‘Hope?’ I try. Suki stares at my chin, unblinking. ‘Style tips? Um, a smile?’ I crouch down a little lower. My glute muscles have gotten so much stronger in the four years I’ve been working here. ‘Hope?’ Damn it, I think I said ‘hope’ already.
Straight out of university, I worked for a music magazine. I’d have to wait backstage after gigs to try and bag interviews with bands. I learnt how to thrust myself forward, find just the right question for musicians who had little time for me. I only lasted nine months before my editor tired of my ‘retro taste in music’ and replaced me with a nineteen-year-old synth metal fan, but it was long enough to learn how to think on my feet and to swallow my nerves. Yet here, regardless of competence, something about Suki renders most of us incapable of forming intelligent sentences.
‘We send them away with stuff, Laura. Suck them in with dreams, grab them with targeted ads, and send them away with stuff! Our followers might not have perfect lives, but they can have a new luxury mattress, a stylish holiday, the exact bronze light-fitting that Kylie Minogue has in her Melbourne kitchen-cum-diner. With our help, they can buy a fragment of perfection.’
I nod, holding my chin between thumb and forefinger, attempting to look as though I’m studiously digesting Suki’s wisdom. Personally, I feel the world could do with a little less stuff, but no one’s going to pay me to peddle my ‘reuse, recycle’ philosophy in this room. I have a staff job here, which, as a journalist, is almost impossible to come by. So, I count myself lucky and try to keep my head and my eyeline down.
‘And so, we find ourselves with a problem.’ Suki turns her attention back to the room and resumes pacing slowly as she talks. ‘In the current climate, no one wants to buy stuff. People are learning they can live with less. They can work less, earn less, buy less, do less, travel less – talk more, read more, enjoy the little things, the free things. Do they need another handbag, another outfit, another upgrade to their phone? Do they need sushi delivered at eleven p.m., Jazzercise classes, and BB cream for the cellulite no one ever sees? Do they, Laura?’
‘Quite,’ I say, nodding solemnly. Ha! I can’t be wrong if I say ‘quite’.
An invisible fishhook pulls at the edge of Suki’s lip before she whips her face back around to face the room.
‘So, where does that leave us, as purveyors of stuff?’ Suki slaps the wall, rounding off her oratorical frenzy. ‘What do people want when life gets tough?’
Her eyes dart back to me.
‘Um, sex?’
Everyone laughs. I have sex on the brain today. I blame the hot fireman and feisty redhead.
‘Love,’ Suki corrects me. ‘Love is what makes people feel good when the world outside feels bleak. Our “How Did You Meet?” and proposal pages are consistently the most clicked-on sections of the site. If we can lure in the numbers with love, we might just be able to keep the product partnerships paying all our wages.’
Suki takes a pen from the table and starts scribbling on the white board behind her, the pen squeaking like a mouse being garrotted. She writes, ‘Love = Views, Views = Sales, Sales = Jobs’.
‘We need clicks, we need content that warms people’s hearts.’ Her voice takes on a sombre tone. ‘The reality is, if site traffic is down again this month, we won’t be able to sustain a team of this size.’ Murmurs of concern circle the room; people glance at each other nervously. We already lost three colleagues in January. Suki’s face softens, her eyes full of compassion as she holds out her hands to the room, ‘And you know you are all like family to me.’
Her ability to flit from tyrannical to faux maternal in the space of a sentence is disturbing.
‘So, what unmissable content have you got for me – Vanya?’ Suki releases me from standing with a finger click, and my glute muscles sing in relief. Now it’s Vanya’s turn, and I know for a fact she was out on a Tinder date until 3 a.m. last night, and that she has a killer hangover to show for it. Vee and I rent a place together near Queen’s Park. I put in a good word for her here last year after the literary journal she worked for went under. There are only a few people I could embrace into both my home and my work life, and Vee is definitely one of them.
