Page 63 of Someone Like You

‘I wasn’t going to tell Fr— Never mind.’

‘Just wait until you hear from me, okay?’

‘Okay. Poppy, I really am sorry.’

‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ she reassures me, but I don’t agree. I should have seen it sooner. How did I not see it sooner? ‘Hang in there and I’ll be in touch,’ she says.

‘Thanks,’ I say glumly, and we end the call.

Hang in there. Buthow?

16

POPPY

I end the call and set my phone on my desk, then rock back in my chair. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger,’ I mutter to myself.

I should know better than to say anything out loud that I don’t want George to hear, and he’s at my desk in an instant.

‘Dish.’

‘You’re such a gossip,’ I say, shaking my head at him.

‘OrI’m simply a concerned colleague and am offering my services.’ He bows dramatically as if he’s in a Regency romance.

I cast a glance at Freya. She seems immersed in a potential’s profile, but even so, this isn’t something I can discuss within cooee of her.

‘Come for a walk?’ I ask George as I stand and put on my coat. ‘I need a coffee,’ I say a little louder, establishing a cover story for our sudden departure from the office – even though I rarely have coffee this late in the day.

‘If you’re buying, always,’ George replies.

A few minutes later, we enter the café on the ground floor of our building. It’s busier than usual, like most places in the lead up to Christmas. Mariah is singing her ubiquitous song and there istinsel wrapped around everything. Above the counter, there’s a well-loved sign that’s missing one of the Rs and reads, ‘MER Y CHRISTMAS!’

We queue up, George chatting about a Christmas party he’s going to on the weekend with a guy he’s seeing, which reminds me that Tristan and I have his mother’s party this weekend, something I’m dreading. It will be Tris and me drowning in a sea of Helen’s posh friends, making polite conversation until it’s a suitable time to leave.

At least if Helen asks us about grandchildren again, we might have a different answer for her. That is, if I ever broach the topic with my husband. But there are too many other things on my mind right now.

Coffees in hand – a cappuccino for George and a flat white for me – we head to the back of the café and squeeze around a tiny table, perching on even tinier stools.

‘Nowdish,’ says George.

I recount my earlier conversation with Julia, in which she told me it went well and that she really likes Raff, then Freya’s update that Raff feels the same way about Julia.

‘Wait, I’m confused. The match is made, so what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is what Gaby told me on the phone just now.’

As I explain Gaby’s realisation – and my part in it – George’s eyes get larger, and his jaw drops dramatically. He looks absurd and I’d laugh if this weren’t so serious.

‘So, yeah…’ I say, finally taking a sip of my flat white. Only with how unsettled I am, it curdles the second it hits my stomach and I push it aside.

‘Blimey, thatisa sticky situation,’ George concludes.

‘Yeah.’

‘And on top of all that, you don’t know how to break it to Freya because she didn’t believe you the first time – about Gaby, I mean.’

‘Exactly. Wait, I never told you that.’

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