Our Story: the new heartwarming and emotional romance fiction book from the Sunday Times bestselling author of Take A Look At Me Now

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Hey, Joe,’ he says, laughing at his own joke. ‘Ah, love a Hendrix reference. I bet you get that a lot.’

  ‘Good job my mum hated the name Jude, hey?’ I say, grabbing the back of my chair and swinging it right up to the desk to sit. His flinch is my reward.

  ‘Yeah, please sit down,’ he says pointedly as I smile a beatific smile and cross my legs.

  He takes his time laying out the index cards I’ve submitted for his learned opinion, each one deliberately placed. As he does so, there’s just the slightest hint of raised eyebrow.

  So, that’s how you’re playing it, is it? Fine. Do your worst.

  Unfortunately for this dude, he’s met me at my arsiest. I need a target and he’s just swaggered right into line.

  And I’m pretty certain he just upset the woman I… care about. I don’t need any more reason to fight him.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Russ. Impressive CV, too,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Stalled a bit after Southside, mind…’

  ‘Realigning my career. I see it as a sign of a mature writer.’

  ‘Hm.’ He picks up a card and flicks it absent-mindedly between his fingers.

  Got no answer for that, have you? Point to me, I think.

  ‘I’m not going to lie, Joe, your work is excellent. It stands out in that room.’

  I wait. He smiles.

  What’s this, Langham? No final barb? No last-minute kicker?

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. And the nod of his head confirms he thinks he won that round. Ugh. ‘So, any particular feedback?’

  ‘No. These are all good.’ He moves a dismissive hand over my pitch ideas. ‘I’d say eight out of the ten are stronger, but for a sample in the time we’ve had, good work.’

  We engage in a nonchalant-smile-off. Just as it’s getting uncomfortable, he stands and offers his hand. I hurry to my feet.

  ‘I think we may have got off on the wrong foot, Joe,’ he says, his voice dropping to deepest, sincerest Scot. ‘I’m well aware what everyone in that room is thinking. They look to Russell – and to you – for their cues. I’m not asking for allies, just professionals. I hope I can count on you.’

  Walking from his office, I’m rattled. He denied me the fight I was expecting and that kicks more than any punch he could have thrown. Clever bastard.

  Long game it is, then.

  Otty catches my eye when I return to the writers’ room. I mouth, OK? and she gives the slightest shake of her head. That settles it: Langham and I are still at war.

  It’s an age until 6 p.m. when our session ends. We’re a subdued troop when we file out – no laughter, no hanging back to chat. If that’s what Langham was after, he’s achieved it. Russell looks concerned and that gives me hope that this is a passing issue. A six-feet-tall, muscle-bound, strawberry-blond but basically ginger issue.

  Otty walks beside me and doesn’t speak until we’re in the lift on our way down. I nudge her arm.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ she hisses under her breath.

  Wow. She really is upset.

  When we reach the ground floor, I notice the new coffee place is still open. ‘Tell me now,’ I say.

  She lets me steer her into the bright warmth of the concession and I leave her sitting on a large wingback armchair while I fetch coffee. As I wait in line, I watch her. She’s staring blankly out of the window at the bank of straggly lavender edging West One’s car park. Her chin rests on one hand, her elbow propped on the arm of the chair. She has no spark. No lightness. Nothing of the Otty I know.

  It’s a knife to me.

  Is she angry with Langham, or me still?

  Whatever else has happened between us, I never want to make Otty sad. I wish I could scoop her into my arms for a hug, like I used to. But I don’t know if we’ll ever return to that. The helplessness burns.

  She still hasn’t moved when I deliver her drink.

  ‘I got you a creamy syrupy thing with gold sprinkles,’ I offer.

  ‘Is that the official title?’

  ‘It’s the working title for one of my pitches today,’ I say. That elicits a smile. Good. ‘What did he say to you?’

  She studies me for a moment, and then digs her spoon into the dollop of gold-dusted cream. ‘Who?’

