Page 29 of Someone Like You

‘I know. And thank you,’ she says, squeezing my arm.

‘Yeah, yeah. Maybe save your thanks for when Raff is loved up with his new girlfriend.’

We reach the train station and I send Freya off with a hug and her promising to text Poppy as soon as she gets on the train.

I don’t live far from here, so I’ll walk the rest of the way, wishing the entire time I’d Ubered straight home from Fortunella – it’sfreezing. I often get teased about how much I hate the cold. ‘But you’re from Seattle – doesn’t it rain there nine months a year?’ people ask.

No, actually, it doesn’t. The skies aregreyaround nine months ayear – with a respite over the ten or so weeks of summer – but even when it’s raining, it doesn’t get as cold as it does here.

Well, not usually. Ithassnowed in Seattle, which shuts down nearly everything. Seattle isnotbuilt for snow – there are hardly any snow ploughs and far too many steep hills. I’ve seen a bus filled with people spin all the way from the top of Queen Anne hill to the bottom. Terrifying. But other than a few freak snowstorms – ‘Snowpocalypse’ of 2019, as one ‘clever’ weather reporter dubbed it, comes to mind – the winters are reasonably mild compared with London.

All these thoughts of home make me miss Mom and Dad more acutely than usual. We often talk on Sundays – my evening and their morning. I’ll give them a call later.

As I turn down my street, my phone alerts me to a text and I take it out of my coat pocket. Shocker, it’s Freya:

Poppy says to come to the agency tomorrow at 5 for a screening. xx

A screening? What the hell is she talking about? I send a reply to ask, but I don’t hear back. What in god’s name have I said yes to?

8

GABY

‘Gaby, do you have a moment?’ asks my colleague, Lorrie – fifty-something (but doesn’t look it) and divorced (and deliriously happy about it). She and Quinn – twenty-four and semi-fresh out of college – who’s also on my team, hover at the edge of my cubicle.

‘Ahh, sure, what’s up?’

They exchange a glance, then Quinn jerks his head in the direction of the nearest meeting room. ‘I’ve booked Wordsworth,’ he says. Some ‘genius’ named all the meeting and conference rooms after dead (entirely male) poets.

‘Okaaay,’ I drawl, intrigued. I get up from my desk and follow them into Wordsworth, then Lorrie closes the door behind us and rounds on me.

‘Is Raff leaving?’ she asks – point blank, no preamble.

‘Oh, umm…’

‘He’s been in with Claire for an age,’ Quinn informs me in a dramatic whisper. ‘And it doesn’t look like a very “market-y” discussion, if you know what I mean?’

‘I really don’t,’ I reply.

‘Gaby, please be straight with us,’ says Lorrie.

‘We love Raff,’ adds Quinn.

‘I know. I love him too.’

They stare at me. ‘Well?’ Lorrie urges.

I sigh. ‘It’s not my news to share.’

‘Gaby!’ they cry in unison.

‘Shh.’ I glance towards the glass wall but fortunately, no one on our floor seems to have heard their cries.

Just then, I see Raff leaving Claire’s office and I swing open the meeting room door. ‘Hey, Raff, can I steal you for a sec?’ I ask casually. He changes direction and comes our way.

‘Hello,’ he says, looking between us. I signal for him to close the door behind him. He does, regarding us warily. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You tell us, Rafferty,’ says Lorrie, her eyes narrowing.

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