We Just Clicked

I look a little longingly at my overturned phone knowing that I’m going to have to prove her wrong by ignoring it for at least a couple of hours. Despite the fact I’m dying to hear back from the agency about the Halloween campaign. My whole life could change with that one little email! The one that would mean I’d really be an Instagram influencer.

I’m still waiting for my log-in screen to load and I look out across the open-plan floor to see Mrs Harris walking across it clutching a Tupperware box as if her life depended on it. Everyone is giving her a wide berth, and I don’t blame them after what happened with Colin.

‘Here comes trouble,’ I whisper to Cleo, who looks over her computer screen.

‘It’s not Bake Off day again, is it? Surely the competition’s nearly finished.’

‘They’ve got another six months left,’ whispers Colin.

‘Six months!’ Cleo and I shriek.

‘It’s once every two weeks over nine months,’ he says despondently.‘Which means I’ve got at least another six months of being in exile.’

‘Bloody hell, it feels like they’re competing every other day,’ sighs Cleo.

‘Doesn’t it?’

Every six months or so the HR department at McKinley Insurance dream up some crazy scheme to make work more fun. We’ve had bingo mornings, fancy dress Friday and each of the seven floors competed to have the best Christmas decorations. But this competition takes the biscuit, or cake, or bread – depending on the week. Nothing has united the whole office more than the Great Office Bake Off although nothing has divided it as much, either, thanks to how seriously everyone is taking it.

Poor Colin. I look back over at him and he’s plugged in his headphones and his eyes are glued to his computer screen. I’m sure I can see him quivering as Mrs Harris finally reaches our bank of desks.

‘Oh, lordy, I did not think I was going to get this here in one piece,’ she says, resting the box on the end of the table.

Cleo and I edge out of our seats to take a quick look at what’s inside, before she whips two tea towels over the top.

‘Oh no, no one is getting a look at this baby until eleven o’clock. I don’t want a repeat of bread week,’ she says so loudly that the rest of the office falls silent.

‘No one wants a repeat of bread week,’ I say, feeling for Colin who’s gone all pale. He gives me a sheepish look before he grabs his folder and speed marches away.

‘So, what’s the theme this week, Mrs H?’ I ask.

She pauses and purses her lips as if considering the abbreviation I’d accidentally used. Mrs Harris is the only person in the office that doesn’t use their first name and instead insists that we address her formally like we’ve slipped back in time. No one else would get away with doing that but she’s so formidable that even our boss, Howard, daren’t call her by her first name.

‘It’s French week,’ she says and I breathe a sigh of relief that I’ve got away with the slip of the tongue. ‘So naturally I made a croquembouche cake.’

‘Naturally,’ I say, not having a clue what it is but knowing that it’s bound to be delicious. All of Mrs Harris’s creations are. It’s the reason that I’ve put on a stone since I started working here.

‘Now, I’m going to go and get my coffee. You girls will protect it from everyone else, won’t you? I don’t want that young whippersnapper from Risk Management coming down here. He’s always trying to tempt the ladies with his spicy balls.’

‘His what?’ I splutter.

‘She means his spicy nut balls,’ says Cleo, examining her nails. ‘I’ve had them before, they’re so overrated.’

‘I should have known you’d have tried them,’ replies Mrs Harris before she sighs loudly again. ‘I’ve got to go all the way back up the stairs again to get my coffee and with my dodgy ankle, it takes so long.’

I look at the three steps she’s referring to that lead up to where the drinks machine is.

‘And Colin just got up – he could have at least asked me if I’d wanted a drink. You’d think he’d want to get back in my good books.’

‘Do you want me to get you one?’ I ask, draining my cup. ‘I could do with another one anyway.’

‘Ah, Izzy, are you sure?’

‘Of course.’

I pick up the mug that Mrs Harris thoughtfully slides towards me. I look at Cleo and she hands me her mug, and I head towards our tea station.

‘Don’t forget,’ Mrs Harris calls after me, ‘skimmed milk mocha, two sugars.’

I nod as if she doesn’t ask for the same thing every time.

I walk into the little kitchenette area and place the cups down. I pop the tea bags into our mugs and fill them up with hot water, giving them time to brew, only to find that the coffee machine has run out of mocha. Getting coffee for Mrs Harris is like a NASA mission: failure is not an option, or at least it isn’t if I want some of her latest Bake Off creation.

