Match Me If You Can, page 28
‘Geez, woman, will you listen to yourself?’ she shouts.
‘Ouch.’ She comes around my side of the table and sits beside me, capturing me in a side hug.
‘I’m sorry. I just love you and I hate seeing you all… I don’t know…’
‘Discombobulated,’ I offer.
‘Yes, that.’ She rubs my shoulder. ‘Talk to Saskia. If it comes out what’s happened and you haven’t been the one to tell her, that could destroy her faith in you.’
‘I know.’
‘One more thing and you’re not going to like it.’
‘Oh god.’ I leap off the sofa and cross to the window. Consciously steadying my breathing again, I stare out at Teddington, so pretty at dusk with the pink sky overhead and warm yellow lights spilling from people’s homes. ‘Just say it.’
‘Is there any chance that you’re actually in love with him?’ she asks, her voice soft, kind.
It’s my undoing – not just the question but Shaz’s gentle tone, which means she’s back in bestie mode – and all the moments and questions and frustrations and joys from the past few weeks rise to the surface in a surge of uncertainty and fear and…
… and very possibly, love.
Tristan
‘You what?’ Ravi asks through gritted teeth.
I hang my head sheepishly. I deserve Ravi’s wrath – he’s done nothing but support me at every turn since Grandad’s death and I have very likely painted myself into a corner, dragging him with me.
‘Tristan? Did you really tell Nerida you couldn’t marry her?’
I glance in Jacinda’s direction and, in stark contrast to her husband’s reaction, she’s nodding at me encouragingly. ‘Go on,’ she mouths.
‘Yes, I did,’ I say.
Not usually one for dramatics, Ravi throws his hands in the air and bellows, ‘But why?’
‘Because. It didn’t feel right.’
‘What have feelings got to do with any of this?’
‘I—’
‘And more to the point,’ he says, cutting me off, ‘when you have ever given a flying fuck about someone else’s feelings?’
‘Ravi,’ says Jacinda, ‘that’s uncalled for.’
He heaves out an angry sigh and glares at me. ‘Sorry.’ But I can tell that he isn’t.
‘Does Poppy know?’ Jacinda asks me.
‘Not y—’
‘What the hell has Poppy got to do with this?’ Ravi demands, interrupting me again. Then he suddenly gets it. ‘Oh no, no, no, no, no.’ He wanders over to the lounge room window, shaking his head so wildly, it’s cartoonish.
Jacinda approaches me and rubs my arm. ‘He’ll calm down in a minute.’
‘No, I bloody won’t,’ he shouts from the other side of the room.
‘So, Poppy doesn’t know yet?’ Jacinda asks, lowering the volume of her voice.
‘No. I was going to call her after I talked to you two.’
‘Uh-uh. This isn’t a phone call or a text message or an email. You need to tell her in person.’ I chew on my lower lip, not wanting to admit that I know she’s right. ‘You came back from Edinburgh a day early – why?’
‘What do you mean? I didn’t want to stay after…’
‘After Poppy left?’
‘Well, yes, but also after I said goodbye to Nerida. The original plan was to meet her and if all went well, spend the day together, get to know each other. Once I decided that I couldn’t go through with it… What was the point of staying? Sightseeing?’
‘Right. So, you didn’t come back for Poppy?’
‘Well, no.’ She blinks at me disbelievingly, her eyebrows hitched high on her brow. ‘I didn’t. It’s not like that between me and Poppy.’
She clearly disbelieves that even more.
‘So, what’s the plan now, Tris?’ Ravi asks from his perch on the windowsill. His arms are crossed firmly over his chest, his hands in fists, and I just know he would love nothing more than to send one in my direction – a sharp blow to the chin to knock some sense into me.
‘You escape the clutches of the sexual predator in Greece and the woman in search of a baby daddy – both understandable – but when you meet the perfect candidate to play Mrs Fellows for the next two years, you set her loose. So now what?’
‘Now he goes to Poppy and he tells her,’ says Jacinda, trying to be helpful. Only she isn’t (apparently), and Ravi kicks off again.