  ‘Who? Scottish bloke. Name like an estate agents’. Built like a brick sh—’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Now that’s a proper smile.

  ‘He wanted to see me first, so I thought great, get it over with. I wasn’t worried or anything. Not really. I know Russell likes my work and he’s the one paying my wages.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Right, get this: Fraser waited until I was in the office and then he told me he didn’t want to talk about it then. He said he needed to see everyone else first and was just letting me know.’

  ‘What? Did he want you to sweat or something?’

  ‘I couldn’t work it out.’ Now she’s sparkling with it: the gossip, the build-up to the killer punchline when she reveals what Langham said to make her storm out. It’s like I’ve got my Otty back. Not my Otty – the Otty she was before. ‘He said, “Don’t sit down” and then he perched on the edge of Russell’s desk – like he owned it – and told me he didn’t want to see me this afternoon. Weird, huh?’

  ‘Totally. What did you say?’

  ‘What could I say? I just gave him a look like the one you’re wearing now.’

  I know we haven’t reached the end of the story, but I want to prolong it – us, being us, not two friends reeling from a disaster. So I won’t give her the chance to deliver the punchline yet. ‘He’s definitely odd,’ I say. ‘When I went in, do you know what he’d done?’

  Amusement dances in Otty’s eyes. I love that I’ve helped it be there. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He’d pulled the chair out to practically the middle of the floor. Like I was going to sit in front of a row of judges or something. What was that for? So he could see me swinging my feet like a kid?’

  ‘At least he let you sit down.’ She eats the spoonful of cream and scoops another. ‘He left me standing there like a right prat.’

  ‘Maybe he has a thing about chairs.’

  She giggles, wiping cream from her lips. ‘A chair thing?’

  I pretend to be serious, but it’s hard not to smile when the game is this good – and this wanted. ‘A chair thing. It’s all about control. Of wood. He decides if the chair deserves you or not. You either stand next to it or sit on it in the middle of the room where he can see every leg…’

  ‘Argh! Stop it!’ Otty squeaks, helpless with laughter.

  ‘Not even remotely sorry.’

  ‘Gross, Joe!’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Anyway, I asked him why we couldn’t just do the appraisal there. Do you know what he said? He said he thought I’d get a greater benefit from his thoughts if we did my appraisal over dinner.’

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘I know! I mean, how utterly disrespectful is that? So it’s okay for him to talk to everyone else, but I have to have some patronising special time where he can bestow his wisdom on me?’

  I try to maintain my smile, but I’ve lost the urge to laugh.

  Otty carries on, oblivious. ‘And that coming after telling Tom and Jake they could “have” me in their group. Not “include” me, “have” me, like I was someone’s annoying kid sister who had to tag along. Does he think I need babysitting? Or bribing with food?’

  ‘What a dick…’ There’s far more venom in my reply than I intend.

  ‘Thank you! I knew you’d understand.’ She mixes the remaining cream into her coffee with increasingly violent stabs of her spoon. ‘I was furious. I told him, in no uncertain terms, that I was a professional and, as such, if he wanted to talk to me about my work, he could do it in a proper manner, over coffee, during office hours.’

  She’s so proud of her stance that I can’t bear to tel
l her. ‘Well – good for you.’

  ‘Honestly, Joe, I couldn’t believe it. Refusing to see me as equal with the rest of the team – treating me like some little woman who needs everything mansplaining over dinner…’ Her voice trails away, realisation finally dawning. ‘Oh…’

  My expression must be yelling it, too, because she pales.

  ‘He was asking me out to dinner, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She screws up her eyes. ‘Oh bollocks.’

  ‘But still, highly unprofessional,’ I offer.

  ‘There’s no way I would have gone.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Probably a lucky escape,’ she says.

  I fake a laugh because I don’t want her to see we aren’t still having fun. ‘Yeah, can you imagine?’

  ‘Mmm…’

  ‘And considering his terrible choice of words this morning, I dread to think what his killer chat-up line would be.’

