Page 55 of The One That I Want

‘Mrs D,’ she says, ‘they’ve just started going out.Ihaven’t even met him yet.’

After this, I’m buying Tiggy whatever the hell she wants. An ice cream… a pony… acar.

Mum’s lips stretch into a line and, miraculously, the corners of her mouth lift. ‘This is wonderful news, Greta,’ she says, patting me on the hand. Then, to really drive home her approval, she squeezes it.

Wonderful news…

Yes, Mum, it’s bloody wonderful that you swallowed the lie I’ve fed you.

It’s no wonder I instantly lose my appetite. For the rest of lunch, I barely hold up my end of the conversation, grateful for Tiggy entertaining the family with tales about contrary clients who say they want one thing but really want another. At one anecdote, about a client who described her preferred colour for the company logo as ‘the colour smoked salmon takes on if it’s been sitting out too long’, Mum hoots with laughter.

When Tiggy and I climb into an Uber after lunch and I rest against the seat, relieved the ordeal is over, Tiggy starts singing ‘It’s Raining Men’ under her breath.

‘Oh, sod off,’ I say, entirely over this whole thing.

Half cut on wine and the absurdity of the past two hours, she giggles beside me. ‘Now, tell me about Ewan,’ she says.

After I get home, I flop onto the sofa, emotionally wrung out. The (bloody) lies are mounting. Now I’ve told my family that Harrison and I are dating. Have I gone completely bonkers?

Speaking of Harrison…

I lean over and pick up his photo from the coffee table, my eyes tracing each detail of his face. His biography says he’s tall – more than a foot taller than me – and I look over at the door to my bedroom, imagining him standing there. He’s smiling at me, his eyes filled with lust and beckoning me to join him in the bedroom where he will have his way with me (and I will happily let him).

I cross to him and he takes my hand, pulling me to him so urgently, I collide with his formidable chest. He clasps me around the waist, his huge hands splaying on the small of my back, and leans down to kiss me. His mouth is warm and wet against mine, his lips hungry for me…

I shake my head to dislodge the scene from my mind. I’m not a heroine in a bloody romance novel!

It’s also ridiculous that I’m obsessing about a man I’ve never met. I haven’t done that since I was fourteen when I convinced myself that Chris Martin would dump Gwyneth Paltrow forme, if only he knew I existed.

‘Greta, you total muppet. Next, you’ll be ordering a pillow with Harrison’s face on it.’

I eye the photo again – it’s practicallytauntingme.

‘Gah!’

I get up, taking the photo – and Harrison’s biography – to my desk. I slip them into the top drawer and lock it. Then I take the key into the kitchen and standing on tiptoes, I slide it onto the highest shelf in the pantry. If I want to open that drawer, I’ll have to get my step stool out of the loft and Inevergo up there – too many spiders.

This would be a brilliant tactic to stop me from staring at Harrison’s photo and re-reading his biography, except that I’ve already committed everything to memory.

‘Hang in there, Greta. Not long now and then you’ll get to meet him for real,’ I tell myself.

15

POPPY

‘Thanks, Marie. And how long do you think it will take?’ I ask, the phone pressed to my ear.

‘Pfff, two or three days,’ she says. I can imagine an accompanying shrug and the downward turn of her mouth. ‘And the case name?’

‘It’s not for a case. This is for a family member. You can send the bill directly to me.’

‘D’accord.’

The line goes silent, and I realise it’s because she’s ended the call. When I set my phone down, Tristan is standing in the doorway of our guest room (AKA Saffron’s room).

‘Working?’ he asks.

‘Just looking into that little worm, Tyler.’

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