Praise for Anna Bell

‘The perfect laugh-out-loud love story’ Louise Pentland

‘Smart, witty and completely fresh’ Cathy Bramley

‘Romantic and refreshing’ Mhairi McFarlane

‘A fun, bouncy, brilliant tale’ Heat

‘Funny, relatable and fabulously written’ Daily Express

‘Perfect for fans of Sophie Kinsella’ Take a Break

‘Romance, comedy and drama sparkle in this fun, fresh and frothy concoction’ Lancashire Evening Post

‘A hilarious and heartwarming story’ Don’t Bend the Spine

‘Properly funny stuff’ Fabulous

‘A funny, feel-good read’ Closer

‘A brilliantly funny, romantic and effervescent read’ Frost magazine

ANNA BELL lives in the South of France with her young family and energetic Labrador. When not chained to her laptop, Anna can be found basking in the sun in the summer, heading to the ski slopes in the winter (to drink hot chocolate and watch – she can’t ski) or having a sneaky treat from the patisserie – all year round! We Just Clicked is Anna’s eighth novel.

You can find out more about Anna on her website – www.annabellwrites.com or follow her on Twitter @annabell_writes

We Just Clicked

Anna Bell

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Anna Bell 2020

Anna Bell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008340780

Version 2020-04-07

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

 Change of font size and line height

 Change of background and font colours

 Change of font

 Change justification

 Text to speech

 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008340773

For Evan, who I become prouder of every day.

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Two Years Later

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Prologue

If I’d known that the last time I’d see Ben was that unusually hot day in April, I would have made more of an effort to tell him something profound. I would have told him I loved him. Told him I was sorry for all the times I’d fought petty arguments with him. Told him how he was more a part of me than I ever imagined was possible. I certainly wouldn’t have told him that he had crappy taste in engagement rings and that his hairline was starting to recede. But I guess in some ways that was better than all the soppy stuff because if I’d known it was the last time, I’d never have let him leave that afternoon at all.

He’d taken me to a high-end jewellery shop whose windows I’d only ever drooled over from the outside. I’d never dared enter it, let alone imagined that I, Izzy Brown, would be allowed to touch one of their exquisite rings.

‘Holy shit,’ I said, my hand flying up to my mouth in embarrassment of my potty mouth. Luckily the man behind the counter was polite enough to act like he hadn’t heard. ‘Are you sure the rock’s big enough?’

I held the diamond up to the light and it practically blinded me. There was no denying it was a beautiful ring, but it was far too showy.

‘It’s not that big,’ said Ben. Beads of sweat had started to form on his forehead as the magnitude of what was happening hit him. Or maybe he’d caught sight of the price tag. ‘I just want it to be special.’

‘I think it’s too much,’ I said, shaking my head and slipping it off. ‘I think she’d prefer something more understated.’

‘Something like that?’ asked Ben, pointing to another equally ostentatious ring.

I shuddered, not because the ring was horrid but because it was exactly the type of ring that I imagined that Cameron would propose with. Not that he’d come here. He’d have flown to Antwerp and bought the perfect diamond first before flying back to have it set. That’s what the very few engaged or married traders that he knew had done and Cameron hated to deviate from the pack.

‘I think she’d prefer something like…’ I walked along to the opposite end of the display cabinet and my eyes fell upon the perfect ring, ‘like that.’

I stared at the platinum band with a bright blue sapphire flanked on either side by tiny diamonds. It was elegant and understated, but special none the less. It was exactly what he was looking for.

Ben followed my finger and examined the ring before he looked up at me and a small smile spread across his face.

‘Bloody hell, that’s the one.’

The man behind the counter pulled it out and rested it on the top and glided it over my finger. It was a little tighter than the first one, but it fit well enough. Ben shook a little as he checked the price tag but relief flooded his face when he saw he could afford it.

‘It’s an excellent choice,’ said the man. He started spieling about the cut and clarity of the diamonds and the pedigree of the sapphire, but I could tell Ben wasn’t listening. He’d found the ring and he was happy. As was I – my hand had never looked more beautiful. I fanned my fingers out and stared at it twinkling in the lights. It was entrancing.

The man behind the counter coughed and I looked up a little embarrassed.

‘I need to pop it back in the box,’ he said.

‘Of course, of course,’ I said tugging it off. ‘It’s so beautiful.’

Ben smiled as he handed over his credit card, and just like that, my brother had taken his first step to getting married. Or perhaps it was technically his second step as he’d actually got engaged a few years ago when he’d proposed with a ring from a Christmas cracker. He’d told his fiancée that he’d get her a better ring one day, and after a recent work promotion he’d finally been able to make good on the promise.

‘I can’t believe you’re going to do this,’ I said, looping my arm through his as we left the store.

