Chapter 27
27
POPPY
‘It sounds brutal,’ I say to Anjali after she finishes recounting what happened to Bex.
‘I can’t remember a worse situation – at work, I mean. I do have a wayward sister who’s caused havoc in my family for years,’ she responds wryly.
‘We can meet another time if you like – about the case?’
‘No, now is fine. It’s not like this day can get any worse.’
‘Actually, I’ve got good news,’ I say.
She narrows her eyes at me, clearly perplexed. ‘All right, now I’m intrigued.’
Without revealing that Greta’s in the know about Anjali’s true intentions – or Ewan’s identity – I outline the status of the case: namely, that Greta is dating someone she met organically and it seems to be progressing well.
‘So, you see, we have every reason to be hopeful,’ I say.
She side-eyes me curiously, the left corner of her mouth lifting slightly. ‘But that’s not cricket, surely? Greta met this man outside of our arrangement.’
It’s interesting that she’s calling this case ‘an arrangement’ and not ‘sneakily forcing my employee to go on dates until she falls in love’. Like many people, Anjali seems comfortable rationalising her behaviour – likely because she has good intentions.
‘I’m not taking credit for the introduction, no, but I have had him fully vetted, and I’ve been coaching Greta extensively on how to navigate her feelings.’
‘Oh, I’m not questioning your professionalism,’ she says, backpedalling. ‘It’s just, by engaging you…’
She trails off, but I think I understand what’s she’s getting at. I’ll need to tread lightly. She’s my bosses’ close friend and I can’t have Anjali thinking she’s been short-changed – even if Saskia and Paloma will refuse her attempts to pay for our services.
‘I’m hopeful of this match,’ I say, ‘and I promise to support Greta in any way I can.’
‘And if it doesn’t work out with this other man?’
‘Then I’d suggest closing the case.’
‘Oh.’
‘I can see that surprises you, but I’ve got to know Greta quite well over the past month and even if this man is not her person, I can assure you she’s much more attuned to what she wants from a relationship than she was when we started. I think we need to let her find her own way.’
Anjali smiles. ‘Thank you – for being honest with me and for being such a good support to Greta.’
‘Of course, that’s my job.’
‘Well, yes, but… I mean it, Poppy. Thank you for looking after Greta.’
‘It’s been a pleasure. Greta may be my client but she’s also a top chick.’
Anjali grins. ‘She is indeed.’
Greta
Despite how the day started, including the onerous task of explaining everything to Taj and Lisa and seeing Taj through a bout of tears so intense, I considered sending them home, by the time I log out of my laptop and leave Nouveau , it has drastically turned around.
Poppy was the bearer of good news when she stopped by earlier – Anjali’s up to speed and pleased – and the response to the second issue of Nouveau Life has exceeded last month’s, with more site hits, reader comments, and engagement on social media.
Even Taj recovered. They came to me this afternoon with a proposal outlining how we can distribute Bex’s responsibilities between them, Lisa, and me until we hire a new team member. So, I think I’ve just found my new assistant editor.
And as exhausted as I am, my mind is abuzz with the triumphs of the day and the possibilities of the future. The last thing I can imagine doing is going home – I’ll end up bouncing off the walls. I send a message to Tiggy, asking her to meet me at the Gin Palace, and ride the lift to the ground floor.
By the time I step outside the building, she’s replied that she’ll see me there and I head off on foot. On the way, I receive another message and, hoping it’s from Ewan with details of our date, I open it right away. But it’s not Ewan, it’s Mum:
Ich habe die neueste Ausgabe geliebt. Ich bin so stolz auf dich, mein Liebling. Du bist so clever!
Aww, it’s Mum congratulating me on the issue and telling me how proud she is.
Tears spring to my eyes. It’s so sweet of her to message me. Nouveau Life is not exactly pitched at my mum’s demographic, but it means the world to me that she reads it. She’s always read my work – every last thing I’ve ever written. And her pride in my work means the world to me.
I type a quick reply, one I can manage one-handed:
Danke Mama xx
As I’m basking in the glow of her pride, she sends a second message:
Wann lernen wir endlich Harrison kennen?
Oh god, now she wants to know when they’re meeting Harrison. Fuck! How did I forget the enormous lie I told my family? And why did I tell it in the first place?
‘Because you’ve been living on an emotional rollercoaster for the past month, and can barely tell your arse from your elbow,’ I mutter to myself.
I shove my phone back in my handbag and accelerate my pace – I need a cocktail and now .
I show the message to Tiggy the moment she arrives at the Gin Palace, making her bellow with laughter.
‘I don’t even need to read German to find that funny,’ she says.
‘Oi, you’re not being helpful. And technically, you told them I was seeing Harrison.’
‘Don’t put this on me. You were all flustered and flailing about,’ she says, flapping her hand to demonstrate. ‘And what other name was I supposed to give?’
It’s a fair question. Giving the name of a real person, one who I’d been matched with, was probably better than making someone up entirely.
‘No, you’re right.’
‘So, what are you going to tell her?’
‘That it didn’t work out?’
‘And how will you explain Ewan?’
‘What do you mean, explain Ewan?’
‘Hi, Mum, hi, Dad, meet the bloke I haven’t told you about yet because I lied about dating a bloke called Harrison.’
