Love & London: The love story 2021 needs. Heartbreakingly beautiful and hilariously funny!

by Ellie White

  Without resolving anything, on Monday morning, we stepped back into our old working routine; he meets me outside my flat every morning, we walk to the tube and get a coffee together. We eat lunch and dinner together daily; sometimes, we get a takeaway if we're working late and, other times, we cook together.

  Both of us ignore the huge elephant in the room.

  The atmosphere between us is so intense; it's almost killing me. Our casual flirting has magnified tenfold and we can't seem to have a conversation without a sexual innuendo. There has been so much laughter. Things are going so well between us that it almost feels too good to be true. I'm afraid everything is going to fall apart again and we'll be back where we started.

  All of our friends are now willing us to get together. Even James has taken it upon himself to try and set us up but I insist it's not what I want. I don't think he believes me, though.

  I wouldn't believe me either.

  Thursday quickly comes around and my nerves shoot through the roof but Jake is so confident this pitch will go well, that we'll win the account, that it calms me down.

  "Just look at the work we've put in," he'd said last night as we poured through the pitch one last time over dinner. "Look how amazing everything is now that it has come together because we've collaborated. And it's not just us, Jude will be there and Lou."

  We've never had a campaign where we've worked together the whole way from planning to creative execution. I know that, if Dad had let me do it myself like I wanted to in the beginning, it would never have turned out as good as this because Jake and I make each other work better.

  "We're going to win this pitch. I'm sure of it, Maggs. Even if we don't, that's fine, too, because look at what we've learnt. Look at what we can do. Together.”

  I tell Jake to meet me at the office today instead of at my flat as I had to pick something up on my way in. He's already there when I arrive. Sasha gives me a strange, swoony look as I greet her outside of our office and Thomas rolls his eyes at her with a sarcastic sigh.

  "Is something wrong?" I ask.

  "I think you should go into your office," she says with a weird grin.

  I do as she says and, as soon as I spot Jake, my draw drops. He's wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece suit. Dark navy, almost black with a crisp, white shirt and a navy, silk tie.

  I’m momentarily lost for words and I think I’m sweating a little bit. He meets my eyes with a smile and my knees actually tremble. If I weren’t already crushing so hard on him, I can guarantee this would have done it.

  “Like what you see, Maggs?" he says just as he did last time he rendered me speechless with his appearance. It feels like a lifetime ago, now, that I saw him standing outside of St Paul's tube station.

  Shit. I have to use words.

  "We are definitely going to win this account when you turn up to pitch like that," he says, waving his hand to indicate towards my burgundy, peplum dress.

  "Hopefully Mrs Stephenson doesn't try and take a bite out of you," I reply with a cheeky smile.

  I watch him while he fixes his tie in the small mirror by my desk.

  "You know, Maggs, we make a really good-looking couple," he says, catching me off guard as he meets my eye in the mirror.

  "If you two are quite finished, our car is downstairs," Jude says from the door, making us both jump as Lou snickers behind him.

  "We'll follow you down in a minute."

  Jake looks at me quizzically.

  "Before we go, I bought you something - Well, I bought us something." I pull out the small gift bag from under my desk and hand it to him. "I've had the best time working with you these past six weeks and just wanted to say thank you for not being a complete shithead."

  He opens the gift box to find the sleek Mont Blanc pen with his name engraved in silver.

  "I got a matching one, too. We match," I say lamely as Jake stares down at the personalised pen in his hand.

  "This is amazing! Thank you," he says, coming to place a kiss on my forehead.

  "It's blue ink. I know you like blue ink," I point out, not knowing where else to go with this. Smooth. Way to go, Maggie. He probably thinks you're a moron, now.

  "I feel terrible. I didn't get you anything."

  "You've given me more than you know," I answer honestly, thinking about the past 6 weeks and how much I've changed.

  I'm not the miserable workaholic who avoided her friends and most social gatherings. I'm not as angry at life as I was or as highly strung.