‘We’ve been engaged for three years, it’s hardly a shocker.’

‘I know, but this is really it, though, isn’t it? You’ve got the proper ring and you’re going to set a proper date. This is huge. We should celebrate.’

‘I was going to head straight back to the station. I don’t really want to be walking round London with it.’

He hugged his backpack tighter to his chest. He looked like such a tourist wearing it over his front.

I pulled out my phone and read a message.

‘Cameron’s going to the Founder’s Arms, it’s just over the river from here. Why don’t we go and have a quick drink with him before I walk you back to Waterloo?’

Ben looked at his watch and I could tell he was uneasy, but I hadn’t seen him in ages. The afternoon had whizzed by and there was still so much to catch up on.

‘OK, but the drinks are on you as I don’t think I can ever afford to drink again after buying that.’

‘Ben, I hope you’re not getting into debt for the ring. It’s not like the wedding will be cheap and—’

‘Izzy, I’m kidding.’

‘Good,’ I said with relief.‘Of course I’ll buy you a celebratory drink anyway. Plus, I can’t wait for you to meet Cameron.’

‘Oh yes, the famous Cameron. I’m intrigued to meet him too.’

It felt strange that they’d not met before, but my life in London seemed so far removed from my family and friends back home in Basingstoke. The two might only be an hour apart by train but you’d think I was from Timbuktu judging by the reaction I’d get from Cameron when I suggested we visit. I think he expected that he’d turn to dust if he left the Greater London area, like a vampire entering a church.

I stifled a yawn as we weaved through the empty streets. During the week the same ones would be full of City workers bustling about, but at the weekend they were deserted.

‘Late night?’ asked Ben.

‘Kind of, but it’s been one of those weeks where every night’s been a late one.’

‘I don’t know how you do it; I can barely manage going out at the weekend now.’

‘That’s what happens when you’re old and settled. You get a mortgage, you get married and next you’ll be losing your hair like Dad.’

He rubbed at his hair. ‘Oi, I’m only two years older than you and I’m not receding quite yet. Plus I’m not married yet either.’

Ben’s been with his fiancée Becca for fifteen years; they met at school, and I think of them as an old married couple. It’s been a cruel wait for my mum to splash out on an over-the-top mother-of-the-groom hat and for me who wants to be their bridesmaid.

‘So does this mean you’re going to have to propose all over again?’

‘Oh God, I don’t know. Does it? That was the whole point of proposing with the cracker ring. It was supposed to be whimsical.’

‘I think that would have been fine if you’d then produced the real ring soon afterwards, but three years… I think you’ll have to do it again, and with a ring like that it deserves to be properly romantic.’

He groaned.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll help you think of something.’

By the time we crossed over the river to the pub, we’d come up with a sneaky proposal plan that was both romantic and personal. I’d shed a few happy tears and Ben was once again grateful I’d helped him out.

We arrived at the pub before Cameron and his friends, so we ordered drinks and took them out onto the terrace. We managed to find a recently vacated table on the edge, still covered with empty glasses.

‘Will you take my photo?’ I said, looking over at the view over the Thames towards St Paul’s on the other side.

I didn’t bother to wait for a reply; I simply held out my phone to Ben and struck a pose.

‘Is this for your Instagram? I see you’re doing really well. Over 500 followers?’ he said.

‘I know. Can you believe it?’

‘I told you I had a good feeling about it,’ he said, snapping a couple of shots. He checked his work before handing it over with a nod. ‘Not bad.’

I had a look myself and was suitably impressed.

‘Perfect, I can post that later with all the appropriate hashtags.’

‘Move over Zoella,’ he said sipping his drink.

‘I don’t think I’d ever be that big, it’s just nice doing something creative again. And you never know, I could perhaps try and make the move into marketing or PR by showing agencies that I understand how to build a brand.’

‘Still having no luck on the job front?’

I shook my head. I took a job as a copywriter for an advertising agency that specialised in medical products straight out of university. I thought I was going to have a glittering advertising career and that it would all be cocktails and swanky parties à la Mad Men, only the reality was far from glamorous. I didn’t mind when I was younger, when it was all about the pay cheque and where the next party was, but as I’d got older I wanted to start focusing on my career. Only five years writing copy about haemorrhoid creams had left me pigeonholed in the medical sector and longing to do work that people didn’t read in desperation because they had piles.

‘Well, I think you’re onto something with the Instagram thing. From what I’ve seen on your feed, you’re a natural. I’m sure you’ll be making a living out of it in no time.’

I laughed hard. ‘Do you have any idea how hard it would be to get to that stage?’

Ben shrugged. ‘I know you could do it. You know, I’m proud of you for giving it a go.’ He chinked his glass against mine.

