, mildly annoyed.
‘Dear Ewan the Coffee Shop Bloke,’ she continues, reminding me that I did call him ‘Mr Coffee Man’ – to his face – which looking back on makes me cringe. ‘It has only just occurred to me that?—’
‘Could you not?’
She immediately drops the persona. ‘Yeah, course.’
‘You don’t think I’m merely awarding myself a consolation prize, do you?’
‘You mean because it didn’t go as you hoped last night?’
I nod.
She takes a sip of her wine, donning her contemplation face. ‘I don’t think so. You were keen on Ewan before you met Harrison.’
At that, I’m all ears. ‘How do you mean?’
She opens the drawer under the coffee table and takes out the list she wrote – the ‘All Your Men’ list.
‘Because of this,’ she says, sliding it across the table with so much force, it falls to the floor in a flutter of pages.
‘Will you stop tossing things about?’ I ask, leaning down to retrieve it from the floor. Tiggy may be the clumsiest, bull-in-a-china-shop person I know.
I set the notepad on my lap and read through the list again. Only the last two names are of any consequence, especially now my column’s been killed: Harrison and Ewan.
‘Can you please hand me a pen?’ She does and I draw a line through ‘Harrison’.
‘So, it’s official then?’ she asks.
‘ This doesn’t make it official,’ I say, tapping on the page with the pen, ‘but telling Poppy does. Harrison is no longer a potential match.’
‘I’m sure he’ll make someone a wonderful husband,’ Tiggy says dryly.
‘Yes, someone else ,’ I say, my eyes fixed firmly on ‘Ewan – Greta’s hot friend’ .
‘Have you heard from him?’
I’m only half listening. ‘Who?’
‘ Harrison .’
‘We exchanged messages this morning – we’re on the same page. “Nice to meet you but…” Why?’
‘Just curious. Also, you haven’t replied to Ewan yet.’
‘Oh, shit!’ I reach for my phone and cradle it in my lap. ‘So, what do I say?’
Tiggy shakes her head at me and lifts her gaze to the ceiling as she sighs wearily.
‘Okay, it’s fine. I’ve got it.’
Dinner Tuesday sounds just woederful.
I hold it up to show Tiggy. ‘How about this?’
‘Well, you spelled “wonderful” – woe derful? That doesn’t bode well – and it’s also kind of… meh.’
I correct the spelling. ‘Okay, what then?’
‘How about something less Jane Austen?’
‘All right…’
I type:
I’d love to have dinner with you. Tuesday?
‘This?’
‘ Love? You’d love to have dinner with him? Gimme.’ She wags her fingers at me again and I hand over the phone.
‘I’m trusting you…’ I warn, not wholly trusting her.
Tiggy grins – full-on Cheshire-cat grin – and I instantly regret giving her my phone. She takes a slug of wine, then puts down the glass so she can type with two thumbs, her head tilting from side to side as she composes what must be the longest message in the history of the world.
‘There. And send…’
‘Oh god.’ Now I take a slug of wine. That pizza had better arrive soon or I’ll be drunk before I know it, which, piled on top of frazzled, could get ugly.
‘Want me to read it to you?’ she asks, her mouth twitching with delight.
‘Go on then.’ I settle back against the sofa, steeling myself for the lengthy Cyrano de Bergerac-style message my bestie has just sent to my… my what? Friend? Barista? Friendly barista? Hot friend?
Tiggy reads, adopting a tone and pitch that I could only describe as ‘very Greta’.
‘Hey, nice to hear from you. Weekend “okay” but something came up at work. I’ll tell you about it at dinner on Tues. Let me know where and when and I’ll see you there. Smiley face.’
Simple. Friendly. Keen, but not too keen.
‘Oh, that’s… For some reason, I thought you’d be all…’ I try to come up with something, but my mind stalls and I shrug instead, making Tiggy laugh.
‘You really do not have game, babes. What did you think I was going to say? “You – me – storeroom at the coffee shop NOW”?’
‘No! But seriously, it’s perfect. Thank y?—’
I’m interrupted by the chime of another incoming message. Tiggy tosses back the phone.
‘ Please stop throwing my phone. Grrr,’ I tell her, baring my teeth.
She shrugs off the reproach and I read the message:
Perfect. Will let you know. Looking forward to it. Maybe see you at TDG tomorrow?Xx
‘Oh, wow. He sent a kiss – well, two actually.’ I show her my phone for the umpteenth time tonight, and she bursts out laughing. ‘What?’
‘A reminder that you’re thirty-five, not fifteen.’
‘Oi, that’s not very?—’
But I don’t get another word out, as the buzzer to my flat sounds, and Tiggy leaps up, shouting, ‘Pizza’s here!’