Shit, she’s right about that too!
‘Gah!’
‘You need to tell her something – you know how she gets when you don’t reply right away. She’ll have the coppers knocking down your door for a welfare check if you don’t message back soon.’
I puff out my cheeks and type a reply to my mum, hating myself for perpetuating the lie:
Will let you know. Xxxxx
Tiggy glances at my near-empty glass and signals for the bartender to bring me another drink, but I wave him off with, ‘I’m okay for now, thanks.’
‘You invite me out for a drink and you literally meant one drink?’ she asks.
I cover a yawn with my hand; the weight of the day – and last night’s sleeplessness – has caught up with me.
‘I’ll try not to be insulted by the yawn,’ she says dryly.
‘I’m sorry for being rubbish company. I can rally,’ I say, vigorously patting my cheeks to perk myself up. ‘Tell me about your day.’
Tiggy rolls her eyes.
‘Please? I’m all ears, I promise.’
She runs through her typical digest of clients who’ve changed their minds mid-project and concludes with, ‘And I’m seeing Apple again later.’
‘Apple? Oh , the one from the threesome!’
‘Could you say that louder, please? I don’t think the people on the Strand heard you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And yes, her.’
‘Wow, a date with a hook-up…’ I say, feigning amazement.
‘A second hook-up with a hook-up,’ she clarifies.
I yawn again. ‘I’m too shattered to banter.’ I slip off my stool and signal to the bartender to bring the bill. ‘My shout.’
‘Uh, yeah. You drag me all the way into Central London for one drink, you’re buying.’
‘You came from Holborn,’ I say, giving her a pointed look.
She shrugs, tipping back her head to down the last of her drink, and I tap my phone to pay our bill. We leave the bar together, parting ways on the footpath with a hug and a promise that I’ll fill her in on my date with Ewan the moment it’s over.
I won’t, though. She can wait until at least Wednesday – especially if it turns into an overnighter.
Tuesday vanishes in a blur of meetings. I didn’t even make it down to The Daily Grind, so I was thrilled when my coffee-of- choice and another cronut showed up mid-morning. Although that may have had something to do with the text I sent Ewan:
Help! Drowning in meetings and having withdrawals.
As an aside, something they don’t tell you when you’re starting out in your career: the further you move up in the hierarchy, the more meetings you’re required to attend.
Before Nouveau Life launched, Anjali once mentioned she had twenty-seven hours of meetings on her calendar that week. Twenty-seven . At the time, I’d wondered when she was expected to get her work done. Now, I realise that ‘work’ – AKA editing an online magazine – is what I do between attending meetings and handling crises.
I just need to make sure the chore of attending meetings doesn’t take over what I love about being an editor.
But it all went well. By the end of the workday, HR had posted a job listing for an editorial assistant – I’ve moved Taj into Bex’s spot and am giving Lisa a chance to flex her (promising) writing skills as our new staff writer – and I’ve thoroughly reviewed the numbers for the second issue. The short version: they’re great and Nouveau ’s finance team is delighted.
I even chaired an editorial meeting in which we – and by ‘we’, I mean the three of us left after Bex’s departure – have tweaked what’s included in next month’s issue and reviewed our plans for future issues. Overall, I have a welcome sense of ‘it’s going to be all right’.
Now I’m standing in front of my wardrobe deciding what to wear on my date with Ewan.
I’m already showered – one of those ‘everything’ showers, in which I slathered, lathered, and scrubbed every part of my body, top to bottom, and denuded myself of hair in the applicable regions. I’ve dried my hair in loose waves, leaving it down and skimming my shoulders, and for my make-up, I’ve gone with NARS blush in ‘orgasm’, a smoky eye, and a glossy nude lip.
I look hot and I smell great.
And it may be presumptuous of me to have undergone my entire pre-sex-date routine – one I haven’t completed for so long, I’ve forgotten the last time it happened – but worse would be not anticipating the possibility of sex, being asked back to Ewan’s, and not have undergone my entire pre-sex-date routine.
He hasn’t told me exactly where we’re going – just to meet him at the end of the Golden Jubilee Bridge closest to Embankment Tube station, with the promise that there won’t be ‘too much walking’.
This could mean a number of things. All I know for sure is that we’re going to dinner and when I looked up the location online, I found a dozen restaurants within a stone’s throw, including McDonald’s, which made me giggle. Imagine if we ended up there! Though I am partial to their French fries.
I flick through my wardrobe a second time, settling on navy linen, straight-leg trousers from the Bliss Designs petite collection and a polka-dot silk, sleeveless blouse. The look will go perfectly with my glittery Lorenzo heels.
I dress, then snap a photo for Tiggy, and send it to her with the caption:
Well?
She replies almost immediately, making me laugh out loud:
Scorching hot *flame emoji*
Another message arrives almost immediately following and I expect it to be Tiggy, weighing in with a GIF, but it’s Ewan:
Can’t wait to see you. Xxx
‘I can’t wait to see you either, Ewan,’ I say as I slip the essentials – lipstick, phone, and keys, plus a travel-sized toothbrush, a teeny tube of moisturiser, and a clean pair of knickers (don’t judge me) – into a navy clutch, then head off on date number three (sort of) with potential number two.