‘Well, I had a couple of article ideas.’ Beads of sweat dot Vanya’s upper lip, and her usually smooth black bob has sprung into frizz on one side. Suki clicks her fingers, indicating she should fire off her ideas. ‘Bed linen to save your marriage.’ Suki shakes her head. ‘Kitchen appliances you didn’t know you needed.’ Silence. ‘Working-from-home wardrobes of the rich and famous.’ Suki grimaces. Vanya’s voice gets thinner; she pulls her arms up into her sleeves as though trying to hide inside her top. ‘Top ten lipstick shades to make your face look younger, happier … wiser?’
‘Thank you, Vanya,’ Suki says in her ‘quiet, disappointed’ voice. ‘Byron? Do you have anything substantial to share?’
‘Well – I, er – I have a story that could work for Laura’s “How Did You Meet?” segment,’ Byron says, pressing his grey moustache between thumb and forefinger as he stands up, ‘an elderly couple who met at a funeral home. They were both burying their other halves, and it’s a funny story because—’
‘There is nothing sexy about funeral homes, Byron – let’s keep things young and lively, yes. No one likes reading about old people.’ Suki claps her hands.
‘Laura, tell me you have something original. What happened to that When Harry Met Sally… story you pitched the other week?’
‘Ah yes, the couple in America who met on a road trip who are genuinely called Harry and Sally.’
‘I liked the sound of that,’ Suki presses her hands together.
My throat suddenly feels painfully dry.
‘I’m afraid when I looked into it in a bit more detail, well – Sally was trafficking drugs in that car, and she’s now serving time. She and Harry are still together though, so that’s nice.’
‘No, no, no,’ Suki throws her hands in the air, ‘no OAPs, no felonies, and Paula, before you tell us again about the hot cousin you met at a family barbecue, no incest. We need heart-warming, original content; personal stories that no one else is covering.’
I have nothing. My hand reaches for my pendant. Suki’s voice softens again, her face an expression of pained pity; ‘Come on, darlings, help me here.’
‘There is one love story I could write,’ I start speaking before I can overthink it. ‘My parents’ story.’
Suki stares at me unblinking, so I take her silence as an invitation to elaborate and swallow the discomfort in my throat. I’ve never thought to pitch their story before. All our ‘How Did You Meet?’s usually take the form of an interview – but now, I wonder if that needs to be the case.
‘My mother found half an old ha’penny at an antiques fair. The face had been smoothed flat, engraved with a quote, and then cut in two to make a love token—’
‘How old is your mother?’ Suki interrupts.
‘She, um, she died, if you remember, two years ago … I took that time off.’ I clench my fingers into my palms, and Suki winds her finger in the air, as though fast-forwarding the tape of my explanation. I catch Vanya’s eye across the room; she gives me a reassuring thumbs-up. ‘Anyway, she found this piece of coin and saw it had “Jersey” written on the back, so she placed an advert in the Jersey paper hoping she might track down the other half. My dad replied. He explained that his grandfather had engraved the coin with this quote, then split it in two before leaving for the war. He took one half with him and left the other half with his wife. Sadly, he never came home, and history doesn’t relate how his half ended up in Bristol.’ I unfasten the coin from around my neck and pass it around the room for people to see. ‘My mum took the half she found to Jersey, reunited the pieces, met my dad, and the rest, as they say, is history. One coin, two love stories.’
The room oohs and ahhs in delight at my tale.
‘It is so freakin’ romantic,’ says Vanya loyally, ‘I can totally see it as a Hallmark movie.’
‘Even though my parents aren’t alive to interview, I know the story of how they fell in love as if it were my own. It’s the most romantic “how did you meet?” I know—’
‘Fine. Write the story,’ Suki says, waving a hand to stop me talking. ‘But you should go to Jersey. I want a personal angle, some scenic photos, interview this great-grandmother.’ I’m shocked; Suki never signs off on travel.
‘I’m afraid she’s no longer alive,’ I say with a grimace.
‘Why is everyone in your family dead, Laura?’
I shrug. Suki makes so many tactless remarks, somehow the sting becomes diluted.
‘Well, she would have been over a hundred if she was alive’ – Suki’s attention begins to drift, so I speak more quickly – ‘but the island itself is very much a character in their story. It’s where they fell in love, the beautiful beaches, the romantic clifftop walks—’
Suki raises a finger to the ceiling, like an insect sensing something with its antennae.