‘What, so she can line up another trio of potential wives? How are they going to be any better than the first three, considering we only have two weeks to get you married off or all of this was for nothing?’ He runs a hand over his chin, huffing so loudly, any little pigs in the vicinity should make a run for it.
‘You are so dim, husband,’ Jacinda says, crossing to Ravi and encircling his waist with her arms. It has the desired calming effect – most likely the hug rather than the gentle ribbing – and Ravi’s shoulders drop a full inch.
‘How? How am I dim?’ he asks her, the fight having left him.
‘Because Tristan is in love with Poppy.’
‘I—no, that’s not—’ I protest.
‘Oh, Tristan,’ she says, ‘you’re being even more of an idiot than Ravi.’
‘Hey,’ says Ravi, indignant.
But I think, in this instance, she may be right – about all of it.
37
POPPY
As I amble to work, taking the (extremely) long way through the Royal Botanic Gardens and along the Thames, I’m reminded of Shakespeare’s seven stages of man. Today I am the whining schoolboy (schoolgirl, sans satchel) and creeping like a snail. There is every chance this is my last day at the agency. ‘Mondayitis’ has nothing on this feeling.
I try to focus on the packed earth beneath my feet, the sound of the river flowing, the lushness of the greenery that borders the path, still damp from the morning’s dew – even the milky-blue sky peppered with clouds. All very nice if I wanted to pen a poem or post to Instagram, but with so much going on in my life, I’m finding it difficult to have a #gratefulheart or #gratitudeattitude.
At least Dad is okay. Mum messaged overnight to say that he was back out on the tractor yesterday – against doctor’s orders but my dad has never followed those, so it’s a sign that he’s already back to his old self. The news is also a relief for an only daughter plagued with guilt at not being close by when her parents needed her.
Thoughts of home, fraught as they may be, are a good distraction from the day ahead. If Saskia does fire me for conduct unbecoming an agent, I should book a flight on the next plane home where I can wallow in a hefty dose of parental love, (literally) get my hands dirty, and bask in Tassie’s springtime weather. Maybe I’ll move home – hang out my own shingle. I could try to convince Shaz to come with me and we could open a practice together.
‘Hah!’ I’m deep in the realm of fantasy now.
I arrive at our building just before nine and take the lift. Our office is only three floors up, but I don’t want to arrive huffing and puffing from the stairs. On the (too) short ride up, I take soothing breaths, tricking my body into calming (the hell) down while cortisol and adrenalin course through my veins. ‘You’ve got this, Poppy,’ I murmur to myself.
Only, when I leave the lift and push open the agency’s door, something’s amiss.
I’ve walked into some sort of standoff – literally everyone in the office standing stock still, all eyes locked onto a wild-eyed woman of about thirty who’s brandishing a sheaf of papers. I know the pen is supposed to be mightier than the sword, but enough to hold an office full of people hostage?
Oh, this might be the infamous leak – in the flesh!
I sidle up to Anita, who’s around this side of the reception desk, and whisper, ‘What’s going on?’
‘She’s demanding to see Ursula.’
‘Where’s Ursula?’
‘Not here yet.’
‘And who is she?’
‘Unclear.’
‘Okay.’ So, Anita knows only slightly more than I do.
Just then, Ursula enters in a cloud of Chanel N°5, cheerily calling, ‘Good morning!’ She stops by my side. ‘Oh. What’s all this then?’ she asks the room, casting her eyes about.
‘Are you Ursula Frayne?’ demands the woman.
‘Er, yes. Can I help you?’
‘I think you’ll find you’ve done enough!’ shouts the woman, and she flings the sheaf of unbound papers towards us. Only they miss their mark – that whole ‘unbound’ thing – and dozens of pages rain down on me, Ursula, and Anita as though we’ve just won Britain’s Got Talent.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Who are you?’ Ursula inquires, seemingly unfazed.
I must say, her manners are on point. I’m not sure I could be as calm in this situation. Actually, I’m positive I wouldn’t be, because my heart is racing and that cocktail of stress hormones has kicked into high gear. Anita stoops beside me and starts collecting paper off the floor.