‘And I’m proud of you, finally getting married. Can I see the ring again?’ I said, clapping my hands together.

He looked around to see if anyone was watching and he leant down into his bag, which he had looped around his leg. He pulled the little ring box out and flipped it open, holding it out to me.

‘Oh, it’s even more beautiful than I remember it being,’ I said, looking at it longingly. ‘Can I try it on?’

‘I guess so, it’s probably safer on your finger than it is in my bag,’ he said as I picked it up and slipped it on.

I held my hand out and it felt complete again. The table next to us burst into applause. I looked around to see what they were clapping at and it took me a good few seconds to realise they were all staring at me and Ben.

‘Congratulations,’ one of them shouted whilst raising their glass.

‘What the… Oh no, it’s not what it looks like. He’s my brother,’ I said in slight horror as I tried to slip the ring back off my finger but it didn’t want to budge.

The clapping petered out and they all looked a bit embarrassed.

‘I was just trying it on,’ I said, feeling ridiculous and yanking it even harder, but it wasn’t moving in the slightest.

‘Well, I hope the actual proposal goes better than that,’ said Ben, taking a large sip of his drink.

‘Um, that’s if I can give you the ring back,’ I said, holding up my hand. My finger looked like a plump sausage and it was at least double its normal size.

‘You’re joking, right?’ he said, laughing a little awkwardly before he realised I wasn’t laughing back. ‘Izzy!’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, wincing. ‘It won’t come off.’

I tried to pull it as hard as I could.

‘Don’t do that,’ he said, screwing up his face. ‘You might break it.’

He took an audible deep breath before he stood up.

‘Ice, you need to put it in ice. Your hand will shrink,’ he said.

‘I can put it in my cider,’ I said, about to plunge it in.

‘Don’t you dare, it’ll get sticky. Hold tight, I’ll get some from the bar.’

Hold tight, I muttered to myself as I sat there looking at my ever-increasing sausage finger.

‘Izzy,’ shouted a voice and I looked up to see Cameron and a few of his work colleague friends heading across the pub terrace, glasses in hand. ‘I didn’t realise you’d already be here; I would have got you a drink,’ he said as he sat down next to me and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. ‘So how did the engagement ring shopping go?’

‘Really well,’ I said holding my hand up. ‘I decided I’d save us the trouble and get the ball rolling.’

I’d been about to laugh, thinking he would too, when his whole face started to crumple.

‘Er, Izzy, I don’t know what you were thinking but I really don’t think we’re there, are we? I mean, we only live together because you were living in Balham and I don’t go further out than Zone 2. I mean, you know how much I care about you and all—’

‘Prosecco on the house,’ said a woman, cutting Cameron off mid-flow. ‘For the happy couple, I hear you just got engaged!’

Cameron looked up at the barmaid in absolute horror, his face turning pale. I risked a glance at his work colleagues who were all trying to look anywhere but in our direction. All except Tiffany, who was giving me her usual pursed-lipped, narrowed-eye look. I’d long suspected she fancied Cameron, even though he denied it.

‘Actually, we didn’t,’ I said, mortified. ‘It was all just a misunderstanding. I was trying on a ring for my brother and it got stuck.’

‘Oh well,’ said the woman, looking unbothered. ‘You might as well have it now anyway, it’s been written off by our boss.’

She placed the tray with the bottle and glasses on the table and I muttered a thank you.

‘Here’s the ice,’ said Ben, rushing over and putting it down in front of me.

He grabbed my hand and plunged it into the water.

‘Bloody hell, that’s cold,’ I said, wincing in pain as my hand started to go numb. ‘How long have I got to keep it in there?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, still panicked. ‘Until it comes off?’

He turned and noticed Cameron, who was sitting there mute.

‘Cameron, this is my brother Ben, Ben this is my boyfriend Cameron, or at least I think he’s still my boyfriend, but he’s definitely nowhere near being my fiancé,’ I said.

They muttered a hello and shook hands, both distracted: Ben by the ring stuck on my finger, Cameron by the conversation we’d just had.

I pulled my hand out of the glass and, much to my and Ben’s relief, the ring came off my finger.

Ben cradled it like a newborn baby, wrapping it up in his T-shirt and drying it carefully before depositing it back in the box and in the safety of his backpack.

‘So it’s your ring?’ Tiffany said to Ben, with obvious relief.

‘Yes, and I think I’d better take it home before anything else happens to it,’ he said, downing the rest of his cider. ‘Do you mind, Izzy?’

‘Of course not,’ I said lying.

I got up and gave him a quick hug and he said a quick goodbye to the others before leaving, clutching his bag.

It was the last time I ever saw him.

