Page 37 of The One That I Want

I’d intended to work atNouveauthis afternoon, finalising my content for the advice column, which is due on Bex’s desk tomorrow. But there’s something more pressing to attend to – a man called Ewan Wilder.

The way Greta’s eyes lit up when she saw him and how they looked at each other during that conversation… There is definitely something between them. I wonder how long they’ve been meeting up at the coffee shop and – more importantly – if he might merit a place on Greta’s list of potentials.

I take out my phone to call Marie Maillot, the agency’s freelance investigator to see if she’s working near Richmond. I could brief her over the phone, but if she can meet me at the agency in an hour, I’d prefer to do it in person. As always, she answers almost immediately.

Fifty minutes later, I walk into the agency and spot George at his desk. I owe him a trip toNouveau, as he’d planned to meet me there later under the guise of taking me to happy hour – really, he just wanted to see Mimi and The Wardrobe. From the way he’s slumped in his chair, I can tell he’s still pouting.

‘Hi, is Marie here yet?’

‘In there,’ he says, nodding towards one of the meeting rooms.

‘Coming?’ I ask.

He winces.

‘She’s not that scary, and youaremy second on this case. Come on, put your big boy pants on.’

‘Fine.’ He stands, his lanky frame towering over me even though I’m five-six, and follows me into the meeting room.

‘Marie!’ I exclaim as I enter.

She looks up from her phone, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips – one of her many quirks – and grunts her greeting. Marie is quite the character. I’ve said before that she looks like Lisbeth Salander, the girl with the dragon tattoo, right down to the black hair, heavy black eyeliner, and copious tattoos – only Marie’s in her late sixties.

‘Thanks for coming in,’ I say, taking a seat. George sits next to me and eyes her warily across the table.

She removes the cigarette from her mouth and holds it aloft.

‘Well, what else have I to do but jump every time you call?’ she asks sardonically, her thick French accent adding an extra layer of disdain. Marie isn’t a bad person, but I suspect she’s suffered more than her share of fools during her lifetime and at some point, she decided enough was enough. George is terrified of her.

‘I need you to look into someone for me,’ I say, getting straight to the point, something I know she appreciates. No chit-chat for Marie.

‘Ewan Wilder, approximately forty years old, works somewhere in the vicinity of 400 Strand, WC2, and he looks like this.’ On my phone, I navigate to the photo I downloaded on the way here and show it to her.

‘That is James McAvoy,’ she says drily.

‘Yes, I know. But believe me, there’s a striking resemblance.’

Marie purses her lips and draws from the cigarette, then blows non-existent smoke into the air.

‘Anything else?’

Having worked with her several times before, I know she’s asking if I have any other information about Ewan, not if I need anything else.

‘That’s all I’ve got.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as possible.’

She nods. On occasion, Marie has found the information we’ve needed within a few hours but based on the little I’ve given her to go on, it will likely take longer than that.

‘Give me a day, perhaps two,’ she says and without saying goodbye, she leaves the meeting room.

‘Don’t you think Ewan Wilder sounds like the romantic hero from a Sandra Bullock movie?’ asks George dreamily.

‘Hah! I hadn’t thought about that but now you’ve mentioned it, yes.’

‘And does hereallylook like that?’ he adds, peering at my phone.

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