  She turns the handle of her mug so it rotates on the table between us. ‘It would be awful, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I bet.’

  She’s a little stunned from the revelation, but I don’t think she’s taking a brighter view of Langham. That’s a good sign. I allow myself a little more fun.

  ‘You look like a woman who needs my help…’ I say, in a booming Scottish accent that could hail from just about anywhere from Dumfries to Thurso. ‘Got any shhexshy chairshh?’

  ‘Joe!’

  ‘Come on, admit it: you want to know how Fraser Langham gets down and dirty…’

  She glares at me and I realise I’ve taken it too far. About a hundred miles too far, given what happened with us not so long ago. I hold my hands up in apology. Otty goes back to her slightly scary stirring. I look down at my mug of tea, stewed now because, in all the fun of tearing strips off Fraser Langham, I forgot to remove the teabag.

  ‘Fancy popping to Verne’s?’ I ask.

  Otty smiles. ‘I think we’ve earned it.’

  I think we both just had a lucky escape.

  Fraser Langham: 0 – Otty and Joe: 1

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  OTTY

  I feel awful.

  Fraser was trying to ask me out and there I was, too busy being offended for the entire female race. Which I stand by, had he been using food as a method of patriarchal control. Instead of just dinner.

  That aside, it’s a bit of a shock he even asked me.

  I wouldn’t consider it. Even if he is gorgeous… No. He has too many questionable features. His horrific choice of words yesterday, for one thing. The way he’s clearly plaguing Joe, for another. And let’s face it, the ham-fisted way he tried to ask me out. Who thinks a work appraisal is the appropriate place for a proposition?

  He has lovely eyes, though. And that voice…

  I look down at the two pairs of shoes I’ve pulled out as possibles to wear today. My trusty old black ballerina flats bought from a supermarket five years ago, comfy as anything and still going strong; or my large black biker boots I bought at the Custard Factory flea market last summer and haven’t worn yet. They scream strength and a no-messing attitude, while secretly being as soft as slippers on the inside.

  Bit like me, I think.

  I pull a face. Not like me at all, actually.

  My thoughts are all over the place this morning, hence my inability to choose shoes. For a brief moment when Joe and I were in the café yesterday, it was like I had him back. I’ve missed it. I didn’t realise how much. I’ve been so concerned with keeping my head above water that I’d forgotten what I loved most about being Joe’s friend: the fun we had.

  I know Joe doesn’t want me. But does he miss us?

  And even though I’m pretty sure I won’t accept Fraser’s offer of a date, I can’t escape the thought that he asked me within hours of us meeting, while I share my home, my job and my life with someone who knows me so well but backed away the moment we had the chance to be together.

  I stare back at my choice. Old and predictable, or unexpected and sure?

  Boots it is.

  Joe was right about one thing yesterday: Fraser looks terrified when we meet in the West One coffee shop, as arranged, for our appraisal. I should put him out of his misery, but maybe not until I’ve discovered what he thinks of my writing. It’s a little safeguard for me, a little more of a gift I can tell Joe about later. Maybe if we can get back the fun, like we did yesterday, we have a hope of surviving the rest…

  The large yellow cups rattle in their saucers when Fraser sets them down. I went for black coffee because I thought it seemed the most apt to a professional meeting, even though I’m regretting what I said yesterday.

  ‘I didn’t know if you took sugar or not,’ he says, a shower of brown and white packets dropping from his hand into a mini-mountain in the middle of the table. He stares at them as he sits.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘But we can take these up to the kitchen. Sugar is always in short supply, especially when the stress levels rise.’

  ‘Stress seemed to be a feature yesterday.’ Nervous Fraser Langham is a very different animal to the swaggery version I’ve already seen.

  ‘It’s always a feature. You know writers.’

  He risks a longer look at me. ‘I thought I did.’

  ‘So, my work. Your thoughts?’