The woman, totally fixated on Ursula, crosses the office as if some unseen director has activated slow-motion mode. She stops about a foot away from us, towering over Ursula in her extremely high heels. If this woman resorts to violence, I’m prepared to throw myself in front of Ursula. I may not know her exact age – none of us do – but she’s older and frailer than me and I will willingly take one for the team.
The woman leans in close and now it’s duelling fragrances as her spicy perfume clashes with Chanel. ‘You don’t recognise me?’ she asks Ursula, getting right up in her face.
‘I… You seem familiar, yes, but I—’
‘I,’ the woman says dramatically, ‘am the wife of Frederick Carruthers and you ruined my life.’
Wow. Bravo. Great line. Great delivery. If this were a show on the West End, the curtain would drop now and the audience would be buzzing all the way through interval.
‘I’m sorry? How have I ruined your life?’
This question seems to baffle the woman and the atmosphere is charged with anticipation, the entire agency hanging on her every word. But before she can respond, Saskia steps forward.
‘Ursula, Mrs Carruthers, how about we discuss this matter in my office?’
A sensible question and it appears to break the spell, the tense mood in the office dissipating in an instant. Suddenly there’s a flurry of activity as everyone reanimates and returns to what they were doing.
Even Mrs Carruthers appears to see sense in the request. ‘Yes, all right,’ she says, lifting her gaze and looking around.
‘This way.’ Saskia flicks an indecipherable glance at Ursula and nods slightly at Paloma, and all four head into her office. She closes the door behind them, then goes to the window where she shuts the blinds. I exhale loudly.
‘Exciting way to start a Monday, eh?’ asks Anita who is still scooping up papers. I help her, catching sight of the agency’s letterhead. Perusing the pages in my hand, I realise it’s one of our contracts. Anita holds out her hand. ‘I’ll take those, put them back in order.’ I hand her what I’ve collected then leave her to it.
Huddled next to Freya’s desk with George and Freya, Nasrin frantically waves me over.
‘Is she the leak?’ I ask her.
‘That’s what we’re trying to figure out,’ she says, nose in her tablet.
‘Very dramatic,’ says George dramatically, clearly unaware of the irony.
‘What do you suppose happened?’ asks Freya. ‘She says Ursula ruined her life.’
‘Got it!’ Nasrin declares. ‘Look.’
She spins the tablet around so we can see. It’s a photograph of Mrs Carruthers from at least five years ago.
‘She was one of our potentials – Lila Brown.’ Nasrin turns the tablet back around and taps the screen vigorously. ‘Says here that she was matched with Frederick Carruthers, born 1967, six years ago. They married within two months. Hmm.’
‘So, what’s she got her knickers in a twist about then?’ asks George.
‘Good question,’ I say, because as usual I have nothing more insightful to add. Why is it that every time we discuss the threat to the agency, I’m about as useful as a chocolate teapot? Maybe because it’s too terrifying to bear, thinking of the agency imploding and all of us losing our jobs. On that…
Freya shoos us away so she can start work, and the others disperse, Nasrin promising to keep us posted if she figures out anything else. I go to my desk where I plonk onto my office chair. Mrs Carruthers isn’t the only threat to my position at the agency. I was supposed to come clean to Saskia this morning. I had a(nother) sleepless night, thinking through dozens of permutations about how the conversation would – and could – go. And I’ve been gearing myself up all morning, doing my best to mentally and emotionally prepare for the worst.
Now I’m on hold.
I stow my handbag in my bottom drawer and go to the kitchen, where I flick on the kettle. Maybe tea will help take the edge off. I’m staring into space, half-listening to the kettle revving up, when a familiar voice cuts through my fugue.
‘Good morning, I’m here to see Poppy Dean.’
Tristan?
Tristan
‘Good morning, Mr Fellows,’ the receptionist replies. ‘Is Poppy expecting you?’
‘Er, no.’
She purses her lips slightly, then checks her computer. It only takes seconds, but my nerves intensify.
‘I can come back later,’ I say, hoping I don’t have to.
‘She hasn’t anything scheduled, other than the morning staff meeting at nine thirty.’