‘You can bang out a travel piece while you’re there, “Reasons to Visit the Channel Islands” or something. We have a travel insurance firm looking to sponsor an article – and I’m sure you can find a hotel who’ll put you up for a mention.’ Suki clicks her fingers with satisfaction, then pauses before waving her arm across the room. ‘All of you, bring me fresh content ideas, otherwise, next time we’re sitting here, there’ll be fewer chairs in the room – and by that, I do not mean some of you will be sitting on the floor.’
Despite the meeting ending on this threatening note, I leave the room feeling elated. I took a chance, pitched a story that means everything to me, and Suki actually went for it. If I’d had time to think it through, I’m not sure I would have had the courage to offer up something so personal. Now, I am going to Jersey, to the place my parents fell in love, where the idea of me was born, and I feel something bubble inside me I haven’t felt in a while – excitement.
Chapter 3
Two days later, and my friend Dee has volunteered to drive me to the airport. She recently bought a car because she and her fiancé Neil are moving to Farnham and apparently you need a car if you live outside London. She says she needs the driving practice and before we even get to the end of her road, it becomes clear that she does.
Vanya is tagging along for the ride, mainly because she doesn’t own a car, and saw the opportunity to persuade Dee to drive back via the out-of-town IKEA. I’m worried what she’s planning to buy for our tiny, already-full-of-unbuilt-furniture-from-her-last-visit flat.
‘I can’t believe Suki signed off on a three-day trip, you are so jammy,’ says Vanya from the back seat, thrusting an open bag of Haribo Giant Strawbs between Dee and me. It’s less than an hour’s drive to Gatwick Airport, but Vanya’s come with enough car sweets to take us to Mexico.
‘Only because she got a sponsor to pay for it,’ I say, taking a handful of sweets. ‘I wish you were both coming with me, it would be much more fun.’
‘You know, I have this weird intuition you’re going to meet someone while you’re away,’ says Vanya.
‘Is this the same intuition that told you I wouldn’t get a parking ticket if I pulled up on a double yellow line to drop you off outside Selfridges?’ asks Dee, waving her left hand for someone to pass her a sweet.
‘Yeah well.’ Vanya clears her throat. ‘I’d say my intuition is more finely attuned to love than parking wardens.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t perpetuate these ridiculous notions,’ Dee scoffs.
‘What notions?’ I ask.
‘About love and relationships having anything to do with destiny.’
I’ve known Dee since we were children; we met aged eleven, in the girls’ toilets on the first day of school. She had a long black fringe covering half her eyes and wore this serious expression. She grabbed me by the elbow as I was leaving the loos and I thought she must be about to steal my lunch money, but she pulled me close and told me I had the back of my skirt tucked into my knickers. She saved me from humiliating myself in front of my new classmates, and she’s had my back ever since.
Dee exhales loudly through her nose and shifts into fifth gear with a clunk as we merge onto the motorway.
‘Look, I’m going to say something controversial now, OK?’ she says.
‘Brexit was a good idea? Brad Pitt hasn’t aged well? You think we should all take up smoking again?’ I give her a goofy smile as I try to think of what else might qualify as a controversial statement.
‘No, I don’t think you should have broken up with David.’
I shake my head, and Vanya makes a prrrrft sound from the back seat.
‘David wasn’t the one, Dee. He was lovely, but you know—’
‘No, I don’t know. I don’t know what it is you’re holding out for. David was decent and kind,’ Dee glances across at me, her eyebrows knitted in concern. ‘I just want you to be happy, to have someone to share your life with.’
‘I have you guys!’
‘Yeah, but Neil and I are leaving London in a few months,’ Dee sighs, ‘and Vanya, well, Vanya is a bad influence.’
‘I’m not a bad influence – I’m the fun one!’ Vanya says, raising her arms above her head to do a seat dance, as though this will illustrate just how fun she is. To be fair, Vanya is the fun one. On a night out, she will be the person to suggest getting shots at 2 a.m., but it will be Dee who holds your hair back when you’re throwing up in the loo later.
