I’m reading an email from a potential client when the phone on my desk rings. ‘Hi, Anita.’
‘Poppy, I have Ms Bliss on the line for you,’ she says. ‘I’ll just put her through.’
‘Poppy?’ says Cassie.
‘Hey, how did it go?’ I ask. Elle and Leo’s meeting was last night.
‘Er…’ Uh oh. ‘I’d tell you “not well” but that would be a massive understatement.’
‘Oh no, what happened?’ I cast my eyes around the office for Nasrin but can’t see her.
‘Let’s just say that we’re going to need a Plan B. And fast. Before Fashion Week.’
‘Right.’ Nasrin comes out of the bathroom and I wave her over. ‘It’s Cassie,’ I mouth. ‘Cassie, can I pop you on hold for a sec?’
‘Yes, all right.’
‘What’s going on?’ asks Nas.
‘The meeting between Elle and Leo didn’t go as planned and Cassie wants a Plan B.’
‘Fuck.’ She turns and scouts for an empty meeting room. ‘Come on.’
I follow her into the room that looks out over the Thames, close the door, and tap a button on the console in the middle of the table.
‘Hi, Cassie, I’m here with Nasrin. Want to talk us through what happened?’
‘Sure, but I’ve only got a few minutes before Elle comes back. The long and the short of it is that he’s turned into a massive prat, the meeting dredged up a lot of deep-seated anger, and Elle wants nothing to do with him.’
‘Okay,’ I say, my eyes flicking towards Nasrin. She nods at me. We’ve been in similar situations with clients before. Even though there’s obvious panic in Cassie’s voice, this is likely just a minor setback. But still, we need to respect the client and not patronise her.
‘And you know how he’s showing at Fashion Week?’ she adds.
‘Yes,’ we say together. It came up when we were deciding when and how to plan the surprise reunion. The three of us agreed that staging their initial meeting as an ‘incidental run-in’ in Paris would be less than optimal – Elle would be focused on her show and, as Cassie indicated, more than a little stressed out – which is why we went with last night’s meeting.
‘He’s invited her to watch. His show.’
‘Right,’ says Nas. ‘And?’
‘She told him to bugger off, but I think I’ve talked her into going.’
‘That’s promising,’ I say.
‘Well, yes and no. I’ve had to promise my first-born child in return.’
‘Ouch,’ says Nas.
‘The favour aside, Cassie,’ I say, ‘I’m putting that in the plus column, okay? So, let’s address the three points you made earlier: he’s a prat, she’s pissed off, and she wants nothing to do with him. First off, we all know that Leo made a massive sacrifice for his sister, so it’s possible he’s—’
‘Not actually a prat,’ interjects Nasrin.
‘Well, probably not,’ I concur.
Though, people do change, I think.
‘I agree,’ says Cassie. ‘In the greater scheme of things, he’s probably not, but Elle said he was arrogant and superior and kind of a dick. He even showed up late – without an apology.’
Nas and I exchange a look. ‘Well, let’s proceed as though he’s got a good heart,’ I say.
‘And a good reason for behaving like a dick,’ adds Nasrin. The line goes silent and she grimaces at me.
Cassie breaks the silence with a loud sigh.
‘Look, Cassie,’ I say, ‘you’re Elle’s sister and if you really think there’s no sense in pursuing this any further, we totally understand. We can close the case. Sometimes, that’s all a client needs – closure – but it’s your call.’
There’s more heavy silence from Cassie and I move to the window to watch the boat traffic on the river. Finally, she speaks.
‘No, I don’t want to give up just yet. I knew Leo back then and you’re right, he was lovely, and now we know why he left so suddenly. I still can’t fathom why he thought he needed to break off all ties with Elle – they were so in love; surely they could have made it work – but I believe he deserves a second chance. They both do.’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘So, setting aside Elle’s anger for a sec—’
‘Hell hath no fury, right?’ Nasrin interjects and, even though it’s mildly annoying that she’s interrupted me again, Cassie chuckles on the other end of the line.
‘So,’ I say, leaping back into the conversation. ‘If we can fashion a situation in which the two of them can really connect—’
‘So to speak,’ says Cassie.
‘Yes, so to speak,’ I say. ‘And give Leo the chance to explain his absence, then—’
‘We may just get back on track,’ says Nasrin, finishing my thought.
