Page 86 of Shout Out To My Ex

‘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,whoas 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, andlovenest. 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.’

---