Two weeks after the pub incident I was on my way to work when my phone rang. My mum’s number flashed up and at first I thought she’d phoned me by mistake because it was so early. When I picked up there was a rustling sound on the line, and I was about to hang up when I realised it was Mum sobbing. Eventually my dad took the phone from her, and when he spoke I barely recognised his voice. It was so quiet and soft, nothing like his usual boom.

‘Izzy, are you sitting down? Something awful’s happened to Ben.’

I’d immediately started to witter on about an accident and asking if he was in hospital when Dad went quiet. He didn’t need to tell me the next bit; I knew from his tone that Ben had died.

The world started to spin and my body and mind seemed to drift away from each other. I could hear Dad telling me details and words jumped out at me – cardiac arrest… arrhythmia… in his sleep – but I couldn’t absorb any of it. I was too numb to take it all in, too numb to be able to say anything other than I was coming home.

I was near Paddington, and so I jumped on a train to Reading in the hope of changing from there to Basingstoke. It’s not a route I’d usually take going home but I couldn’t face travelling across London in rush hour. I went into some sort of a survival mode, putting one foot in front of the other and was amazed to find myself on the right train.

I managed to hold it together until I got to Reading and then it hit me – like slapped me in the face as if a freight train had hit me – and I found myself stranded at the station not knowing how I was going to find my connecting train. All I could think was that Ben was gone and that I’d never see him again.

My legs started to wobble and my phone slid out of my hands, and I couldn’t stop myself from falling.

‘Whoa, there,’ said a man, catching me under my arms and keeping me upright. ‘Are you all right?’

My head was throbbing and my legs had gone to jelly.

‘Are you all right?’ he said again, but it felt like it was coming from somewhere distant.

He continued to hold onto me and I took a moment to look at him. He was dressed in a smart blue shirt that matched his eyes.

‘Do you speak English?’ he said, elongating every word and speaking very loudly.

‘I, um, yes,’ I said, confused.

‘Sorry, you weren’t answering me and I thought… Look, are you OK? Is there someone I could call?’

I shook my head. There really wasn’t. Cameron was on a business trip to New York, I’d planned to call him when I got to my parents’ house. There was no rush; it was the middle of the night there and it wasn’t like he’d be able to do anything from there. I thought back to the one and only time that Cameron had met my brother and my heart started to ache about it – my last afternoon with Ben. ‘I’m on my way to my mum and dad’s and I… I don’t know where the platform is for Basingstoke.’

A breeze whistled through the station and my curls blew into my face. I’d left the house with them wet, I’d planned on putting my hair up at some point on my journey, but I’d forgotten and they’d dried out of control.

‘Your mum and dad,’ said the man kindly, ‘in Basingstoke. OK, OK, we can do that.’

He looked up and scanned the departures board. I couldn’t believe that I’d been standing so close and I hadn’t noticed it. My mind felt full of fog.

‘OK, so Platform 4 at 9.52, you’ve got ten minutes. I’ll take you there,’ he said.

I closed my eyes and I was flooded with relief.

‘Thank you, I…’ I took another deep breath. ‘Just thank you.’

‘It’s no problem, really. Um, OK, can you stand on your own, do you think? You look a bit unsteady.’

‘I think so,’ I said, focusing on breathing in and out.

He pulled his arms away from me slowly and I successfully proved that I could stand on two feet, much to both our amazement. My hair blew in my face again, and I scraped it out of the way the best I could, but curls kept getting stuck on my tear-stained cheeks.

‘Now,’ he said, pulling the hair band off my wrist. ‘This looks like it’s bothering you.’

He scooped my curls up into the messiest topknot ever, but in that split second I was just so grateful that he’d got them away from my face. I stared down at the red ring the band had left on my wrist, wondering why I didn’t remember I had it there in the first place.

He bent down and retrieved my phone and wrinkled his face.

‘It’s a little cracked,’ he said, handing it to me. I slipped it into my handbag without looking.

‘Least of my worries,’ I said, and he nodded.

‘Let’s get you on that train.’

He steered me by the elbow towards a platform, taking care not to rush me, as I tried desperately to hold the floodgates of emotions shut.

The man walked me halfway along a platform and he continued to hold my elbow until the train arrived, like he was propping me up. It was only when he escorted me onto it that I noticed he wasn’t leaving.

‘Your train,’ I said in protest. ‘You don’t have to take me to Basingstoke.’

He guided me to a seat, and sat down on the one next to me.

‘It’s fine, I can catch a later one. I just want to make sure you get there safely. That’s all.’

‘But really, I’ll be fine,’ I said, trying to hold back the tears.

‘You’re not fine, and you don’t have to be either,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure you get to your mum and dad’s. Do they live near the station, or do you need a taxi?’