‘I worry with all the stuff you’re doing for the website; seeking out these crazily romantic tales, plus with your parents’ story’ – Dee nods to my hand, which is toying with my pendant again – ‘it’s made your expectations a little … unrealistic.’
‘Look, I wouldn’t say I’m being especially picky. I know what I want and I don’t feel like I should have to settle for less.’
‘And what exactly is it that you want?’
‘I’ll know it when I see it,’ I say. Dee raises a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Well, if you forced me to write a list, I’d want a man who is kind, charming, well dressed, well read, ideally musical, someone who likes the same things as me, no one too complicated. Is that really too much to ask?’
‘On dating apps, it is,’ says Vanya.
Dee reaches a hand across the car to squeeze mine. ‘I think you have to start factoring in the statistics.’
As teenagers, while I had posters of Busted and The Pussycat Dolls above my bed, Dee decorated her walls with the periodic table and a photo of Albert Einstein. She’s the Monica to my Rachel, but it works and I’ve often been the beneficiary of her practical nature. When Mum died, Dee was the one who kept me upright when all I wanted to do was lie down and sink into grief. She ordered the funeral flowers because I couldn’t get the words out over the phone; she moved in with me for a month, because I didn’t want to be alone. She was my Ariadne’s thread, leading me out of a dark labyrinth. But now, two years later, I still catch her looking at me as though I might break at any moment. I yearn for our old dynamic, where we were equals and I wasn’t the frailer half who needed parenting by a friend.
‘Dee, I know I’m talking to a maths teacher here, but not everything in life boils down to maths,’ I say, with a smile.
‘You have to believe in a little magic when it comes to matters of the heart,’ says Vanya.
Dee rolls her eyes.
‘A: Everything does boil down to maths, that’s the beauty of maths. And B: Not everyone gets some Hollywood-style meet-cute. I don’t want to be the harbinger of doom, but the number of eligible guys over thirty is only going to get smaller. If you play the field for too long, only the divorcees and weirdos will be left.’
‘What about me? I’m single,’ says Vanya indignantly.
‘You love the weirdos. You actively seek out the weirdos.’
‘That’s true,’ says Vanya, pulling down her red beanie hat and drumming out a tune on
the back of Dee’s seat with her fingers.
‘Look, all I know is, if I can’t have a love story like my parents had – world stops turning, soulmate kind of love – then I’d rather be on my own.’ I pause, weighing my words, anxious not to offend my oldest friend. ‘And, you know, Dee, I’m not a baton you have to pass on. I’m not going to fall to pieces if I’m on my own for a bit.’
‘It’s not that, Laura, of course it’s not that. I didn’t mean to suggest you needed to have a man in your life. All I’m saying is, I thought David made you happy – happier.’ Her lips twitch into a smile. ‘I just don’t want you holding out for something that doesn’t exist. These couples you interview for the site – you should go back and talk to them in six months when the oxytocin has worn off and they’re arguing about how he leaves his sweaty running gear loose in the laundry bin and stinks out the whole damn bathroom.’
‘You’re really selling married life to us, Dee,’ says Vanya.
Dee ignores her and shoots me a wide-eyed look, clearly worried she’s caused offence.
‘And you’re not a baton I’m trying to palm off. Even if you met Prince bloody Charming and rode off into the sunset, I would never let go of this baton.’ She points a finger back and forth between us.
‘I know. Me too,’ I say, feeling a gush of love for this woman.
‘Right, anyway, I’ve said my piece,’ Dee blinks. ‘This conversation isn’t passing the Bechdel test, so let’s talk about something else.’
Dee is obsessed with the Bechdel test. It’s a checklist used to see whether women are being represented as well-rounded characters in fiction or film. Essentially, to pass the test, two female characters have to have a conversation about something other than men. On feminist principle, Dee won’t watch or read anything that doesn’t pass.
‘Is us talking about the Bechdel test enough for us to pass the Bechdel test?’ Vanya asks, pulling on her seatbelt strap and leaning forward between our seats.
‘I don’t know,’ Dee says, looking genuinely perplexed.
Just Haven't Met You Yet Page 2
