The 24 Hour Dating Agency, page 1
Also by Mary Jayne Baker
Love at First Fight
The Never Have I Ever Club
A Question of Us
The Perfect Fit
A Bicycle Made For Two
The Runaway Bride
Meet Me at the Lighthouse
THE 24-HOUR DATING AGENCY
Mary Jayne Baker
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
First published in the UK in 2022 by Head of Zeus Ltd, part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.
Copyright © Mary Jayne Baker, 2022
The moral right of Mary Jayne Baker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (PB): 9781803282893
ISBN (E): 9781803282879
Cover design: Sophie Melissa
Head of Zeus Ltd
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London EC1R 4RG
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Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
An Invitation from the Publisher
To my best little writing buddy, Millie the border collie pup, without whose input this book would have been finished in half the time…
1
Saffie fixed on a professional smile as she accepted a cup of tea from Councillor Jameson, the newest elected member of Braybrook Town Council.
‘Thanks for seeing me, Councillor.’
‘Please, call me Daphne.’ The councillor’s businesslike expression flickered briefly into warmth as she took a seat behind her desk. ‘Now, what publication did you say you were with? Lifestyle North? I’ve had so many requests for interviews since my election that I’m finding it hard to keep track.’
‘No.’ Saffie fumbled with her Dictaphone. ‘It’s, um… The Throstle’s Nest.’
‘Curious name. Is that a newspaper or a magazine?’ Daphne groaned. ‘Please don’t tell me it’s a blog. I specifically told my assistant I wouldn’t waste my time on websites. Nobody reads community news blogs.’
‘No, we’re print. Officially I’m supposed to describe us as a periodical.’
‘How is that different to a magazine?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. Fran Cook, our company director, has the idea that if we refer to ourselves as a periodical then we’re more likely to be taken seriously.’
‘Is that something you struggle with?’
‘Oh, not at all,’ Saffie lied. ‘We’re one of the oldest magazines in the country, and still family-owned. Fran’s father founded us back in 1939, and his great-granddaughter is the current editor. We’ve just got a reputation for being… unusual, I suppose. Quirky.’
Once when she was out on a date, Saffie had described the publication she worked for as follows: ‘You know that bit at the end of the news where there’s a waterskiing squirrel or whatever? Well, The Throstler is one hundred pages of waterskiing squirrels.’
The councillor looked Saffie up and down, taking in her denim dungarees, her butterfly wrist tattoo and blue hair. ‘You seem to encapsulate that profile yourself, Miss Ackroyd. No offence, but for this interview I would have expected a writer who was rather more…’
‘Conservative?’ Saffie asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Mature, I was going to say. Someone with experience of the political world.’
Saffie wondered whether to confess that she was, in fact, The Throstler’s only writer (well, aside from Tamara, her perpetually flustered editor). She was also its only sub-editor, webmaster, photocopier repair person and wielder of the official company spatula, which they used to jam the door closed on the ancient office microwave.
‘Don’t be fooled by the hair. I’m older than I look,’ she said instead, flashing Daphne a tight smile.
Honestly, politicians. Saffie had experienced this attitude before. She was thirty-five years old; she was an NQJ-qualified journalist and she’d been doing this job for the best part of a decade, but if you were under fifty and dressed in anything that wasn’t tweed, they treated you like you were doing an interview for the school paper.
‘What is a throstle?’ Daphne asked. ‘Some sort of bird?’
‘It’s an old word for a thrush,’ Saffie said as she flicked through her notebook.
‘And you only cover Braybrook?’
‘Yes, but we’ve got subscribers from all over the world. Our readers call us The Throstler for short; sort of a nickname.’
‘Why would people overseas want to read a magazine about a small town in North Yorkshire?’
‘I suppose because… there’s nothing else quite like us.’ Saffie waggled her Dictaphone. ‘You don’t mind if I record this, do you?’
Daphne nodded graciously. ‘Go ahead.’
Saffie turned the device on and scanned her list of questions.
‘You’ll want to talk about the pedestrianisation of Braybrook high street, I suppose,’ Daphne said. ‘It’s been generating a lot of debate.’
‘Um, no.’ Saffie coughed. ‘I mean, yes, I’ll be asking about that in due course. But first I wanted to talk about, um… about Glondu.’
Daphne frowned. ‘Glondu?’
‘Yes,’ Saffie said, seriously hoping she’d been sent to interview the right councillor. If not then she was about to make a proper tit of herself. ‘Your husband?’
‘Ah. You heard about that, did you?’ Daphne sipped her tea calmly. ‘Well, I try not to let my work and home lives mix. It seems to unnerve people when I tell them I’m married to an extra-terrestrial being from the Kepler star system. Suffice to say, Glon’s been very supportive of my plans for the town centre.’
