Page 64 of The One That I Want

‘Thatisoddly specific,’ she says eventually. ‘Not sure how you’d disguise that – unless you made him a part-time vet andfull-time naturist from Hertfordshire.’ She laughs at her own joke.

‘Hilarious,’ I reply drolly.

‘I always am,’ she quips.

‘Well,’ I say, ignoring her self-congratulations, ‘I suppose if you’re not about, I’ll just head home and watchBouquet Battleor something.’

‘Greta Lennox Davies!’ she rebukes. ‘It’s a gorgeous day and if you go straight home to watch reality TV, I will?—’

‘Reschedule your client meeting and come to mine?’

‘Nice try. Why don’t you call the woman from the dating agency?’

‘You know she’s called Poppy and it’s amatchmakingagency.’

‘Whatevs!Call Poppy,’ she says emphatically.

‘It’s the weekend.’

‘You know what they say: a matchmaker never sleeps.’

‘Can you hear my eyes rolling to the back of my head?’ I ask.

‘Message me with updates but I’ve got to go. Uber’s here.’

‘All right. Love you.’

‘Love you back.’

She rings off, still sniggering, and I pop my phone in my bag and look about. It really is a stunning day: 25°C, puffy, white clouds in a cerulean sky, the vibrant green of the plane trees contrasting beautifully against the sky…

Tiggy’s right. Being inside on a day like thiswouldbe criminal. No doubt Ollie would agree. He really was such a kind, gentle person. There’s no way I’m writing about our picnic – one he’d thoughtfully assembled from his local farmers’ market.

So, that leaves me with only two horror dates to write about – Marcus and Aman. Ugh, maybe I should gird my loins and agree to meet the misogynist – Michael – and make it a trio of articles.

As I make my way home, I decide I should stick to my previous declaration: I will not date Michael, not even a little bit. No article is worththat.

Poppy

‘Wow,’ I say as Jacinda heaves an inch-thick, leatherbound scrapbook onto the kitchen counter. ‘Whatisthat?’

‘You said to bring my dating war stories…’ She waves a hand over it like a gameshow host. ‘Thisis a history of every date I went on before I met Ravi.’

She and Ravi, who is Tristan’s oldest friend, met through the agency before I started working there.

I open the scrapbook and on the first page are three selfie Polaroids of Jacinda around age fifteen. In each photo, she’s with a different, awkward-looking boy and next to the photos are handwritten captions with the boy’s name, age, and a brief biography, like Vihaan’s:

19, likes video games and football

‘Jass, this is…’ I say, throwing her a quizzical look.

‘I know, right? It started as a bit of a laugh, but…’ She trails off, tilting her head from side to side, as if she’s figuring how best to explain it.

‘Remember I told you about my cousin, Aashvi?’

I nod – Aashvi was like an older sister to Jacinda growing up.

‘Well, she gave it to me in secret along with the camera, suggesting I document all the blokes my parents set me up with in the hopes of matching me with my future husband.’

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