Page 10 of Shout Out To My Ex

‘How about this?’ I ask. ‘We start looking for Leo – you give us every bit of personal information you have on him and we’ll pass it on to our investigator – and you and Elle get ready for Paris. From there, we can play it by ear. How does that sound?’

‘I can make that work.’

‘Oh good,’ says Nasrin sarcastically. I flick her leg under the table. ‘Oww.’

I should have known she’d react like that. Nasrin is an excellent agent – her clients love her no-nonsense, call-it-like-she-sees-it approach – but sometimes she has the maturity of a toddler.

Cassie shifts in her seat. ‘Sorry. I know this is all a bit “please help but not just yet”.’

‘Not at all,’ I say, feeling Nasrin’s eyes on me. I ignore her.

‘I really do appreciate you taking the case. And I’ll send over everything I have on Leo.’

There’s an unspoken agreement that the meeting has concluded and the three of us stand in unison.

‘Before you head out,’ I say, ‘if you could stop by reception, Anita will give you our contract and non-disclosure agreement to review. We can get started once they’re both signed.’

‘Of course.’

‘And as I said on the phone, we’re waiving our fee,’ says Nasrin.

‘I appreciate that,’ she replies, colour flooding her cheeks. It indicates at least slight discomfort at receiving our services pro bono, something I appreciate. Nothing worse than a pro bono client who takes advantage. It has only happened a couple of times since I started here nearly five years ago – but no one wants to ‘fire’ a client.

‘Oh, and one last thing,’ says Cassie. ‘Elle can never know I came to you. If we do find him and we are able to reunite them, she’s got to believe it was…’ She seems to search for the right word.

‘Kismet?’ I supply.

‘Exactly. Kismet.’

Finding a long-lost love and staging a reunion that seems like a coincidence? This case just gets more and more intriguing.

4

ELLE

‘Eloise! Come on. We need to go!’ calls Cassie.

She swings open my bedroom door to find me on the floor, kneeling amid three plastic crates and surrounded by mementos from the past thirty-two years: photos, cards, school reports, merit awards, and every sketchbook from childhood through to my teenage years. I even found the one my parents got me for my sixth birthday, which I filled with triangle-shaped dresses of various lengths and ‘fabric’ designs, using all 120 Crayola crayons, including the flesh tones.

Cass blinks at me in confusion.

‘Hi. Sorry, I know we’re supposed to have left by now.’

I scan the detritus of my fruitless search. Where the hellisit?

‘What are you doing? You’re not even dressed.’

I sit back on my heels. ‘I know, but I’m invested now and I just want to find it.’

‘Find what?’

‘A list.’

‘You’re making us late so you can find a list?’

‘Well, it’s not just “a list”.’ She hovers in the doorway emanating impatience, so I get to the point. ‘The first week atuni, one of our lecturers had us write down our career goals – as in pie-in-the-sky, dream big, pinnacle-of-our-career type goals.’

‘And you wrote “Show at Paris Fashion Week”?’ she asks, clearly wanting to hurry me up.

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