Page 49 of Someone Like You

He throws his head back and heaves out a sigh of surrender. ‘Fine!’

‘Thank you!’ I leap up to run around the conference table and wrap my arms around his shoulders in a hug. He pats my arm, his head shaking. I can tell he’s still wary, but at least I’ve kept my promise to Poppy about getting him to the day spa.

There’s a knock at the door and a colleague pokes her head in as three others huddle behind her.

‘Sorry, but we’ve got Byron booked from one.’

‘That’s my fault,’ I say, straightening.

Raff and I vacate the meeting room and go back to our respective desks. I text Poppy and Freya to tell them The Pamper Ploy is a go!

Poppy texts back almost immediately.

Cute name. Better trademark that. *winky face*

With Poppy briefing Ava, all I have to do before Saturday is mentally prepare for ultimate wing-womaning.

Whatever that is.

‘I could get used to this,’ says Raff, stretching out on a cushioned lounger.

We’re only an hour in, but we’ve already been in the hot tubandthe infrared sauna. Then we (stupidly and literally) took the plunge in the freezing-cold plunge pool. I lasted approximately 3.2 seconds before I shot up the ladder and stood on the platform shivering. Without waiting for Raff, who was laughing at my hasty retreat, I beelined for the hot tub and immersed myself in the steaming water up to my neck until I thawed out.

Plunge pools are hardcore, and I am anything but.

Now we have free time until our massages in thirty minutes. At first, the staff offered us a couples massage – hilarious! – but we set them straight and told them we’re just friends.

An older woman enters the relaxation room wearing the spa’s uniform. It looks like pyjamas and I’m a little envious she gets to dress so comfortably for work. She carries herself as if she does yoga three times a day, her movement graceful and fluid, and she sets down a tray on the table between us.

‘Herbal tea,’ she says. ‘Lavender – good for relaxation,’ she adds with a smile.

She leaves us to pour from a small glass tea pot into two teeny pottery cups. They remind me of the shot glasses I once brought back from Mexico.

‘Shall I be mother?’ asks Raff, reaching for the pot.

‘Moth— Oh, right,’ I say, remembering what that expression means. I’ve only heard it a few times and never once from anyone under the age of sixty.

Raff hands me one of the cups and I sniff. It smells incredible.But when I take a sip, it requires all my willpower not to spit it out. Soap. It tastes exactly like soap. I swallow and glance over at Raff, who’s making the same face as me.

‘Tea shouldn’t taste like potpourri,’ he says, setting the cup down.

‘I was going to say “soap”,’ I say, putting mine next to his.

‘The thing is,’ he tells me intently, ‘floral notes can be wondrous in food – and in this case, tea. But you cannot overdo it.’

‘I’m onto you. You’re just quoting Vicky Harrington,’ I say, referring to one of the judges onBritain’s Best Baker.

‘That’sDameVicky to you,’ he says with a smile.

‘She flirted with you, you know.’

His eyes widen. ‘She never did any such thing. She was only being friendly.’

My ass, she was, I think. She may be in her seventies but Dame Vicky always had a flirty smile for Raff. She also touched his forearm a lot and said ‘Oh, Rafferty’ so often, we should have turned it into a drinking game.

I snigger to myself. Unknowingly, he’s just warranted me being his wing-woman.

I check the clock – a large disc of blond wood that blends in perfectly with the wall. We’re only a few minutes off when Ava is supposed to arr?—

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