Page 3 of Shout Out To My Ex

Leo. My first and only love. Bright, talented, hilarious, kind, loving, generous, and (oh so) sexy Leo. The benchmark against which every man since has been measured, each one falling woefully short. I just wish I knew where he was or how to get in touch with him.

We met on our first day at Kingston School of Art. He appeared to be lost and I stopped to offer directions. I told myself at the time it was because I was a good person and had attended Orientation Day, so I knew my way around. But really it was because he was heart-stoppingly gorgeous. The words, ‘Are you lost?’ popped out before I could second-guess approaching someonethatgood-looking.

He smiled gratefully and my heart thudded so loudly, I was sure he could hear it. We then discovered we were both studying fashion design and were heading to the same lecture hall. We were inseparable from that day on, our relationship making the leap from friendship to romance by the end of week two when he kissed me mid-laugh – he’d said something hilarious that I can’t for the life of me remember – and that was that. We were a couple.

But after four years together, Leo moved back to Texas, breaking the news the night before he flew out and obliterating my heart into a zillion pieces. After that, we lost touch – or rather, he ignored all my attempts to contact him and I eventually gave up. We didn’t have a word for it back then, but now I’d call it ‘ghosting’.

A few years ago, after a particularly dire first date, I started looking for him in earnest, but despite many extensive online searches, I cannot, for the life of me, find him.

I’ve wandered off again – my mind does that – and I ‘return’ to the flat. Not surprisingly, Cass is back on her laptop. I don’t blame her. She’s heard more about Leo than about all the men I’ve dated since put together.

‘So, what are you working on?’ I ask, returning my focus to her.

‘Oh, just a little side project,’ she says cryptically. ‘I’m not sure if anything will come if it yet, but I’ll let you know if it does.’ She sends me a dimpled smile. Cass got the dimples and the height and the chestnut waves. I got Mum’s petite (short), boyish (flat-chested) frame, mousy hair that I dye honey-blonde and wear in a choppy bob, and no dimples. Other than that, we look enough alike in the face that people can tell we’re sisters.

Another yawn takes hold. ‘Right,’ I say, standing and draining my glass. ‘Bed.’

‘Really? Because you’re such sparkling company.’

‘Says the woman with her nose in her laptop.’ I take the empty glasses and the half-full bottle to the kitchen, then swing past Cass on the way to the bathroom. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and squeeze, smacking a kiss onto her cheek. ‘Night.’

‘Goodnight, Bean,’ she says, calling me the childhood nickname I either love or loathe, depending on how and why she says it.

2

POPPY

‘Good morning, Anita,’ I say cheerfully as I sail past reception into our open-plan office.

‘Welcome back,’ she says with a smile and a wave.

‘Thank you,’ I sing-song.

‘Hi, everyone,’ I call out. Several heads lift at once and my fellow agents rush to greet me.

‘Poppy! We missed you,’ says Freya, throwing her slender arms around my neck. I return the hug one-armed.

‘Welcome back, Poppy,’ says George, leaning in for a cheek kiss. ‘There’s an invite in your inbox. Drinks after work.’

‘I—’

‘Nope, not taking no for an answer. You’ve been away two weeks?—’

‘Ten days,’ I interject.

‘And we have loads of gossip to catch up on,’ he says, disregarding my correction.

‘What George really means is he wants all the honeymoon gossip,’ says Freya playfully.

George swats at her. ‘I do not. That’s private business between Poppy and her smoking-hot husband. Besides, they’vebeen married for months now. Surely that side of things has died down by now?’ He eyes me intently, the nosy bugger.

‘I am not answering that,’ I tell him firmly.

He blinks at me and purses his lips with reluctant concession.

‘Anyway,’ says Nasrin, ‘welcome back to real life. You look…’ She scrutinises me and I half expect her to blurt out something like ‘thoroughly shagged’ – George isn’t the only member of my work family who oversteps – but instead, she says, ‘Hot.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ I reply, basking in the compliment.

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