I leave our tea brewing and take Mrs Harris’s mug down the stairs, grateful for dress-down Friday and the fact that I’m not dicing with death on the shiny stairs like I usually am in heels. I turn the corner to the floor below and I stop as a large selfie stick flies towards me and I have to tilt my head back not to get hit in the face.

‘Excuse me,’ I tut.

‘One sec,’ says the man holding the stick before he breaks into the biggest pout I’ve seen since Zoolander.

I fold my arms tightly over my chest and sigh loudly, but he doesn’t seem to care that he and his vanity are blocking my way.

With nothing else to do I stare at him and his classical good looks. He almost looks like he’s walked out of an Instagram photo, filter and all. His skin is perfect and he’s got a strong jaw line, smouldering eyes and full lips. Or at least I think they’re full, it’s hard to tell with the trout pout.

Dressed in a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up at the elbows, and a pair of khaki trousers that come to rest at his bare ankles, with expensive-looking loafers on his feet, he looks like he’s got lost on his way to a City bankers’ retreat.

He shakes his head a little as if he’s expecting long, luscious locks to magically appear when in reality his hair is styled into a well-gelled quiff that seems to be frozen in time and space.

He keeps snapping away and I wonder if he’s forgotten I’m here, so I cough loudly. He takes at least five more photos before lowering the stick.

‘Sorry,’ he says, looking up at me for the first time. ‘The sunlight in this spot at this exact time makes my skin as glossy as an AR filter. Wanna see the results?’

‘I… er…’

He grabs the phone from the end of the stick and without waiting for an answer finds the photos he’s just taken and thrusts the phone in my face.

I instantly bite my lip to stop myself from laughing.

‘Huh?’ he says, looking proud.

‘Yeah, it’s very um… “Blue Steel”,’ I say, thinking that surely the pose was a deliberate piss-take.

‘“Blue Steel”? What, because of my blue eyes?’

‘Um, no. Have you not seen Zoolander?’

‘No,’ he says shaking his head. ‘I’m not really into animal things.’

I bite my lip even harder.

‘It’s about a male model. You should watch it – it might give you some tips.’

His face lights up.

‘Thanks. You know you’re not the first person to think I should be a model.’

‘Well, I didn’t actually say that. You know I should be on my—’

I go to walk but he nudges his selfie stick closer to me, pinning me back.

‘Yeah, a lot of people think that I look like Channing Tatum. Of course I have better moves than him,’ he says with a wink.

‘Oh… um…’ I picture him grinding like a character from Magic Mike and feel my cheeks warming.

He does a bit of a chest ripple with a satisfied smile on his face.

‘The likeness is… uncanny. But I better get my coffee or else my colleague will be on the warpath.’

‘Yeah, so will my boss, Evil Edward.’

I pull a suitable face of horror. Evil Edward is the Head of Sales and is ferocious. I once heard him shouting at one of the workers he was firing and I work two floors above him.

The man finally removes his selfie stick and folds it away before slipping it into his trousers.

‘I’ll see you around,’ he says, giving me an actual wink before he hurries down the stairs two at a time.

I shake my head in disbelief. And Cleo thinks I’m addicted to Instagram? At least I don’t go whipping out my selfie stick at work.

I head down the stairs to the floor below where the vain man works, relieved to find that the coffee machine does have mocha left. I manage to make it back to my floor without being hit in the face with any other selfie sticks and I salvage my tea by pouring in extra milk.

Mrs Harris is unimpressed when I arrive back at my desk. ‘Finally, I thought you’d gone to Colombia to get the coffee beans.’

‘They were out of mocha on this floor, so just be thankful that you didn’t have to walk all the way down to the ground floor to get it.’

‘That’s the second time this month,’ she says, outraged. ‘I’ll write to the canteen to tell them.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be delighted,’ I say, feeling sorry for the person who’s going to receive an all-caps telling-off.

My PC has finally booted up and I log in and check my emails, jotting down notes on the things that need to be done today, before I load up our in-house software.

‘So, I ran into this guy in the stairwell,’ I say in a low voice to Cleo. I don’t want Mrs Harris overhearing; I don’t want her accusing me of dilly-dallying when fetching her coffee. ‘Tall guy, works in Sales, about our age, brown hair in a neat quiff, dressed to impress, a smile with all the teeth.’

