Page 27 of Shout Out To My Ex

‘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 isstilllaughing.

‘Pleaselet 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 atNouveau. 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 readNouveau? 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 theactualjournalists fromNouveaube there?’

‘Well, yes, andNouveau Britaindeclined 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 fromNouveau Oceania.’

‘Wow, fake ID! Wait, isNouveau Oceaniaeven a thing?’

---