‘Taxi,’ I just about managed. His kindness was starting to make me choke up.

‘OK, then I’ll make sure you get in one.’

I stopped protesting and nodded and then the tears started to fall. I cried all over his blue shirt and he sat there patiently passing me napkins that he’d nabbed from the buffet trolley.

I didn’t even realise we’d reached our final destination until he gently guided me out of the seat and led me out of the doors. I walked down the stairs into the tunnel to the main entrance, not caring what an absolute state I must have looked like.

I found my ticket and put it into the machine on autopilot and he followed me through the barrier using the ticket he’d purchased on the train. Then he led me to the black cabs waiting outside the station.

‘Are you OK from here?’ he asked, helping me inside the cab.

I nodded back, ‘I am.’

He leant into the front of the cab and handed the driver a £20 note, asking him to take me to where I needed to go.

‘She hasn’t been drinking, has she? I don’t want to clear up any sick,’ said the driver.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘She’s just had a really awful start to the day.’

He turned to me and smiled with his head tilted.

‘I’m so sorry for whatever’s happened to you,’ he practically whispered.

‘Thank you. Thank you for everything,’ I stuttered. It didn’t seem adequate for what he’d done.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s what anyone would have done.’

‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Aidan,’ he said softly.

‘Thank you, Aidan,’ I said.

‘You take care,’ he said, stepping out of the car and gently closing the door.

‘Where to, love?’ asked the taxi driver.

I gave him my parents’ address and he pulled out into the road. I turned back and looked at Aidan standing there on the pavement. He waved and I waved back. But then I remembered that Ben had gone and the rest of the journey became a blur.

Two Years Later

Welcome to May

This_Izzy_Loves IGTV

No. followers: 15.3k

Hello! I’m back. Sorry to those who missed me over the last couple of days. I was away with my family and we chose to stay offline – I know, I KNOW! But I survived and I had lots of time to think up wonderful things that I’m going to put up on my feed this month. Can’t wait to share it all with you – including hopefully a great brand collaboration. Keeping all my fingers and toes crossed, and wrapped in plastic – wink.

Chapter 1

There are many ridiculous things I have done in the name of ‘the Gram’. Walking past restaurants that I know have mouthwateringly delicious meals only to eat at mediocre places because their food is more photogenic. Standing alone on the South Bank posing like I’m in Britain’s Next Top Model whilst discreetly pressing the remote for my camera. Maxing out my credit card to bring home an ideal #OutfitOfTheDay wardrobe only to take all the items back after I’d snapped myself in them. But being wrapped up in three 20m rolls of clingfilm in an attempt to snare a lucrative marketing campaign probably takes the biscuit.

‘Are we sure this is a good idea?’ I ask, staring at the rolls of clingfilm in Marissa’s hands like they’re a deadly weapon.

‘It’s a great idea, it’s going to be fantastic,’ she says. Of course she’d say that; she came up with it. ‘It is the perfect Halloween costume and probably the easiest one.’

‘Do you think people will get that I’m one of Dexter’s victims? Is it too old a TV programme?’

She tuts dismissively and walks closer towards me. She’s so keen to get me wrapped up in this plastic that if she wasn’t my best friend that I’ve known for practically my whole life, I’d be worried that she was actually trying to bump me off Dexter-style.

‘OK, hold tight,’ she says, a glint in her eye.

I know that there’s no point in protesting. The only positive I can think of right now is that it might warm me up. I’m standing here in a skin-coloured strapless bra and giant knickers, shivering. I’d turned the heating down thinking that I’d be far too warm when wearing my new plastic fantastic outfit. I hadn’t factored in the pre-wrapped stage.

Marissa starts to pass the plastic round and round and it starts to get tighter and tighter.

‘Do you think it’s actually safe? Are you sure I can’t suffocate?’

‘Come on, we checked this. Google never lies, right?’

‘Did we google that specifically? “Can I die from a clingfilm costume?” Maybe we should have used the American brand name. What do they call it, it’s something-wrap isn’t it?’

‘Saran wrap,’ says Marissa, bending down to start wrapping up my waist.

I go to reach for my phone to check and Marissa slaps my hand away.

‘It’s not like you’re going to be covered in it for long. We only need to take a few photos.’

‘A few photos?’ I laugh.

It makes it sound like one or two, but to get the one golden shot we usually take fifty or sixty. Luckily Marissa’s a fellow Instagrammer so we go above and beyond classic best friend duties by being each other’s stylist, muse, photographer, editor and number one fan.