‘All right, we’re in agreement,’ says Cassie. ‘And this leads me to an ask. It’s big.’
‘Go for it,’ I prompt.
‘Poppy, I want you to come with us – to Paris.’
‘Me?’ I ask, right as Nasrin asks, ‘Her?’
‘Yes!’ says Cassie. ‘I need you there. Actually, if this is going to work at all, we need you. I’m not good at all this subterfuge and manipulation.’
I don’t take it as an insult that she thinks I am – it’s part and parcel of my job.
‘But how would that work?’ I ask. ‘How would we explain my presence?’
‘You could be undercover as a fashion journalist or something.’
Nasrin starts laughing.
‘Hey!’ I say to her. I mean, it is a reach, but laughing about it is just insulting. She raises her hands, indicating that she can’t help it, and keeps laughing.
‘Please, Poppy,’ says Cassie. ‘We have to fix this. And I’d feel better about everything if you were with us.’
‘Okay,’ I say, conceding. ‘I need to run it by our boss for approval. If she approves, I’ll try to find a connection to a fashion magazine – and fast.’
‘Paloma might know someone,’ Nasrin says to me, clearly enjoying this. ‘That’s our head of client relations,’ she tells Cassie. ‘I’ll check with her after this.’
God, even with a connection, I have about as much chance at passing for a fashion journalist as a Formula 1 driver. Still, Cassie may be right – I should probably be close at hand while Elle and Leo are both in Paris.
‘Okay, so if all that lines up, I’ll come to Paris Fashion Week,’ I say. Nasrin, unable to contain herself, erupts into an even bigger laugh. ‘Don’t make me regret this,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry, it will be brilliant,’ says Cassie. ‘Oh, bollocks, Elle’s back. Speak later.’
She ends the call and Nasrin is still laughing.
‘Please let me do the update at the staff meeting,’ she says through her laughter. I pin her with my sternest look, but she ignores me, wiping away tears and fanning her face.
It’s not that bloody funny.
I’m making tentative travel plans for Paris when Nasrin perches on the edge of my desk. ‘I have news,’ she says. I regard her, curious, while she draws out the suspense. ‘Paloma knows someone at Nouveau. Actually, she and Saskia do – an old school friend is the features editor of the British edition.’
‘Oh, that sounds promising.’
‘It is. You’re going to Paris. Saskia approved it.’
‘Wow – that was fast. So, what happens with the magazine?’
‘You’re getting six inches and a thumbnail in either “What’s Hot?” or “Who’s Who?”.’
‘Sorry. Six inches? That’s— I don’t know what that means.’
‘Column space – around a hundred and fifty words. Don’t you read Nouveau? Actually, never mind. Stupid question.’ She pushes off my desk and wanders towards the kitchen.
‘That’s not nice,’ I call out to her uncaring back.
I get another dose of incredulity when I arrive home and discover my bestie, Shaz, sitting at our breakfast bar. She’s drinking a glass of white wine while Tristan makes dinner.
When I tell her my news, she throws her head back and laughs loudly.
‘Why is that hilarious?’ I ask, which makes her laugh even harder.
Shaz is a fellow Aussie expat and has been my best friend for the past decade. We moved from Melbourne to London together in our late twenties and she’s seen me through every high and low life has thrown at me. I’d walk through fire for her – or I would have. I’m starting to have second thoughts the harder she laughs.
‘Sharon! I’ll send you home if you don’t stop.’
‘What? You’re going to Paris pretending to be a fashion journalist. It’s hilarious.’
‘It’s completely plausible,’ says Tristan, snaking an arm around my waist and kissing my cheek.
‘Thank you, darling,’ I say, glaring at Shaz.
‘Oh, don’t be like that,’ she says. She waves her empty wine glass at Tristan. ‘Excuse me, there seems to be something wrong with my glass.’
His mouth quirks as he tops her up. I am so glad these two get along – together with Mum and Dad, they’re my most important people.
‘Now,’ Shaz says as Tristan goes back to making us dinner. ‘Who are you pretending to be a journalist for?’
‘Nouveau.’
She chokes on her wine, adding insult to injury. I blink at her, my lips pursed. ‘Okay, sorry,’ she says, one hand raised in contrition. ‘But seriously? How are you going to get away with that? I mean, won’t the actual journalists from Nouveau be there?’
