Page 20 of Shout Out To My Ex

‘So, marriage hasn’t turned you into one?’ she teases.

‘Nah, just a sexaholic.’

‘Bahahaha,’ bellows George from behind us.

‘You weren’t supposed to hear that,’ I scold.

‘Open-plan office, Poppy. Everything’s fair game,’ he retorts.

He has a point.

Elle

He’s late. Of course he is. It’s not like I’m in the middle of preparing for the biggest fifteen minutes of my life or anything. And who schedules a business meeting at 8p.m. on a Tuesday at a (quite nice) restaurant? The next big thing in shoes, apparently.

I cannotbelieveI let Cassie talk me into this. Surely this could have waited until after Paris.

At 8.18p.m., I give in to the yeasty smell rising from the centre of the table, snatch up a now-cold grainy bread roll, and stuff half of it in my mouth. It was a ridiculously early start this morning, followed by a twelve-hour workday, and all I managed to eat was an overripe banana, a cold ham-and-cheese croissant, and a handful of wine gums. Okay, it wastwohandfuls.

‘You must be Elle,’ says a voice.

I’ve still got a mouthful of bread when I look up to find a sixty-something woman sporting a kaleidoscope of colours – her outfit, her makeup,andher spiky hair. She looks like unicorn vomit. I smile and swallow at the same time, which means I end up grimacing at her.

‘Hello, sorry, yes. Elle Bliss.’ I rub my palms together to dust off the breadcrumbs and hold out my right hand. She takes it in one of those limp, wet-fish type handshakes. I hate those.

‘Ser, Lorenzo’s publicist,’ she says with a strong American accent I can’t quite place. Her name sounds like ‘Sair’, but I’d be hard-pressed to spell it correctly.

‘Hello,’ I say again. She continues to hover. ‘Um, is Lorenzo coming?’

She sniffs the air and I can’t tell if it’s because, like me, she’s famished and there are some delicious aromas wafting in from the kitchen, or if it’s an affront of some kind.

‘He’s on his way.’ She’s looking at her phone now, which she taps on impatiently.

‘Right. Well, he’s late,’ I joke. Only she clearly doesn’t think it’s funny and her eyes narrow as they swing in my direction. ‘Will you be joining us?’ I ask, hoping she says no.

‘No.’

Well, good, because you have the conversation skills of a dung beetle,I think. Then I feel bad for dung beetles.

‘He’s here,’ she says, and without another word to me, she heads towards the door. Wait, did she only come in to tell me he’d arrived? How odd.

I watch her and just inside the doorway, she’s joined by a man: tallish, slim, platinum-blond hair tied into a half-ponytail, wearing ultra-wide-leg jeans (he could smuggle ham hocks in those), a tight denim waistcoat (double denim? Who is he, an extra fromBarbie?), and enough bangles on each arm to (almost) cover his tattooed forearms. He’s also wearing sunglasses. Inside. At night-time.

Fuck me, what a poser! And I work infashion– I encounter all sorts. Butthis!

Ser points towards me, then leaves, and I school my expression as I wait for him to join me.

There’s been all sorts of buzz about Lorenzo in the fashion forums – when I get a chance to read them, that is, which is rare these days. He’s all about sustainably produced leather, even jumping on the leather-from-cactus bandwagon, and ground-breaking designs that offer styleandcomfort (something promised by most shoe designers, but rarely delivered).

And if what Cassie says is true, a partnership between Bliss Designs and Lorenzo could be our big break – possibly even bigger than Paris.

She’ll kill me if I cock this up.

He approaches the table, flops onto the chair opposite me, and without even saying hello, raises his hand to a passing waiter.

‘Hey, man,’ he says with a drawl, ‘can I get a beer? Like, arealone? You know, in a bottle? I can’t do that warm piss in a pint glass you guys call beer.’

As the waiter disappears to retrieve a ‘real beer’, chills prick the crown of my head, as if a thousand tiny spiders are dancing in stilettos. They crawl down my face to my neck, shoot along my spine, and land heavily in my stomach where they settle in and kickstart a swell of nausea.

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