  ‘Uh – sure.’ He scrambles into action, fetching my index-card pitches from the pocket of his jacket and spreading them across the table like a croupier preparing to deal. I have to hide my smile because this version of our script executive is becoming more endearing with every new bumble.

  I keep my spine straight, braced against the knot of anxiety in my stomach. Fraser may have had a less-than-perfect start yesterday, but it matters to me what he thinks of my work. I want to keep pushing myself, keep growing, so I stand the best possible chance of a long career.

  He considers the cards for a while. Just as I’m wondering if this is a ploy – like pulling Joe’s chair uncomfortably far from the desk – he looks up at me. ‘They’re great.’

  I wait for a ‘but’. Fraser sips his coffee, sets his cup down carefully and says nothing.

  Is this another of his mind games?

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  Joe told me about this. It’s a game to knock the wind out of my sails, a sudden lack of fuel to the fire. It irks me. ‘Mind if I give you some feedback, then?’

  ‘Um… go ahead.’ He wasn’t expecting that.

  ‘They’re great isn’t really feedback.’

  ‘But I think your work is great.’

  ‘That’s very kind, but I can’t do anything with that.’

  ‘They’re just pitches. You produced a good number of consistently great ones. Brief fulfilled.’

  If Fraser is playing a game, he looks awfully earnest.

  ‘Fraser, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Yesterday, when you suggested meeting over dinner, that wasn’t about feedback, was it?’

  I watch his shoulders tense. ‘Otty, if I’ve overstepped the mark…’

  ‘You kind of did. It wasn’t really appropriate, given you were meant to be talking to everyone. Unless you’re taking them all out to dinner as well?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And it could have been seen as a lack of respect for your female colleagues. Which, after your earlier mistake, might not have looked particularly good.’

  He gives a heavy sigh. ‘Right. Sorry – again.’

  Maybe if Joe and the others could see Fraser like this they would be less inclined to hate him. I wonder what else he hides behind his professional veneer. It’s enough to make up my mind.

  ‘But – if you’d like to ask now, in a personal capacity…’

  His eyes narrow a little as if he’s scouting the ground for landmines.

  ‘I would.’

  My skin pr
ickles. ‘So ask me.’

  Joe’s not going to be happy. He’s expecting me to return triumphant, with Fraser trailing in my wake. As it is, we’re travelling back up to the eleventh floor, slightly flushed and trading smiles, our hands tantalisingly close as we stand in the lift.

  It’s unexpected. But I’m excited. It’s so good to feel that again. This is my decision, my invitation to spend time with a man I would like to get to know better. A small return of control after what happened with Joe.

  And he wanted to be with me. Joe didn’t. It’s as simple – and brutal – as that. Maybe it won’t amount to anything. Maybe it’s just the ego boost I need. I won’t know unless I try, will I?

  We’re going to dinner tomorrow night. I just won’t tell Joe.

  As we leave the lift and walk towards Ensign Media, Fraser slows.

  ‘Back to our professional selves, then.’

  I smile up at him. ‘As you were, Mr Langham.’

  If he looks at me like that tomorrow night, we could be in trouble…

  The moment I take my seat next to Joe, he’s leaning in. ‘What have you done with him? Did you leave him, bruised and bleeding, sobbing into his flat white?’

  ‘He was very apologetic.’

  ‘When you had him in a headlock? Or were threatening to smash every patriarchal bone in his body?’

  I laugh. ‘You seriously overestimate my abilities.’

  ‘That’s what superheroes always say.’ He grins and my heart contracts. I don’t like lying to him. We’re on such uncertain ground still – I don’t want to do anything to make it crumble.

  ‘Shh. I need to protect my secret identity.’

  Joe leans closer. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

  Under the table, my brand-new boots pinch a little. I can do this. It’s just dinner with a lovely guy. If Joe doesn’t know, it can’t hurt him. And if he doesn’t know, he’ll keep trying as hard as he is to get us back to how we were before. And I want that more than anything.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  JOE

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Just out.’

  ‘Want some company?’

  ‘Nah, I’ll be fine.’