Our friendship has always been mutually supportive. At fourteen, when I joined the school choir, Marissa did too, despite being tone deaf. At sixteen, when she went all goth I dyed my hair black and boiled all summer long in black velvet dresses. At eighteen, when I wanted a Chinese symbol on the small of my back before I went to university, Marissa not only held my hand but got a matching one on hers too. So when Ben died and I moved back to my hometown of Basingstoke with a serious Instagram addiction, it wasn’t long before we fell into our old pattern and she became an addict too.

‘OK, here we go,’ she says, bending down and wrapping my bum. ‘We’re getting there. How are you feeling?’

‘Like I’m in a straitjacket.’

‘Perfect. It’s looking great.’

She switches to a new roll.

‘We’re going through them quickly,’ I say. ‘Is my bum really that big?’

‘It is a lot of plastic, isn’t it?’ she says.

‘Oh crap, do you think I’ll get in trouble? Will the brand call me irresponsible?’

Marissa stops and stares at the empty rolls on the floor. ‘Shit, I hadn’t thought about that.’

We both look down at my costume.

‘The thing is, if you stop now and don’t post this then we’ll have used these rolls anyway and that would be worse,’ she says.

‘You’re right. It’s not like I can reuse it,’ I say.

‘No, you don’t want to be covering any more chicken fillets with them,’ says Marissa, laughing.

‘I’ll have you know these are real,’ I say, looking down at my chest that’s flattened like a pancake and could actually do with something to pad it out.

She carries on and I hope that I don’t lose out on the contract because of a misjudgement in green credentials.

Finally she stands back. ‘You’re all finished,’ she says, taking a snap of me on her iPhone to show me.

‘Wow, that actually looks pretty good,’ I say.

‘Now for the blood,’ she practically cackles. My eyes widen as she slips on an apron, much too like the real Dexter for my liking.

‘What?’ she says. ‘I don’t want to get any on my jeans.’

Marissa signals for me to lie on the plastic sheeting that we’ve covered my very white lounge with whilst she stirs the lumpy cocoa powder and food dye paste like a witch stirring a cauldron. She bends down and expertly applies the fake blood to my stomach.

‘Now the duct tape,’ she says, taping my arms above my head. ‘And the knife,’ she says, whipping one out from her handbag.

‘What the—’ I shout until I realise there’s no glint on it and it’s quite clearly plastic.

‘Can you believe they still make these?’ she says, pushing the fake blade into my stomach, causing the blade to retract into the handle.

‘I haven’t seen one of those since primary school. I don’t think that’d be allowed in the playground anymore.’

‘Not likely,’ she says, taping the handle to my stomach as discreetly as she can.

‘I think you’re done,’ she says, pulling over the tripod. ‘You ready?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘OK, pull some scared faces,’ she says as she starts clicking.

She takes a couple of shots and then looks down at the camera and pulls it off the tripod.

‘I think it looks pretty good. I’m so going to do this for my costume when it’s actually Halloween.’

I stare at her emerging bump.

‘Erm, you do realise that you’re going to be eight months pregnant by then.’

‘Oh yeah,’ she says, looking down at her stomach. ‘I guess that would be way too much plastic.’

‘Yep, that’s the problem with this costume for a pregnant woman.’

‘What do you reckon?’ she asks, holding the camera above my head so that I can see the photo.

‘I love it. But I should have duct tape over my mouth too, don’t you think?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, just don’t stick it down too hard!’

Receiving a message from an agency representing a well-known supermarket was like a dream come true. They’re looking for influencers on Instagram to pitch them ideas for Halloween posts – the caveat being you have to come up with a costume from products you can buy in store. And with a little help from Marissa, who was insanely jealous that I got asked and she didn’t, I came up with a killer concept in all sense of the word. I’m just hoping it’s enough to win me the campaign. It would be so on brand for me – my theme is all about affordable lifestyle.

My Instagram following has been growing over the last three years and I’m just teetering on the edge of starting to earn good money for sponsored posts. I desperately hope that soon I’ll make enough that my monthly earnings go into triple figures. In my wildest dreams I get caught up in fantasies that I’ll be able to earn enough to give up the temp job I took when I moved back to Basingstoke or at the very least move out of the little flat I now share with Ben’s ex-fiancée Becca and its mouldy bathroom, but right now I’d settle for making more from an ad than the cost of the props involved, which in this case (clingfilm, cocoa powder, food dye and plastic knife) is probably about fifteen quid.

Marissa rips a strip of tape and places it gently over my mouth.

‘OK?’

I go to nod but realise that I’m restrained and instead I blink twice, hoping she’ll pick up on the new code.

‘Right then.’

My phone on the table starts to buzz and ring loudly. Only two people ring my phone: salespeople and my mum.

Marissa peers over at it. ‘It’s your mum,’ she says and without hesitation picks it up.