‘Well, yes, and Nouveau Britain declined to give me press credentials under their name,’ I admit. I suppose school-day friendships only extend so far when it comes to professional favours.
‘And?’ Shaz prods.
‘Marie, the agency’s investigator, is getting me press credentials that say I’m from Nouveau Oceania.’
‘Wow, fake ID! Wait, is Nouveau Oceania even a thing?’
‘No. But apparently, no one wears their lanyards. You just flash it at the door and put it back in your handbag.’
‘And which handbag would this be, the Chanel or the Louis Vuitton?’
I ignore the dig, as we both know I have neither. I may be married to an uber-wealthy man, but I didn’t become a society wife overnight. In fact, I will never become one of those, much to my mother-in-law’s chagrin. ‘Look, I only need the press credentials for access to the shows.’
‘And the parties. Please tell me there are parties.’
‘Well, yes, apparently, but I’m not sure I’ll be going to those.’
‘You absolutely are. And I want constant updates. And pics. Actually, you should just live stream the entire week.’
‘I’m not doing that.’
‘Had to try,’ she says with a shrug. ‘So…’ She trails off and twirls her wine glass by the stem. ‘You know I love you and I think you’re very pretty—’
‘She’s beautiful,’ says my husband over the sound of the range hood.
‘All right, yes, you’re beautiful…’
‘But?’
She locks eyes with mine. ‘You know what I’m going to ask.’
‘Yes, I’m getting a makeover.’
‘You don’t need one,’ Tristan interjects.
‘Thank you, darling, but I’m with Shaz on this one,’ I say over my shoulder. ‘According to the client’s sister – the one who hired us,’ I say to Shaz, ‘it won’t be drastic. Just a little zhuzh.’
‘Can I come?’ asks Shaz.
‘To Paris?’
‘No, to your…’ She flaps her hand in front of my face.
‘If you must.’
‘Oh, I must. I’m living vicariously through you, you know.’
‘Why? Your life is amazing right now.’
Just after Tristan and I got married, Shaz left her (shitty, soul-sucking, and surprisingly underpaid) job as a psychologist for a prestigious Harley Street practice. It was one of the best decisions of her life, as she’s now part of a not-for-profit women’s health group in south-west London and loves both her patients and her colleagues. She’s also been dating her girlfriend, Lauren, for the past six months.
Oh, wait. I catch the slight downturn of her mouth and she avoids eye contact, her fingers tapping lightly on the countertop.
Dreading the answer, I ask, ‘So, which is it? The job or the relationship?’
‘What? Oh… uh, neither.’
‘Sharon, what’s going on?’
Her shoulders visibly drop. ‘It’s not the job. Job’s still good.’
‘So, Lauren then?’ I adore Lauren and she and Shaz are so good together. Please let this not be the end of the line for them.
‘She wants me to move in.’
‘Oh my god, that’s amazing.’ Only Shaz’s face says the opposite. ‘Why isn’t that amazing? You said that Alfie’s been hinting at moving in with his boyfriend. Why don’t you two pack up the share flat and—’
‘Because it’s terrifying, that’s why.’
I need to tread carefully here. I don’t want to invalidate Shaz’s feelings, but she has a track record of sabotaging the good things in her life, as well as a string of disastrous relationships in which she gives up everything she wants and acquiesces to the other person, ultimately losing sight of herself. But with Lauren, she’s Shaz, the whole person. She’s happy and complete and, most importantly, she’s loved.
‘It can be really scary,’ I say, ‘moving in with someone.’
‘You did it.’
‘Well, yes, but under very different circumstances.’ I flick a glance towards Tristan but he’s popped his earbuds in now – he likes to listen to podcasts while he cooks. Even so, I lean towards Shaz. ‘Look, I understand the fear – it’s completely justified – but answer this: do you love her?’
‘Yes.’
‘And can you imagine spending your life with her?’
‘Yes, but more in a “sometime in the future” way.’
‘And what’s at the heart of it, do you think? This nebulous future, the fear?’
‘Please don’t be my psych right now. Can’t we just…?’
I let her off the hook – for now – and send a smile her way. ‘Sure. So, got a Chanel handbag I can borrow?’
She smiles at me wanly. ‘Thanks, Pop.’
‘Hey, what sort of bestie am I if I don’t distract you with opportunities to ridicule me?’
‘Seriously though, Nouveau Oceania.’ She starts laughing again.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
