Page 20 of The Life-Changing Magic of Falling in Love

What if he breaks his other ankle on the way to our date?

What if I get stuck in traffic, arrive late and find he’s given up waiting for me?

What if?

What if?

What if…

Shit.

Tired as I am, before the endless thoughts can intrude properly, I drag myself to my feet, walk to my kitchen sink, pull on my leopard print rubber gloves and open the cupboard to get the eco lemon-scented cleaner out.

It only takes me a minute to wipe the solution over the tidied countertops, so I open the oven and take out the racks. I soak them and then clean them and then dry them and then stack them neatly back inside the oven and by the time I finish, my breathing is back to normal and the over-crowding thoughts are tamed.

I start peeling off my clothes, taking the time to fold each item before I put them in the laundry bin and then take my Hufflepuff Tee from under my pillow and put it on. I yawn and go to hang my bag on the hook between the potted plant and TV and then remember I put two white feathers in it today.

Smiling I take them out, feel their reassuring softness in my palm and trundle to the hallway console table. The wooden bowl is nearly overflowing with all the feathers I’ve collected.

Nearly enough for another collage.

The evening wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

Not by a long shot.

And who knows how well the second date will go?

It feels like it will go well.

I smile, smoothing my hand over the collection of soft feathers. It feels good to think I’m being looked out for.

Chapter Seven

JOB SATISFACTION RATING

George

I’m standing in front of the Head of the Harrison Richards Advertising Agency’s desk, waiting. His EA showed me into the impressively large office, so I’m pretty sure I am exactly where I’m supposed to be, at the exact scheduled time.

Harrison Richards, though, keeps right on typing, his fingers hitting the keyboard assertively.

He doesn’t acknowledge me in any way.

It’s a power thing, I think.

Old school.

Quite effective if you let it be.

I’m not going to let it be.

I choose, instead, to think about the many things I admire about Anya’s father, Harrison Richards.

Halfway through a list of his award-winning campaigns (which handily happen to be framed along the office wall adjacent to his desk) he lifts his head and grins. ‘George. It’s that time already? Sit yourself down,’ he invites, nodding to the chairs in front of his desk. ‘I guess you must know what this is about?’

I really hope so.

I mean, I’ve worked towards this moment since starting in the London office.

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