Page 3 of The One That I Want

‘Possibly.’

‘Understandable, but are you sure a double shot of espresso is the answer?’ She pauses, her eyes narrowing. ‘Just joking,’ she adds with a laugh. ‘I’m gagging for a coffee – I’ll join you.’ She looks in both directions. ‘Any preference?’

‘I was thinking about that new place on the corner,’ I say, indicating the direction with a turn of my head.

‘Perfect.’ She heads off and I rush to catch up to her. We may both be wearing heels – she’s also in Lorenzos – but she has a good nine inches on me height-wise and her strides are much longer than mine.

‘Hopefully the nerves aren’t all-consuming,’ she says when I’m beside her again. ‘I want you toenjoythis day; you’ve certainly earned it. Though I’m one to talk. If I think back on any of my professional milestones, they’re all a blur and before I knew it, it was a week later, and everything was humming along.’

She’s mentioned this before, how she only has vague memories of her professional ‘firsts’ – she’s always been open with me about this type of thing – but today, her words have more meaning.

We reach the coffee shop – amusingly called ‘The Daily Grind’ – and she swings open the door, holding it for me.

The décor is inviting, if a little austere. It has a Scandinavian vibe – lots of blond wood, including the wall panelling, the counter, and the tables and chairs – and there are more plants than in a garden centre. The air quality in here must be excellent.

We queue up and order, then wait to the side for the baristas to work their magic on the giant espresso machine. I watch their precise, rhythmic movements as Anjali chats to me, but as with Bex earlier, I’m not taking in any of what she’s saying. The roaring is back.

I smile and nod at her, hoping I’m doing a reasonable facsimile of listening, which I clearly am. ‘So, what do you think?’ Anjali asks, catching me unawares. ‘Should we sack him?’

‘What? Sack who?’ Panicked, I conduct a mental roster of the several hims who report to Anjali. I can’t for the life of me think who she might be talking about – they’re all brilliant at their jobs.

‘The tiler.’

‘The ti—Oh, sorry.’

She angles her head – she’s either confused or amused, probably a mix.

‘To be honest, I haven’t heard a word.’ I tap on my temple. ‘I have this intense noise inside my head.’ Oops, I did not intend to mention that.

Though at least it’s not as embarrassing as what I told her the night we were working late a couple of weeks back. I still cringe every time I think about it.

‘My fault,’ she says. ‘I was trying to distract you by moaning about the uttermareof our renovations. And the noisy head – perfectly normal.’

Oh, thank god.

‘And, silly me, I completely forgot…’ she says. ‘Gordon sends his love and says good luck for today.’

Gordon is Anjali’s husband. He’s a lovely man – a bit older than Anjali and more traditional in many ways, but he’s always been kind to me. He also makes a mean G&T and enjoys trying new gins as much as I do.

‘We’ll have to have you over to celebrate properly – as soon as the sodding renovations are done.’ She says the last part through gritted teeth.

‘Angela, Gretal,’ calls the barista. Anjali and I swap amused looks – the solidarity of those with a ‘novel name’ – then push through the small crowd to the counter to collect our coffees, a latte for me, extra foam, and a long black for her.

She leads the way to the window, where we slide into seats vacated by two men mere seconds ago. She brushes some pastry crumbs onto the floor and pins me with a look. The Anjali look.

I’ve been the recipient of this lookmanytimes. It can mean anything from ‘I have some juicy work gossip and you mustn’t tell a soul’ to ‘I know you’ve worked sixteen days straight and I’m insisting you take a mini break to Tenerife’.

‘Now, Greta?—’

‘Ladies! I see you’ve discovered my new favourite haunt,’ says a familiar voice.

‘Hello, Luca,’ says Anjali, warmly accepting a cheek kiss from our colleague. She adores Luca – most people do. And not just because he’s handsome and charming, but he’s also a brilliant fashion editor –sotalented. He can make or break a designer just like that (imagine me snapping my fingers) and meets regularly with the top designers and their trend forecasters. In fact, he’s consideredthetrend forecaster.

‘Grets!’ he exclaims, leaning down to landtwokisses, one on each cheek. Luca may be London-born, but when he wants to be especially charming, he favours the customs of his Roman mother.

I graciously accept the kisses, mindful that not too long ago, this kind of attention from Luca would have sent shivers down my spine and set my nethers (as my mum calls them) alight.

Mine was an intense, several-year-long crush that had the power to derail everything from simple exchanges to editorial meetings to entire workdays. It came to a screeching halt the night I brought my best friend, Tiggy – a name she’s been stuck with since birth, because her sister couldn’t say ‘Elizabeth’ – to a staff function as my plus one, and Luca made a play for her.

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