  I'm also not quite the old me, the girl I was before the accident and that's fine by me because I'm older now. I have different priorities like my family, friends and Jake.

  “I’m a little nervous,” I admit.

  “Me, too,” he says, taking my hand in his. Could he see that my fingers had begun to twitch? “I’ll be right there with you, if you need me, which you won’t because you know this thing back to front. Come on, let’s go.”

  He pockets his new pen with an excited grin and picks up the equipment.

  Off we go to complete the biggest pitch of our careers.

  ***

  I couldn't have asked for a better presenting partner for the pitch. Between Jake and I, we answered all the questions quickly and clearly. Lou and Jude gave a great explanation of the different communication channels we would plan to use and our audience seemed to respond well to our campaign ideas. They even said that they really appreciated the time we took in creating mock-ups of the actual adverts when no other agency they had met with had thought to do that in advance.

  I felt optimistic when we walked out of their Southwark office. Then, later that morning, they called us and said we are one of the final two agencies that they are considering.

  I very much tried to ignore that today is Friday and that means Valentine’s Day but everyone in the office was talking about it, making it hard to avoid.

  My suspicions of Thomas and Sasha were confirmed when he walked in with a lovely bouquet of roses for her and promptly swept her up in a passionate kiss in front of the entire office. It was all very romantic.

  "I should have thought ahead; all I got you was a pile of paperwork," Jake says, placing papers down neatly on my desk as he nods to the happy couple.

  I really wanted to avoid the topic of Valentine’s so I wouldn't have to talk about my plans. I know Laura has told him about the date she's arranged for me through that app and, if Jake wanted to say something about it, he did an excellent job of hiding it. Part of me wanted him to tell me not to go on the date. If he had, I would have cancelled in a heartbeat.

  But he didn't.

  So, I got myself dressed up and begrudgingly head out on my Valentine’s date. All I know about the man is his name (Joe) and a brief description.

  The night isn’t off to a great start when I look up at the sign above the door to the pub. I double and triple check I'm at the right place. The pub is in a state of disrepair with shutters hanging off and paint which looked like it hadn't been touched for at least 50 years. Not the place you'd normally take a first date but I try not to judge from the outside. Maybe it's better on the inside?

  "Maggie?" he asks in his thick, cockney accent as he approaches me.

  "Joe?" I ask, panic building in my chest as I take in the man in front of me.

  Surely Laura would have seen a photo of this man before setting me up? And I'm sure he is a lovely man but, from the few thing's she's told me about him, maybe his profile photo was from a time where he was 6 stone lighter and at least 15 years younger?

  ‘He's 32, 6ft, black hair, designer stubble: Definitely your type,’ she'd said with a wink as she basically described Jake.

  "That's me name, don't wear it out," I fake a laugh while wondering if it's too late to run away.

  "Come on, love. Let's get a drink, eh?"

  He pushes the door open to the pub and the scent of stale beer and decades of old cigarette smoke soaked into the carpet hits me in the face. It's all I can do not to vo
mit on Joe's balding head which is at least half a foot shorter than me: Obviously, he's not 6ft.

  I offer a hesitant smile as he greets multiple people while he walks through the dank, dimly lit room, leading me to a small, sticky table. I mentally thank myself for always having hand sanitiser in my handbag.

  "Drink?" he asks.

  "Rosé, please." He heads to the bar which has been dressed in tacky, foil hearts and pink, paper chain streamers.

  I pull out my phone and begin to furiously type.

  Maggie: WHAT THE HELL, LAURA?!

  Maggie: FFS why did I let you do this?

  Maggie: My date is an overweight, 55-year-old, balding gentleman.

  James: Only Maggie would politely insult someone by adding gentleman.

  Laura replies quickly, sending a photo of a handsome man with thick, black hair.

  Laura: Is this him?

  Maggie: Maybe 20 years ago.

  Laura: Do you need an out? I can call with an emergency.

  Maggie: No, you enjoy your date. I'm going out the bathroom window in 15 minutes.

