‘So, Shaz,’ says Jacinda, ‘with Lauren off to Finland, what will you be up to?’
It’s Monday night and the four of us – Tristan and me, and Shaz and Lauren – are around at Jacinda and Ravi’s for Lauren’s send-off, and we’ve just sat down to Jacinda’s famous chicken biryani.
‘Uh, the usual…’ Shaz replies. ‘Work, mostly… Hanging out at Poppy and Tristan’s to play with Saffron.’
‘No other plans?’
Oh my god, Jass, leave it, I think, willing her to drop it. Only Jacinda isn’t paying any attention to me; she’s too busy putting Shaz in the hotseat.
Shaz smiles lovingly at Lauren. ‘Well, I’ve booked a trip out to visit Loz one weekend.’
‘It’s gonna be great, babes. It’s the first time either of us has gone to Finland,’ Lauren tells us. ‘We’re going to explore, do some touristy stuff.’
Oh, I adore these two together. They complement each other perfectly, while being exact opposites in appearance. Shaz: tall and curvy and blonde with the kind of natural beauty that screams ‘Norwegian shower gel advertisement’ and Lauren: petite and dark-haired with delicate features that remind me of nineties-era Winona Ryder – or today’s Winona, come to think of it. They’re perfect for each other – and that’s my professional opinion.
‘And that’s all?’ Jacinda presses.
Okay, biryani can wait. I need to save my bestie from an inquisition, and I leap in to change the subject.
‘So, who’d like to hear about Paris Fashion Week?’
Ravi groans, which Tristan sniggers at, Lauren sits up taller, giving me an I’m-all-ears look, and Shaz sends me a grateful smile. The twitch of Jacinda’s mouth reveals she’s on to me, but remains undeterred. I’m going to have to be on my toes tonight.
Recounting my Paris trip, I stick to what I can tell them – as in, nothing about the match but all about the H&M party and the fashion shows.
‘Ugh, I don’t know what sounds more boring,’ says Ravi, ‘watching a bunch of models parade up and down or having to pretend to enjoy it.’
‘Don’t be such a grouch, Rav,’ says Jacinda with more than a little annoyance.
‘And I believe the collective noun for models is “Nouveau” – watching a Nouveau of models parade up and down,’ quips Lauren.
‘Touché,’ he says, pointing his fork at her. She smiles, which lights up her pretty heart-shaped face.
‘Poppy’s actually written a piece for Nouveau,’ says Shaz, revealing something that very few people know. ‘It’s coming out in the September issue.’
Lauren turns to me. ‘Oh my god, really?’
‘Ahh, yes.’ My eyes flick towards Shaz, who looks away. ‘Just something that came along. It happens sometimes when I’m working on a case.’
‘Oh! Is it about Lorenzo?’ she asks, getting more excited by the second.
Argh! I could kill Shaz. A shared byline as ‘P. Dean’ in a magazine no one will expect to find my name – fine – but Shaz telling someone I know to look out for it! Even telling Lauren, who I pretty much trust by proxy, is skirting the edge of what I’m comfortable with. She’ll get an earful later.
‘Actually, yes. Lorenzo’s in the article,’ I say, hoping she won’t ask more about it. ‘That’s why I was at his show,’ I add, really selling the Lorenzo angle to direct Lauren away from who my client is.
‘That’s brilliant,’ she says to me. ‘And I have a confession,’ she tells the others. ‘I, Lauren Amici, am addicted to celebrity gossip.’
We all have our vices and quite often, the more intense a person’s profession, the more ‘frivolous’ their vice – something I discovered when I was a practicing psych.
Lauren is a chemist for a cancer research organisation. She is literally saving lives by developing life-changing treatments for cancer patients, so of course she loves celebrity gossip.
‘It’s true,’ says Shaz with a laugh, ‘she’s addicted.’
Lauren doesn’t seem to mind the teasing. ‘Hey, I have my guilty pleasures, you have yours,’ she says, gently turning the tables on Shaz.
Shaz’s is romance novels. She must read fifty a year – I have no idea how she keeps them all straight in her head. And she reads everything romance, from Regency to romcoms to sagas – subgenres I had no idea existed until Shaz schooled me on them.
‘Anyway,’ says Lauren, coming back to me, ‘I have a question for you – and I completely understand if you can’t tell me – but were you the matchmaker behind the Lorenzo and Franzia engagement?’
‘What?’ I ask, nearly choking on a mouthful of rice. I commence a bout of coughing so extreme that Tristan leaps up and gives me several thumps to my mid-back.
When the coughing finally subsides, I clear my throat and drink some water.
‘All right, darling?’ Tristan asks, looking down at me. My face must be purple from the coughing but there he is, regarding me adoringly. I give a thumbs up and he returns to his seat.
‘Sorry, everyone,’ I say, catching the worried looks around the table. ‘So, you were asking about the big celebrity engagement,’ I say to Lauren.
‘Uh, yes.’ She doesn’t seem as keen about it now; though, witnessing someone nearly choke to death can tend to dampen one’s enthusiasm.
‘Well, neither of them is my client,’ I say, leaning heavily into the truth. ‘But I was there when it was announced at the H&M party.’
‘What? Are you serious?’
‘Completely.’
‘Wow, that’s brilliant. You must tell me everything.’
While we eat, I recount the engagement story for Lauren, dwelling on details like the party’s theme and which celebrities wore what (or rather, who as we say in the fashion biz), padding out what essentially boils down to: they stood on a platform and Franzia shouted out they were engaged.