Cleo nods. ‘I know him. Luke something,’ she says, wrinkling up her face. ‘Luke Taylor, maybe? He’s cute.’

‘He’s vain. You should have seen the selfie stick that he had down his trousers.’

‘Monsieur, is that a selfie stick or are you just pleased to see me?’ she says in a fake French accent, making me giggle.

Mrs Harris give us a look from the other side of desks and we stop laughing.

‘Is he new?’ I whisper.

‘No, he’s been here a while, six months or so. Why all the questions – do you like him? Oh, I bet we could find him on the Link!’

‘No!’ I say, grabbing her hand away from her mouse. Cleo tends to use our internal office messaging system as if it’s her own personal dating app. ‘I just wanted to know who he was.’

‘I wonder if he’s single?’

‘Aren’t you seeing that guy from Accounts?’

‘Not for me, for you. You should totally message him.’

‘No, thanks. I make it a rule not to date anyone who takes longer to get ready than me.’

‘Yeah but did you check out his bum?’

‘Can’t say I noticed,’ I lie. It was hard to miss in his tight trousers.

‘I’d make an exception for that.’

‘Uh-oh,’ I say, pointing at Jason from Risk Management (aka the young whippersnapper with the spicy balls) who’s walking towards us with a pile of papers. Cleo looks over and gasps. ‘Mrs Harris!’

‘What is it? Can’t you see that some of us round here are busy? Some people have work to do, you know. We can’t all sit around gossiping.’

‘Fine, then I won’t tell you that there’s a bogey at two o’clock on a potential cake raid.’

She looks at her watch and wrinkles her brow.

‘Behind you. Jason,’ I hiss so that he won’t hear me.

She swivels her chair round to face him before jumping up in a more spritely fashion than I’ve ever seen her move. ‘Quick!’

She’s waving her arms, motioning for us to get up and join her.

We reluctantly get up and she grabs us, drawing us alongside her desk to create a human shield around her cake.

‘Jason,’ she says, giving him a hard stare he approaches.

‘Mrs Harris,’ he says, matching her firm tone. ‘I’m just chasing a contract that seems to be stuck with Cleo.’

‘And you couldn’t send her a message on Link or email her?’ she says, raising an eyebrow.

‘Sometimes it’s quicker to get things done in person.’

He elongates his neck a little in the direction of the Tupperware, and Mrs Harris pulls us in closer towards her to block out his view.

‘Cleo will look into it if you give her the details,’ she says, sternly.

‘Fine,’ says Jason, thrusting over a folder.

‘Fine,’ repeats Mrs Harris.

I’ve been dragged in so close now that I can practically taste Mrs Harris’s Chanel No 5.

Jason turns round on his heels and storms back through the office and Mrs Harris sighs and releases us from her clutches.

‘Pesky blighter,’ she says. ‘He made all that up. Trying to get a look at my cake! These whippersnappers.’ She shakes her head.

Dismissed, Cleo and I walk back over to our seats.

‘So where were we?’ says Cleo as she wheels herself back under her desk. ‘Oh yes, Luke Taylor’s bum.’

‘I think we finished that conversation. I only wanted to know if he’d been here long.’

‘Of course you did,’ she says with a sarcastic lilt.

I ignore her and turn my attention back to my computer screen. I’m going to knuckle down to my work this morning and I’m not going to stare at my phone. No matter what Cleo says, I’m not addicted.

My phone beeps an email alert as if it knew it was being watched.

My heart starts to beat rapidly as I pick it up and I almost can’t breathe when I see that it’s the email from the company that I’ve been waiting for.

Hi Izzy!

Thanks so much for your interest in the campaign we’re running. We were super impressed by your ideas but unfortunately we’ve decided to go another way. We’re going to use family bloggers with kids to do cute matching outfit shots. We’d still love to have your support on the campaign, so if you’re able to regram or share our posts on your channels we’d be super grateful.

Fran x

My heart sinks as I read the standard rejection spiel that has no doubt been cut and pasted to dozens of other influencer wannabes. This was supposed to be my big break. The one to propel me into triple or quadruple figure earnings that would allow me to quit my job.

‘Izzy, Howard’s in,’ whispers Cleo.

I look up and see our big boss striding across the floor to his desk.

I drop my phone on the desk and pretend to be busy at my computer. The last thing I need is to be let go from here, especially when the Instagram career that I so desperately want seems to be well and truly out of reach.