  Joe is stood at the bar with our drinks for what seems like a lifetime. He doesn't look like he is coming back any time soon either. He is talking to a tall, butch-looking woman. I give my best smile when they look my way although, for some reason, the woman just scowls at me like a British Bulldog chewing on a wasp.

  Unable to take her scowl any longer, I drag my eyes from her to look around the rest of the room to get my bearings and suddenly feel extremely overdressed in my leather-look mini skirt, black jumper and chunky ankle boots. Everyone else looks comfortable, shall we say? - in their knockoff 'Jucky Couture' tracksuits that they, more than likely, bought from a dodgy-looking market stall in the Canary Islands ten years ago. One woman even looks like she's here in her pyjamas.

  ‘Don't judge a book by its cover,’ I scold myself for the third time this evening.

  Joe eventually makes his way back and hands me my drink as I carefully try not to make eye contact with other customers who aren't trying to hide their glares.

  I have never been more uncomfortable in all my life.

  "That's me ex-wife. She owns the gaff," he says, pointing his thumb behind him. Delightful - that explains why she clearly doesn't like the look of me.

  I take a sip of my wine and the taste of vinegar makes me feel sick. I'm glad I hadn't taken my jacket or scarf off yet as I eventually spot the sign for the loo.

  "I'm actually going to pop to the bathroom. Please, excuse me."

  I turn back around and see Joe chatting to some men at another table. Obviously, he won't miss me.

  The toilets are hidden down a long corridor which is impossibly darker than the rest of the place due to the two missing lights hanging from the ceiling. There are three old, wooden doors; the ladies’, the gent's and an alarmed fire exit at the very end of the corridor. I push through the door to the ladies’ room with my bum so as not to touch anything. I’m passed the point of caring about being judgemental.

  There’s only one thing for it now. I get my bearings and look up at the small window at the back of the toilet cubicle. It's an old-style toilet with the cistern hanging on the wall about six feet off the ground and, even if I could reach the high window, it had long been painted shut.

  Who paints a window closed? Talk about a fire hazard.

  It's probably for the best, anyway. The window is at least eight feet from the floor and I have zero climbing ability. I would probably break both ankles on the landing and end up having to call Joe in the pub for help. That would not be ideal.

  I pull out my phone in a blind panic and message the group chat. I'm surprised when I get a message back almost immediately.

  Maggie: I'm in the loo's and the window is painted shut. What do I do?

  Jake: Fire exit.

  I don't question how he knew that was a possibility as I open the door into the corridor, letting another woman past with a smile. She hisses at me

  I read the big, red warning sign on the door. I weigh up my options as I stare at the notice informing me that an alarm will sound if the door is opened and I will be fined if it's not an emergency.

  It's this or go back into the bar and confront my date.

  I'm not proud of it but I can't face going back out there where I'm obviously not welcome and I don't have the courage to tell Joe to his face that this whole thing was a catastrophe. So, I do what any sane person would do. I push down on the cold, metal bar and heave the heavy door open.

  The alarm screams in my ears but I don't hesitate. I run out of the building into the alley way behind the pub, the door slamming behind me. I fall straight into the strong arms of a familiar handsome man wearing perfectly-fitted jeans, his signature wool coat and a mischievous grin.

  ***

  "Jake?!" I exclaim with so much undiluted delight that it shocks me a little bit.

  "Ready to run?" he laughs, grabbing my hand pulling me away from that horrible pub and the alarm that is deafening the entire East End.

  We don't stop running until we reach the closest tube station.

  I thought I had an okay level of fitness since I try to keep on top of yoga but, after that small jog, it’s painfully obvious that I am extremely unfit!

  "Just give me a sec," I say as I'm doubled over, desperately trying to catch my breath. Note to self: Join a gym or a park run or something because this is embarrassing.

  "Well, that was exciting," he says, grinning and straightening up my scarf. He brushes down my hair which, for most of the run, was billowing behind me in a tangled mess.