‘Hello, Dawn, I’m afraid Izzy’s a bit tied up at the moment and I mean that literally… No, unfortunately I’m not being cheeky, it’s not a man who’s tied her up… No, she’s still not dating anyone… No, as far as I know there’s been no one since Cameron… I have suggested that… and that… uh-huh, you know what she’s like.’

I make a muffled noise through the duct tape to remind her that I’m still here.

‘Yes, the bump’s fine, thank you… Over the worst of it now, I haven’t been sick for a couple of weeks… Yes, December… Yes, Tim is over the moon about being a dad… Yes, Mum said she’d told you at Zumba. OK then, shall I get her to call you when she’s free?… uh-huh, uh-huh… right, yes, hopefully see you soon.’

She hangs up the phone and pops it back on the table, as if it was totally normal to have a chat with my mum whilst I lie here constrained by clingfilm.

‘Your mum says, can you call her when you’re less tied up?’

I blink twice in recognition and Marissa picks up her camera once more. She takes a couple more shots and looks at them, wrinkling her brow at the results.

‘It looks a little dark.’ She takes the camera off the tripod again and turns it round to face me and I totally agree.

‘I’ll go and get the standing lamp from your bedroom.’

She leaves me alone and I look up at the ceiling and see there’s a cobweb hanging right above my head. I’m scanning it for signs of life – or death in the case of any flies trapped in it – that would signal the existence of a spider. What if there was one right above my head, ready to drop down from its web, and there would be nothing I could do about it? I shiver. There’s absolutely no way I could go on I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here! I’ll have to remember that when they try and lure me onto the show when I’m a huge Instagram star. I might be willing to do crazy things like this whilst I’m a mere wannabe but hopefully the crazy and the ridiculous will stop by the time I become a megastar.

I hear the key in the door and I go to move, but Marissa’s done a pretty good job with the duct tape and I’m stuck.

‘Don’t come in!’ I shout. I’m shocked that I can make myself heard through the duct tape; so much for all those Hollywood movies. It doesn’t stop Becca though, and I hear her scream before I see her peering over me.

She puts her hand to her chest and takes an over-the-top deep breath.

‘What the hell are you doing? You scared the life out of me.’

Becca leans over and rips off the tape, which fortunately wasn’t stuck anymore or else I might have had an impromptu waxing session. Her arms are now folded and her nostrils are flaring. And from this angle with her angular bob and straight fringe she looks pretty fierce.

‘We were just taking photos,’ I stutter.

‘Don’t tell me this is one of your Instagram photoshoots.’

Marissa walks into the room and Becca points a finger at her. ‘You’re not going all Sweeney Todd for one of your recipes, are you?’

‘No, no. I gave up on the food porn ages ago. Now my feed’s more yummy mummy-to-be.’

Becca looks accusingly at me. ‘Right, so this is for you then. Bloody Instagram.’

‘But this is different, it’s for a possible contract – you know, as in paid. It’s for Halloween.’

‘Halloween is months away,’ she says, putting her hands on her hips.

‘I know but the agency have to pitch it to their client and I guess these things take time to develop,’ I say, trailing off.

‘Well, a little warning would have been nice.’

‘You usually go to the gym on Thursdays. But seeing as you’re here we could have a proper girls’ night in.’

‘Groan,’ says Marissa. ‘I’ve got a ticking time bomb in my belly and I’ve seen what happened to my sister; in a few months’ time it’ll be like a military operation to even leave the house, let alone see you guys on my own or have the energy to go out-out. Let’s go for drinks! It is Thirsty Thursday.’

Marissa has a name for every day of the week to make it sound like it’s a socially acceptable night of the week to go out drinking: Tipsy Tuesday, Wicked Wednesday, Thirsty Thursday, Sunday Funday.

‘Tempting as that sounds,’ says Becca, ‘I’ve got a date tonight. I just came back for a shower.’

‘A date?’ says Marissa, arching an eyebrow.

‘Uh-huh, with Gareth.’

‘Again? Good for you.’

Becca tucks her hair behind her ears and it only highlights how crimson her cheeks have turned.

‘Looks like you’ll have to make do with Kirsty and Phil and a takeaway,’ I say.

Marissa doesn’t look pleased. Once she’s got a night out in her sights she won’t let it go. We’ll be out in heels and sequins whether we like it or not.

‘We could always go for drinks next weekend,’ she replies.

Becca and I exchange glances; we both know we’re doomed.

‘I’m free on the Friday night,’ says Becca, flipping through the post. She pulls a letter out and starts opening it.

‘I said I’d go out for drinks with Cleo after work,’ I say.

‘Ooh I really liked her when we met at your birthday. Why don’t Becca and I come and meet you guys? We can get the train to Reading, can’t we, Becca? Then it really will be a big night. We can go to one of those cocktail bars and get dressed up all swanky.’