Welcome to June

This_Izzy_Loves IGTV

No. followers: 15.3k

How is it the first of June already? This year is racing by. I’ve got lots to look forward to this month. I’m going out with my besties for a long overdue night out and I’m also only days away from meeting my idol – Small Bubbles!! I am off to a VIP masterclass and I cannot wait to hear all her wisdom and find out exactly how I can rule Insta with her. Can’t you just see us as BFFs? Don’t you just love her?

Chapter 3

I thrust my iPhone back to Cleo, unsatisfied with what I’ve seen. ‘Can you take one more? That person got in the way, and if you could make sure you don’t get my feet in that would be ace.’

Cleo sighs but willingly holds up the camera and I walk forward towards it, swishing the skirt of my dress for what feels like the billionth time.

‘Is this all for Instagram?’

‘Uh-huh. It’s partly your fault that I’m all dressed up; you were the one that wanted to go for after-work drinks.’

‘Actually, it was Marissa who invoked the dress code,’ she says, looking down at her high heels.

‘Either way, I’ve got to make the most of it. Usually at this point on a Friday night I’m chilling in sweatpants.’

Cleo laughs and holds my phone out to me.

I quickly watch back the Boomerang and post it to my stories.

‘Can you just hold your foot out for me?’ I ask.

‘What’s wrong with you taking a photo of your own foot?’

I look down at my slightly scuffed Dorothy Perkins shoes that I bought in the sale last year. They’re not bad, but they’re not her much coveted (by me) Louboutins with their all-important bright red sole. They were a gift from a guy she dated last year. She has all the luck. The only thing I’ve ever got from someone I casually dated was my half of the bill.

‘Do you really want to compare my shoes to yours?’

She sighs again and holds her foot out and I snap a picture. I put a quick caption, ‘These beauties are out with me tonight’ and I post it to stories too.

That’s the beauty of Instagram: people don’t know that I’m not wearing those shoes. And technically they are coming out with me, so it’s not a total lie. They look so beautiful in the picture. I wish that Cleo wasn’t two shoe sizes smaller than me.

‘So, are we meeting Becca and Marissa outside the station?’ she asks.

‘Yes, although we should probably get a wriggle on because their train got in a few minutes ago.’

I pop my phone back in my bag and we make our way to the station where we find Marissa scrolling on her phone.

‘Hey, sorry we’re late,’ I say, ‘we rushed all the way here from work.’

‘Uh-huh,’ says Marissa, turning her screen round. I see myself, swishing my skirt in a quick motion.

‘Well, with a slight detour,’ I say, giving her a quick hug. ‘Where’s Becca?’

Marissa points at her pacing up and down a few metres away, talking on the phone. She gives us a wave and goes back to her conversation.

‘Long time, no see,’ says Marissa, turning to Cleo and giving her a hug.

‘I know, and look at you.’

Cleo pulls out of the hug and stands back to admire the bump. Marissa pushes it out further and beams.

‘I know it’s a cliché but you are glowing,’ says Cleo.

‘That’s just from travelling on the trains when the air con’s broken,’ she replies, laughing.

‘So, where are we headed?’ I say, hoping that it’s somewhere nearby – these heels weren’t made for walking.

Marissa’s eyes widen and a small smile creeps over her face.

‘How about drinks down in Lush and Lime?’

‘Won’t it be really busy?’ I say, groaning. Lush and Lime’s where the cool kids hang out. ‘It is Friday night.’

‘Exactly!’ she says clapping her hands together. ‘It’s Friday night and look, we’re all out and we’re all in heels.’

‘We certainly are,’ says Cleo, flashing the soles of hers.

‘Oh my God, look at those beauties,’ says Marissa as she lifts her leg up and examines them from every angle whilst poor Cleo hops about trying to keep her balance.

‘Sorry about that,’ says Becca, hanging up her phone and giving Cleo and me a quick hug hello. ‘So, where are we off to?’

Marissa and I speak at the same time:

‘Not decided.’

‘Lush and Lime.’

She puts her hand up in front of me in a stop-motion, and turns to Becca.

‘Don’t listen to her, we’re going to Lush and Lime. Anywhere else would be a waste of Cleo’s shoes. Plus they have those karaoke pods. We can see if we can get one for later on? Huh, Becca?’