  "Let's just get on the next train. I never want to come back here ever again," I say as I try to walk on wobbly legs and he tries his best not to laugh at me.

  We jump on the DLR to head back to the city and we sit together in silence. I can tell he wants to say something but I'm sort of grateful he's holding it in. I already feel pathetic enough without him reminding me.

  I risk a glance at him and I suddenly start laughing and I can't seem to stop. The absurdity of what happened hits me and it's hilarious. He joins in, laughing with me just as hysterically, making all our fellow passengers stare at us. We don't stop until we get off the tube again, our stomachs aching.

  "Thank you for rescuing me. I'm sorry for ruining your Valentine's Day, I'm sure you had big plans."

  "It must have been some date for you to attempt the window," he smirks, holding in a laugh this time, knowing we'll just start all over again.

  "Ugh, honestly, it was awful. I can still smell the place on me," I say, liberally applying hand sanitiser. "Yet another bad date to add to the pile."

  He leans over and sniffs me. "Ah, stale beer and pork scratchings mixed with Gucci perfume and Love Heart Carex hand gel."

  I revel in the fact he remembers something as simple as the perfume I wear. The perfume I bought in Harrods when he took me out for our first dinner together. It feels like a lifetime ago, now.

  “Why are you putting yourself through this, Maggs? You don't have to do it to please everyone else."

  I want to say I'm doing it to get his attention but I don't. Instead, I give him a fraction of the truth.

  "I know it's stupid but, since I started doing this dating thing, I've felt different. Like, I don't know. Somehow it's helping me remember who I was before I was 'a widow'," I say in air quotes. "I know it's stupid but I don't want to go back to being that girl. She was heartbroken and miserable and barely had any friends left. I know I'll never get over losing Philip but it felt good to live a little again. Maybe it wasn't the dates, after all. Maybe it was just saying ‘yes’ to doing more things with my friends and spending less time locked away with only my thoughts."

  He thinks about what I've said in silence before looking at his watch.

  "Right. It's only 8 o-clock and your recent experience of dating is dating idiots. Let me take you out, show you what a real date is."

  "Sam wasn't an idiot but I get what you mean. It'
s Valentine's Day, though. We're never going to find anywhere and you've never been on a date; how do you know what makes a good one?"

  "Because I've had a lot of time to think about what my perfect date would be and I know it's more your kind of thing than creepy, ‘old man’ pubs. Just trust me and don't judge until you see the end product."

  I agree and we eventually get off our final tube at London Bridge. Jake leads us down the street, towards our office.

  “Our office?” I ask as we walk into the large, sterile lobby. Hardly the epitome of romance.

  "What did I say about judging? I'm just picking something up," he playfully tells me off.

  When we get to our office, he disappears under his desk.

  "I bought this to celebrate winning the pitch but I can always get us another one," he says, pulling up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne. Next stop is the kitchen where he picks out two of the least tea-stained mugs he can find. Lastly, he finds a couple of branded beach towels from a campaign we ran a couple of years ago.

  "Ready?" he asks, bundling everything into the backpack he found in our stash of left-over marketing products.

  "Let me freshen up, first."

  "Don't try to climb out of that window. It's a long way down," he says, smirking which I can't help but return with a slightly embarrassed laugh.

  I look in the bathroom mirror and I'm not completely horrified by what I see. I quickly run my brush through my hair, removing all evidence of our impromptu marathon and swipe on more lip gloss. A quick spray of deodorant, a spritz of perfume and I'm good to go. Not perfect but he's seen me with a raging hangover so it's useless trying to be perfect when he knows I am far from it.

  One last look in the mirror and I walk out of the bathroom to see him leaning casually on the wall next to the lift.

  He looks like he's just stepped out of an issue of GQ. I really need to remember that he's doing this because he pities me and I really shouldn't think of him in a way that's more than friendly.

  Hell, it's too late for that. My thoughts have already progressed from innocent crush to explicitly indecent.