I also omit that Leo was horrified by the announcement and that the engagement is likely fake. Even Ravi and Jacinda aren’t in the inner circle of (matchmaking) trust I share only with my husband and bestie.
As the meal winds down and most of us are patting our overly full bellies – okay, that’s just me – Jacinda taps on her wine glass to get our attention. ‘What’s up, love?’ Ravi asks.
She glances mysteriously at him, and they commence a short but intense conversation with low murmurs and frowns. Jacinda eventually turns to the rest of us. ‘I have a confession as well.’
‘Ooh.’ I lean in, and so do Shaz and Lauren.
‘I didn’t cook this meal. My mum did.’
‘What?’ I ask, incredulous. ‘But this is your famous biryani – or it was before we scoffed the lot!’
Jacinda shrugs, lifting her wine glass to her lips and taking a sip. After she swallows, she says, ‘I work fifty-hour weeks—’
‘Sixty, more like,’ interjects Ravi.
‘Thank you, darling. So, it’s a Monday, and that’ – she nods towards the nearly empty serving dish – ‘takes hours. When I told her you were coming over, Mum offered to cook and I said yes. Otherwise, we’d be eating takeaway.’ Her bravado falls away. ‘Are you cross with me?’
A chorus of, ‘No!’ erupts around the table.
‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ says Ravi. Most glasses on the table are empty and Tristan quickly splashes a toast’s worth of wine into each. ‘To my beautiful, clever wife. Thank you for outsourcing this meal.’
By now, we’ve all had enough wine to find this hilarious, and in the middle of the resulting mirth, my phone rings. I spring to my feet and scramble to get it out of my handbag before it goes to voicemail. ‘Hello, Poppy Dean speaking.’ I didn’t have time to check who’s calling, figuring it’s probably a work call, as pretty much everyone I’m friends with is in this room.
‘Poppy, it’s Cassie.’
I turn away from the table and head into Ravi and Jacinda’s lounge room. ‘What’s going on?’ From the tone of her voice, there is no way this is a social call.
‘I’ve sent you a link,’ she replies. ‘Actually, it’s all over the bloody internet.’
‘Hang on.’ I take my phone from my ear and check my messages, clicking on the link Cassie has sent to a tabloid I make a point of never reading unless absolutely necessary – like now.
The ‘article’ is essentially a sensationalised headline – one of those awful puns the tabloids favour – and two lines of text.
Lorenz-No! Just Engaged and Already Cheating
Barely just engaged, Lorenzo is already cheating on his fiancée, supermodel Franzia, with a mystery blonde. Seen canoodling at the Fashion and Textile Museum, the couple left hand in hand, heading to their love nest in Soho.
As I scan the article, phrases leap from the screen: cheating on his fiancée, mystery blonde, canoodling, and love nest. There are six photos, which were obviously taken in quick succession. In three of them, Leo and Elle are holding hands as they rush along the footpath and in the last one, they’re in the backseat of a black cab, arms raised to cover their faces from the photographer.
I look up, my eyes taking in the crown moulding on Ravi and Jacinda’s ceiling as I determine whether this works for or against us.
‘Poppy?’
‘Hi, sorry – just thinking.’
‘And?’
‘I may need Nasrin to weigh in – my boss as well,’ I add, wondering if Saskia will allow the case to continue. ‘Can we meet at the agency tomorrow morning?’
‘Uh, all right. I’m supposed to meet with Tom and Hilde’s production company at eleven – Elle’s confirmed as a guest judge next season – but I could postpone—’
‘No, no, don’t do that. How about you come into the agency beforehand?’
‘I can make that work.’
‘Sorry. I haven’t even asked how Elle is. How’s she taking this?’
‘She’s pretty upset.’
‘I can only imagine,’ I say, glad I’m not the sort of person who’s hounded by the paparazzi.
‘Well, it’s not just being chased by the paps and the tabloids… Apparently, Leo told her about his sacrifice for Brandy, how he kept her seat warm for all those years – that was how he put it.’
‘Well, that’s good, right?’
‘Yes, except now Elle’s even more conflicted. He’s essentially the same Leo from her past and he had a good reason for leaving so abruptly, but he also cut her out of his life and happens to be engaged. Plus, they’re now working together.’
‘I understand. It is messy.’
‘Yes… messy.’ A heavy sigh comes down the line. ‘Poppy, did I do the right thing?’
This isn’t great timing for Cassie to doubt herself, especially as it sounds like we may be close to a breakthrough.
‘Come in tomorrow morning and we’ll talk everything through, okay? If you want us to pull the pin, we will, but let’s talk first. How does that sound?’
‘All right, Poppy. I’ll text when I’m on my way.’
We end the call and I wander back into the dinner party, which is winding up.
‘Go!’ says Jacinda, shooing Shaz and Lauren out the door. ‘This is your second-last night together for weeks. You’re not hanging about doing dishes.’
‘If you’re sure,’ says Lauren.
Jacinda flicks a tea towel in their direction. ‘Go on, you two.’
After hugs and kisses goodbye, along with well wishes for Lauren’s work trip, they leave and it’s just the four of us. ‘Everything all right?’ Tristan asks me quietly.
‘I’ll fill you in on the way home,’ I reply.
‘So, Poppy and I will be off too,’ he says.
‘Hah, not so fast,’ Jacinda replies. She hands him a pair of rubber gloves. ‘You’re on pots and pans while Ravi loads the dishwasher.’ To me, she says, ‘Let’s retire to the lounge. I want to hear more about this shoe designer.’
And that right there is one of the many reasons I love Jacinda Sharma. I cast a smile over my shoulder at a bemused Tristan and follow her into the next room.