‘Not tonight,’ she says. ‘Let’s stick to dancing.’

It’s a shame as Becca has the most beautiful voice but she hardly ever sings anymore.

‘Good plan, I’m up for a boogie,’ says Marissa. ‘Let’s go.’

When we get to the bar Cleo makes a beeline across the polished wooden floor to get us a drink. Marissa decides to give her a hand and Becca and I wrestle our way to the back, where we’re not jostling anyone for elbow space. We manage to find a spot by the window where we can at least dump our jackets and perch our bums on the windowsill.

‘So, how was work?’ I ask.

‘OK. I’m glad the week’s over.’

‘Me too.’ I nod in agreement.

Not that my work is stressful compared to Becca’s. She’s a probation officer and I honestly don’t know how she does it.

‘So look at us, out-out,’ she says, wriggling to get comfy on the windowsill.

‘I know, it’s like a modern miracle. Don’t tell Marissa, but I’d much rather be sat on our sofa drinking a bottle of Prosecco and watching The Crown.’

‘I know, me too. We can always watch some when we get home.’

This is why living with Becca has worked out so well. She’s my ideal housemate: clean, tidy and loves to stay in as much as I do.

‘Great idea. How long do you think we need to stay out?’

‘I’m guessing at least two hours, if not three,’ says Becca as she slides her feet out of her electric blue peep-toe stilettos. ‘Now, that’s much better. They’re killing me.’

‘But they’re so pretty.’

‘Doesn’t make them any less evil.’

‘Are they new? I haven’t seen them before.’

‘I bought them today. To go with the dress I bought last week, for Ascot?’

‘Oh,’ I say, getting caught off balance. I look down at them again. ‘They’ll go perfectly.’

She can’t hide the smile on her face, it lights her up. I can’t remember the last time I saw her this excited about anything and it makes me feel a bit guilty that I haven’t talked to her much about Gareth. I still can’t think of her being with anyone but Ben.

‘Are you excited about Ascot? And about meeting his work colleagues?’

‘I’m terrified. It’s so soon.’

‘It’s not that soon. You’ll have been dating for a couple of months by then.’

‘But what if they don’t like me? What if it puts Gareth off?’ There’s a hint of panic in her voice and I rub her shoulder.

‘No one can not like you. Plus, from the sounds of it, Gareth really likes you so I don’t think you have anything to worry about.’

I don’t mean to emphasise Gareth’s name as I say it, but it sticks awkwardly in my throat. I try and think of something else to ask her to show her that I’m not being weird about it, but Marissa appears and thrusts jam jars full of pink liquid at us.

‘Do I want to know what it’s in it?’ I ask, holding up the neon drink to the light.

‘I don’t think so,’ says Cleo, arriving beside Marissa and taking a sip and shuddering.

I take a sip and I shudder even more violently than her. ‘Is it me, or are drinks stronger now than when we used to go out?’

‘You’re just out of practice,’ Marissa chides. ‘This is exactly why I try and get you to come out more.’

‘It’s all right for you, yours has no alcohol in it. And it’s so loud. Was music always so loud?’ I ask, shouting.

‘It is pretty loud in here,’ says Becca. She takes a swig of her drink and her eyes nearly pop out. ‘I don’t think I’m ever going to sleep again with all these e-numbers.’

‘And look how young everyone looks. I feel like I’m at a school disco,’ I say.

‘Listen to you,’ says Marissa, tutting. ‘Cleo’s going to think that she’s out with grandmas.’

Marissa might be the most grown up out of all of us with a mortgage, husband, baby on the way, a dog and a garden shed, but she’s showing no signs of slowing down.

‘We’re not leaving here until you’ve drunk one too many jam jars and had a boogie.’

I look over at the empty dance floor and wonder if I can have a dance and get it over with. Although with my moves, someone would probably film it and it’d go viral and that’s not really how I want to get internet famous.

‘One more cocktail, then we dance,’ I say, hoping it will have filled up by then.

‘I’ll get the next ones in then,’ says Becca.

I turn and look at her empty glass in horror.

‘What? That tasted like Refreshers; so good.’ She slides her feet back into her shoes and heads off to the bar.

‘Whatever happened to them?’ asks Marissa.

‘Refreshers? I’m pretty sure you can still buy them,’ I say, pulling out my phone to google it and I might just check how many people have viewed my posts whilst I’m there.