‘Oh good. Look, would you mind terribly keeping these at your desk – just for now?’ From behind my back, I produce an enormous bouquet of sunflowers – so large that when I hand them over, they’re nearly as tall as she is.
She takes the flowers and places them on a bench behind her, giving nothing away with her professional demeaner – perhaps nervous men with large bouquets show up here all the time. Turning to me, she gives the kind of smile receptionists reserve for clients, skirts the edges of the high-fronted reception desk, and calls over her shoulder, ‘This way please, Mr Fellows.’ She appears to be leading me towards the meeting room that overlooks the Thames.
But before we get there, however, I’m stopped in my tracks. There she is. Poppy.
‘Tristan?’ she says, half-inquiry, half-greeting. She’s wearing her usual work ‘uniform’ of a linen dress, this one in dark green, and her hair is pulled back in her signature low ponytail. She does look somewhat tired, like she’s had a trying time of late and deserves a holiday, but to me, she is absolutely beautiful.
‘Hello, Poppy.’
‘Poppy,’ says the receptionist, ‘I was showing Mr Fellows to meeting room one.’
‘No need, Anita. I’ll take it from here,’ says Poppy.
Anita side-eyes me curiously as she returns to reception.
‘What can I do for you, Tristan?’ Poppy asks.
I become aware that we have an audience: Poppy’s colleagues pretending to work but clearly listening in. One, the man, looks like he’s about to break out the popcorn, which compounds my nerves. I fix my eyes on Poppy, who watches me expectantly. But the words I’ve rehearsed all night, and on the way here, fly from my head. I stare at her blankly.
‘We’ll forward the final invoice,’ she says. ‘There was no need to come in.’
‘Final? Oh, er…’
Of course. She has no idea that I shut things down with Nerida – she’s not a clairvoyant.
‘Tristan?’ She steps closer. ‘You met with Nerida, right?’
I know exactly where’s she’s going with this and now would be the time to tell her in a forthright manner that I am not engaged to Nerida. But the words… Where are my damned words?
‘Er, yes. I met her for breakfast.’
‘Yes, that was the plan,’ she says, as though I’m a moron. She may not be far off the mark – this is certainly not going how I’d hoped. ‘So?’
‘So?’
‘How did you leave things with Nerida?’ she asks, her neutral expression belying the edge of frustration in her voice.
The man, her colleague, pops out of his seat, abandoning any pretence that he wasn’t listening in.
Focus on Poppy, I tell myself.
I inhale deeply then say, ‘It didn’t work out with Nerida. We’re not getting married.’
‘What?!’ It’s difficult to divine whether Poppy is more angry, frustrated, or surprised – perhaps it’s equal measures of all three.
I raise my hands, palms towards her, and she scowls at them – rightly, as I am not placating a barking dog. I drop my hands, wishing for all the world I had Ravi’s eloquence. This is going appallingly.
‘Tristan…’ Now Poppy appears to have lost her words, and her chin drops to her chest while she exhales heavily. I watch and wait, fearful that if I make the wrong move here, it will all be over.
Eventually, she lifts her chin and looks me square in the eye. ‘So, you didn’t like Nerida?’ she asks calmly.
‘No, I did. She’s a lovely woman.’
Confusion flashes across Poppy’s face, then she visibly settles on a realisation. ‘Oh, so, Nerida didn’t like you then?’
‘No, she did. I think she did. We seemed to get along just fine.’
‘Okay.’ The crease between her eyebrows deepens. ‘So, she didn’t want to move to London?’
‘Actually, funny story, she’s recently been offered a job down here.’
Poppy’s mouth drops open. Oh, why can’t I just say it? Why am I torturing us both?
‘Then what?’ she demands. ‘What happened?’
‘It’s just—’
‘Tristan, this is the most baffling – no, infuriating – conversation, and this morning already sucks dogs’ balls with everything else that’s going on, and now you’re here days before your deadline, having met a “lovely woman”’ – she puts the words in air quotes – ‘who apparently wasn’t completely put off by you, even though you are impossible – and you ARE NOT ENGAGED!’