*
Saffie was at her desk transcribing her interview notes when Milo waltzed into the office, late as usual. He flung himself into his swivel chair and stretched his long legs out on the desk.
‘Another exciting day at The Quibbler,’ he said, yawning. ‘How was the little green councillor from Mars, Saf?’
‘Actually, she’s from Leeds. It’s her husband who’s from Mars. Well, Kepler-62.’ Saffie glanced at Tamara’s office door. ‘And you’d better not let your sister hear you calling us The Quibbler again.’
‘She’s not in yet, she’s taking Willow to the dentist’s. Anyway, it’s a compliment. It’s like I always say: we’re not weird. We’re cult.’
‘All that means is that only a handful of oddballs like us.’
‘Yeah, but they’re our oddballs.’ Milo pushed his glasses up and went to peer over Saffie’s shoulder at her notes. ‘Was this Councillor Jameson as barmy as she sounds?’
‘Actually she seemed quite with it, aside from the obvious.’
‘I still can’t believe she got elected. It’s like when Hartlepool voted in that bloke in the monkey suit as mayor.’
‘He was a novelty candidate though,’ Saffie pointed out. ‘He didn’t think he was an actual monkey, did he? Whereas Councillor Jameson very much believes she’s married to an alien from Kepler-62.’
‘Why do people vote for these guys?’
Saffie shrugged. ‘If the news has taught us anything, it’s that a high percentage of our public servants are narcissistic Machiavellian pricks who’d deport their own granny if they thought it’d buy them a few votes. Is Daphne Jameson’s belief in close encounters of the sexy kind so much worse? As long as their elected representatives get the potholes filled in, I suppose people will put up with a certain amount of eccentricity.’
‘Yeah, but there’s eccentricity and there’s believing you’re married to an alien from Kepler-62.’
‘Maybe she really is married to an alien from Kepler-62; you never know. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.’
Milo snorted. ‘You what? I thought you were the office sceptic.’
Saffie massaged her temples. ‘I blame all those pieces I’ve been writing for the “Stranger Than Fiction” page. You can’t help wondering if there might be something in these things.’
‘Shame we couldn’t get the exclusive on Councillor Jameson,’ Milo said. ‘This has got Throstler all over it. Did you meet Kal-El or whatever he’s called?’
‘Glondu,’ Saffie said. ‘No, he lives on Kepler-62. Apparently he just pops back every once in a while for a home-cooked meal and a cheeky anal probe with the missus.’ She nodded to the red beanie her best friend was wearing. ‘What’s with the hat? You got a bald spot developing?’
He shrugged. ‘Just keeping my ears cosy.’
‘Milo, it’s May. It’s twenty degrees outside.’
He gestured to her coffee mug. ‘My turn to get the brews in, isn’t it?’
‘OK, that was the least subtle subject-change ever.’ She pointed at his head. ‘Come on, get it off. I’ve got a tenner that says bald spot.’
‘Saffie, there is no bald spot.’
‘Yeah? Prove it then, and win yourself a tenner.’
‘I don’t need to prove it. I’m your oldest friend, you should take it on trust.’
She nudged him. ‘Hey, I’ve got a Sharpie in my desk. Want me to colour it in for you before Tam gets in?’
‘Saf, I swear to you I am not going bald,’ Milo said, putting one hand on his heart. ‘I’ll get the kettle on.’
Saffie carried on typing up her notes while a still be-beanied Milo went to the kitchen area at the back of their office to make drinks. He came back with three mugs steaming on a tray.
‘One each for us, one for Tam when she gets here,’ he said. ‘It’s nice not having the boss in so we can catch up on gossip, isn’t it?’
‘She’s not your boss. She’s my boss. She’s your sister.’
‘She’s my big sister. That automatically makes her the boss of me. At least, she thinks it does.’ Milo took a sip of the sickly-smelling herbal concoction that had been his regular drink ever since he’d started going out with West. ‘That’s why Fran trained Tamara up as editor. I’m too much of a sexily irresponsible, devil-may-care scamp to be trusted with the precious family business.’
‘You mean you’re a lazy git.’
‘Oi. Graphic design’s a tough job.’
‘Not the way you do it.’ Saffie nodded to the feature notes on her monitor. ‘Where in the running order do you think this ought to go? The “Believe It or Not” page or the local news roundup?’
‘Definitely “Believe It or Not”. As interesting as Councillor Jameson’s pedestrianisation plans might be to the people of Braybrook, it’s her old man who’s the real hook.’
Saffie sucked the end of her biro. ‘No. No, I think we should put it with the news: Jameson’ll like that. Does no harm to keep her sweet in case we want to do a follow-up. And what do you think of this for a strap? “I married ET – but when it comes to local issues, I won’t be phoning home.”’
‘Christ, that’s National Enquirer-level cheesy.’ Milo sipped his drink and pulled a face at the taste. ‘Tam’s going to love it.’
