Page 93 of The One That I Want

‘Elle Bliss,’ says Amelia Windsor. ‘I remember.’

It’s unclear whether this is a positive memory or not, but I watch the exchange fascinated, Amelia Windsor’s reputation for having a laser-sharp memory and never forgetting a face playing out before my eyes.

Note to self: do not cross Amelia Windsor.

Like cocking up by hiring a mole into your team, Greta?

I gulp.

Then Anjali launches into the details of our dilemma and, as I’m across all this, my mind wanders, trawling through that bizarre exchange between Marie and Amelia Windsor.

Questions. I have so many questions! If they’re the same age, are they school friends? If so, was Marie in London for school or was Amelia Windsor in France? And how old is ‘the same age’? Marie looks like she could be Keith Richards’ older sister, whereas Amelia Windsor looks like averywell-preserved sixty-something. Maybe she made a pact with the Devil or something – that would certainly explain her reputation. I once heard a fashion assistant call her ‘Medusa’ – well, anex-fashion assistant. They were sacked shortly after.

‘Greta?’

‘Oh, er, yes?’

Bollocks. Anjali has just thrown to me, and I wasn’t listening. Iamgoing to get the sack.

‘I was just saying that you’d like us to consider proceeding with “Dating Horrors of London”. Would you care to talk Amelia through that?’ she says, giving me a lifeline.

‘Oh, absolutely.’

Fortunately, I can speak off-the-cuff aboutNouveau Lifeat length, a by-product of having lived and breathed it for so long. I explain the concept of the column, including our plans to add readers’ anonymised contributions, and Amelia Windsor nods along as she listens.

I conclude with, ‘So, even thoughPanachehas likely stolen the general concept, I’d still like to launch it tomorrow. I think they’d be hard-pressed to replicate our exact angle, as there’s no way they have a professional matchmaker on the team, particularly one of Poppy’s calibre.’

Greta Fucking Davies, badass editor at your service!

While I pat myself on the back for staving off a panic attack and proving my professional mettle, Amelia Windsor leans across to confer quietly with Anjali.

Bollocks, is that a good sign or bad?

Anjali nods and says, ‘Understood,’ and Amelia Windsor settles back in her chair and addresses me.

‘I appreciate Ms Dean’s – as you put it – “calibre” as a consultant…’

I perk up.

‘But…’

Oh no, a premature perk-up.

‘Based on what I’ve heard, I don’t think the horrible dating column isNouveau. LetPanachepublish trite rubbish like that and see where it gets them.’

I’m not keen on her depiction of my column, but there is no way I’d ever challengeAmelia Windsor.

‘We’re dropping it,’ she says definitively.

‘All right,’ I reply, fighting off disappointment. I may have baulked at the assignment initially, but it’s evolved so much over the past month and now I’m invested.

‘Panachehas always been a grasping poor cousin toNouveau,’ she continues, ‘and no doubt, they’ll shoot themselves in the foot with their littleblog.’ She says the word ‘blog’ as if she’s referring to a venereal disease.

‘Anji’ – Wait, she calls AnjaliAnji? – ‘I’m actually surprised you agreed to publish the horrible dating column in the first place.’

Anjali gives her a contrite smile, her mouth pulled into a taut line. She didn’t even know I was writing the column until I was two articles in, but she takes the rebuke without laying the blame on me.

‘Now, Marie, you’re going to find this mole for us.’

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