Page 18 of The One That I Want

You offering to cook?

I laugh out loud at that, causing several colleagues to glance over. It’s funny because I don’t cook –at all. I can assemble a lovely cheese platter and I’ve been known to microwave a ready meal, but I leave the culinary arts to my husband. That way, we both steer clear of A&E.

Hilarious. See you at home. Px

5

GRETA

I’ve always loved visiting Richmond – it’s such a picturesque part of London – but today, the roaring inside my head that started the dayNouveau Lifelaunched is back. I cannot believe I’m doing this.

I’m greeted at reception by a smiling woman, who introduces herself as Anita. She stands and comes around to my side of the desk. ‘This way, please,’ she says as she leads me across the office towards a meeting room.

When I enter, Poppy’s there with a man – early thirties (my best guess), lean, with strawberry-blond hair, pale skin, and the type of handsome looks that scream ‘pop-culture vampire’. He could easily be an Edward or a Lestat.

‘Hi, Greta. Come on in,’ says Poppy. ‘This is George – he’ll be working on your case with me.’

George – a good name for a vampire.My mind’s doing that thing it does when I’m uncomfortable – fixating on absurd thoughts. Between that and my ‘noisy head’ (as Anjali calls it), I’m going to have to properly focus to get through this meeting.

George and I exchange pleasantries, then I turn down Anita’s offer of a beverage, even though she mentions a fully stocked bar and it’s nearly 5p.m. I may regret that decision later.

After Anita leaves, Poppy sends a welcoming smile my way. ‘So, you’ve brought the completed questionnaire?’

‘Oh, yes, I have it right here.’ I take the enormous document out of my handbag – it barely fit – and slide it across the table. George picks it up and starts looking through it. As he reads, his brows knit together.

Good sign or bad?I wonder.

‘So, how did you get on with it?’ asks Poppy.

‘Er, not bad. A few tricky ones in there,’ I say, severely downplaying how excruciating an exercise it was.

Tiggy and I started on Friday night – stupidly after we’d finished the first bottle of Tempranillo and before the Indian food arrived – and at first, it was a laugh.

‘Favourite colour?’ Tiggy asked.

‘Mustard!’ I declared.

‘Favourite food?’

‘Mustard!’

We fell about laughing and barely got through favourite song – Demi Lovato’s ‘Confident’ (I know all the words) – and favourite movie –Bridget Jones’s Diary(I can recite most scenes verbatim) – before dissolving into laughter so intense, we barely made any noise, just the occasional squeak. The poor delivery guy was totally bewildered when I opened the door to him, still laughing and with tears rolling down my face.

Saturday morning’s hangover, however, cast a grim pall over the questionnaire and I spent the rest of the weekend treating it like the proper homework it was. I’d rather have written an article on the trials and tribulations of adolescence from the perspective of a short, chubby, red-headed bookworm (spoiler: that was me at fourteen).

‘Excellent,’ Poppy replies warmly.

Seemingly, I’ve pulled off ‘confident professional on assignment’ even though ‘pathetic single in want of a baby daddy’ may be closer to the truth. As I spent most of the weekend in deep retrospection, prompted by the behemoth George is now casually perusing, I suspect it may be.

‘So, a quick update from our end,’ Poppy continues. ‘George and I have been working on a long list of potential matches, and once we’ve reviewed your questionnaire, we’ll narrow that down to a shortlist. But, first, we need to know what you and Anjali have decided.’

‘Decided?’

‘Regarding how you’ll approach the series of articles,’ she replies.

George looks up from the questionnaire. ‘The angle,’ he adds.

‘Ahh… Well, we haven’t decided yet.’

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