Saffie sighed. ‘I’m not exactly rivalling Jeremy Paxman here, am I? Even Councillor Jameson struggled to take me seriously, and she spends her evenings necking with goggly-eyed spacemen.’
‘Why didn’t she take you seriously?’
‘Oh, she was all “are you sure you’re mature enough to do this interview?”, just like when I interviewed that MP last year.’ Saffie ran her fingers through her blue locks. ‘Maybe I should change my hair colour. Although I’m not sure “mature” isn’t actually a euphemism for “male”.’
‘You’ll never change your hair to anything Councillor Jameson’s going to approve of,’ Milo said. ‘You’ve been murdering it with synthetic dyes for so long, I can’t even remember what colour it is naturally. Still no luck pitching the freelance feature that’s going to propel you into the big time?’
‘Just a load more rejections for my already bulging collection,’ Saffie said gloomily. ‘Whenever I dig up a really juicy story, I always get scooped before I can sell it.’
‘The country’s been stricken by a plague of freelance feature writers, that’s why,’ Milo said. ‘Ex-national press, a lot of them.’
‘Like your cousin wossname – the one your grandmother’s always raving about? He used to be on one of the nationals, didn’t he?’
‘Russell, yeah. Lost his job due to downsizing, started his own regional lifestyle magazine with his missus, now it’s the second biggest-selling publication in Yorkshire. No wonder he’s Fran’s golden boy.’ Milo sloshed his drink around, showing no intention of taking a further sip. ‘That just goes to show it can be done, Saf.’
‘If you’re him it can, sure. I’ve never worked for a national paper. I’ve only worked at this place.’ Saffie cast a morose look at a wall display of past Throstle’s Nest covers, with their twee chocolate-box illustrations of local scenes. ‘You’re right, Milo. Mags and newspapers all over the country are laying people off, and the first thing these unemployed journos do is buy themselves a fedora with a bit of paper saying “PRESS” in the hatband and start scouring the streets for stories. Print’s dying in the online era and there are hundreds of experienced, talented freelancers fighting each other for what few paid gigs are out there. Where the hell does a glorified Newsround Presspacker like me fit in?’
‘Now, come on.’ Milo rested a soothing hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re a great writer.’
‘What does it matter how good I am, if I’m competing with freelancers who came from The Times or the Guardian? All I’ve got under my belt is a decade’s worth of Throstler features about batty town councillors, Yorkshire’s tallest octogenarian and local farmers who’ve trained their cockerels to herd sheep. I’m a joke, Mile.’
‘No you’re not, you’re a hard-working, talented young woman with a portfolio that shows she can write about anything. Your time will come, Saffie Ackroyd.’
‘At the rate my features are getting rejected, the editors of the world would beg to differ. But thanks for trying to chivvy me up.’ She nodded to his stinky tea. ‘Your rhubarb infusion’s going cold.’
‘Is it? Thank God for that.’
‘Milo, just have a coffee. I promise I won’t tell West on you.’
Milo sank back into his chair. ‘But I’ll know I drank it, won’t I? And if I know, he’ll know. He can always tell when I’m hiding something. He can probably smell my unaligned chakras.’
‘Then tell him. He’s your boyfriend, not your mum.’
‘I’ll only get his lecture about my body being a temple. He might even make me do extra yoga as a penance. No thanks.’
‘Look, if you and West have got such different views on how you want to live your lives, why not call it a day?’
‘Saffie, I’m thirty-six years old, I can count the number of long-term relationships I’ve had on the fingers of… on three fingers, and I’ve been through four depressing breakups in the last six months.’ Milo took a sip of the tepid rhubarb infusion and wrinkled his nose. ‘My inner romantic might hate me for saying it, but there comes a time in every thirtysomething’s life when “finding Mr Right” has to give way to “settling for Mr OK”.’
Saffie grimaced. ‘That’s a depressing thought. I’m only four months younger than you.’
‘I know you’re sick of the dating game. The creeps, the bores, the endless disappointments. Don’t you ever wish you could just rest?’
‘Well yeah, but I’m not going to commit to life with the wrong person just because I’m tired. I only narrowly avoided making that mistake with Kieran. I’d rather stay single, thanks.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t,’ Milo said firmly. ‘If there’s any possibility of not dying alone, then I’m going to jump on that. Even if it does mean a lifetime of rhubarb infusions and arthouse all-female performances of Antigone.’
Saffie pulled a face. ‘West’s making you go see Antigone?’
Milo nodded miserably. ‘In the original Greek.’
‘Ouch.’
Tamara came in, wearing an outfit that was a far cry from her usual skirt and blouse combo. She was in a faded pink tracksuit, her unbrushed hair pushed into a hasty bun, no make-up on and scowling like someone had just run over her cat. Her gaze skimmed over them to settle on the cup of coffee perched on the edge of Milo’s desk.
