Page 99 of The One That I Want

‘Go on then.’ I settle back against the sofa, steeling myself for the lengthy Cyrano de Bergerac-style message my bestie has just sent to my… my what? Friend? Barista? Friendly barista? Hot friend?

Tiggy reads, adopting a tone and pitch that I could only describe as ‘very Greta’.

‘Hey, nice to hear from you. Weekend “okay” but something came up at work. I’ll tell you about it at dinner on Tues. Let me know where and when and I’ll see you there. Smiley face.’

Simple. Friendly. Keen, but nottookeen.

‘Oh, that’s… For some reason, I thought you’d be all…’ I try to come up with something, but my mind stalls and I shrug instead, making Tiggy laugh.

‘You really donothave game, babes. What did you think I was going to say? “You – me – storeroom at the coffee shop NOW”?’

‘No! But seriously, it’s perfect. Thank y?—’

I’m interrupted by the chime of another incoming message. Tiggy tosses back the phone.

‘Pleasestop throwing my phone. Grrr,’ I tell her, baring my teeth.

She shrugs off the reproach and I read the message:

Perfect. Will let you know. Looking forward to it. Maybe see you at TDG tomorrow?Xx

‘Oh, wow. He sent a kiss – well,twoactually.’ I show her my phone for the umpteenth time tonight, and she bursts out laughing. ‘What?’

‘A reminder that you’re thirty-five, not fifteen.’

‘Oi, that’s not very?—’

But I don’t get another word out, as the buzzer to my flat sounds, and Tiggy leaps up, shouting, ‘Pizza’s here!’

26

GRETA

The roaring inside my head is back – but it’s unclear if it’s just nerves or nerves plus a hangover. It’s probably the latter, as ‘roaring’ brought along his friend ‘pounding headache’. I blame Tiggy, which is juvenile of me, but she’s the one who opened the second bottle of wine. And even though we finished a large pizza between us, we also finished that second bottle.

What was it she said last night? Something about being thirty-five and not a teenager? Though she was talking about my love life, not being able to drink as much as I once did without suffering the repercussions.

I’ve arrived atNouveauvery early, wearing more make-up than usual (to disguise the sins of last night) and wishing it was acceptable for me to wear sunglasses inside, à la Amelia Windsor.

It’s strange being here when it’s so quiet, which is doing nothing to ease my nerves. To take my mind off… well,everything, I log into my laptop and scroll through emails, deleting, filing, and typing out quick responses. There’s nothing of consequence until I get to the most recent email, timestamped7.01a.m., which is four minutes ago, from Marie Maillot with the subject line: The Mole.

‘What? How did she find them so quick?—?’

I don’t finish the word, as I’m overcome by a wave of nausea. I gulp in a breath to stave it off, but saliva floods my mouth and there’s nothing more I can do but reach for the bin and retch into it. When my stomach eventually stops spasming, I wipe my face with a tissue. And only when I’m convinced I won’t be sick again, do I set down the bin and look at my laptop screen.

I open the email, immediately seeing that Marie has copied in Poppy and Anjali. Before I discover who’s been sabotagingNouveau Life, I lift my gaze and take a series of steeling breaths. I’m placing bets on Ivy Jones. Ever since Anjali raised her as a suspect yesterday, I’ve been remembering instances of her being sarcastic or rude or condescending, even though I haveseveralyears’ more experience than her at the magazine.

Eventually, I’m ready to read the email – well, as ready as I’ll ever be. I scroll through the explanation of Marie’s methods, searching the dense email for a name. When my eyes land on it, I cannot believe what I’m seeing.

‘It can’t be…’ I gasp. But it says it right there in the email.

Rebecca Lovell

Bex. Bex is the mole, the one who’s been sharing our ideas – orIP– withPanache.

The nausea threatens again, but knowing is marginally better than not knowing and I’m able to breathe through it.

I go back to the start of the email and read every word –twice. Somehow, in less than twenty-four hours, Marie has uncovered call logs and an email chain that irrefutably links Bex to an editor atPanache– an unsavoury woman I know only by reputation. Stupidly, Bex was using her work-issued phone andNouveauemail address – I don’t want to know how Marie got access to those records. She’s attached several documents, one of which is the contents of the emails, something I suppose I’ll have to read at some point, butafterI speak to Anjali.

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