Now it’s my turn to groan. The best part of only going for an after-work drink is that I get to leave early because Cleo thinks that Basingstoke is really far from Reading. I’ve never corrected her that in reality it’s only twenty minutes on very frequent trains because my ‘long and arduous commute’ is an excellent excuse to use when I want to sneak away from work socialising. Unfortunately, Marissa knows when the last trains are and also a cheap cab company that’ll drive us home at goodness-knowswhat time.

‘I’m not sure,’ says Becca, wrinkling up her nose. ‘I’m old now, I don’t know if I can be arsed.’

‘You’re only two years older than us,’ says Marissa. ‘And, hello, I’m pregnant if anyone is playing the I’m-not-going-out card, it’s me and I’m not. So you have no excuse.’

‘Fine,’ she says, sighing. She turns her attention back to the letter in her hand. She pulls a face and puts it down on the kitchen island. ‘Gas bill.’

I pull the same face. Looks like I won’t be drinking that many cocktails whilst we’re out next week.

‘I better go shower,’ says Becca, ‘and this place better be less CSI when I come out.’

She disappears off and Marissa turns back to me.

‘So, she’s going out with Gareth again?’

‘Uh-huh. I think this must be her third date.’

‘Oh right, so it’s going well?’

‘I guess so. She hasn’t really talked to me about it; I think she feels a bit awkward.’

Marissa nods. ‘Hmm, I imagine she would. So, should we take more photos?’

‘Absolutely. Phil and Kirsty wait for no man,’ I say, relieved that Marissa knows when to change the subject.

‘But you’ve got to phone your mum back first.’

I nod as she goes to reapply the tape.

‘It didn’t sound important – it was something about baking banana bread and some chocolate cake,’ she says, shrugging and picking up her camera again.

I wince. ‘Oh God, she’s baked two cakes?’ That’s never a good sign. The more she’s hit by grief, the more she bakes.

‘Yeah, I think so.’

‘Oh bugger. Do you mind if we take a raincheck on Kirsty and Phil? I better go and make sure she’s OK.’

‘Of course, go, go.’

‘I might need a little help,’ I say, trying and failing to wriggle my arms.

‘Oh yeah.’ She bends down and helps me out.

‘Do you think we’ll have got the right shot?’

Marissa’s carefully unwrapping me, trying not splatter fake blood all over the flat.

‘I’m sure with a little photoshop magic we will have.’

In an ideal world we’d take a few dozen more. As much as I love to escape to Instagram to distract me from the real world, sometimes it’s too hard to ignore, like now, when my mum needs me. All I can hope is that we’ll have a photo that will be good enough to help elevate me to the next level of influencer – preferably just in time for me to pay the gas bill.

Chapter 2

I pull my cardigan further round me whilst I wait for my computer to boot up. It’s not even warm outside today but for some reason our office has cranked up the air conditioning to Baltic proportions. I dig around in my office drawer and feel triumphant as I pull out a woolly scarf that I haven’t needed since last summer.

‘Almost time for the fingerless gloves,’ says Cleo, her teeth chattering.

I laugh. I love sitting next to Cleo; she makes my job so much more bearable.

After Ben died I wanted to be closer to my parents, so I quit the job in advertising that I hated, moved back to my hometown and started temping at an insurance company in nearby Reading. It was only supposed to be temporary whilst I made the leap into marketing or PR, but like most best-laid plans it hasn’t worked out that way and I’ve been here almost two years now.

Colin is next to arrive at our bank of desks. He walks over to his seat opposite Cleo, looking over his shoulder as he does so for any sign of Mrs Harris. Relieved that she’s not in the vicinity he manages to nod a hello to us, which is progress. Last week, after Flamingogate, he wouldn’t even acknowledge anyone, choosing only to look at the table.

‘Poor Colin,’ whispers Cleo.

Someone drops a ream of paper from a box over the other side of the room and we both watch as he flinches.

The poor soul. He’d only gone to touch Mrs Harris’s bread flamingo out of admiration, he hadn’t intended to break its leg and therefore in her eyes hinder her chances in the Great Office Bake Off competition. Whilst we all love our work colleague Mrs Harris we are all secretly terrified of her, and woe betide anyone who gets on her wrong side.

My computer clearly has that Friday feeling and is slow booting up. I know how it feels. I look at my to-do list, wishing my tasks were a bit more interesting, but temping in the contracts department of an insurance company isn’t really the job of my dreams.

My computer still hasn’t started, so I slip my hand into my bag and I pull out my phone as quietly and unobtrusively as I can. But nothing gets past Cleo.

‘Hello, my name is Izzy and I’m an Instagram-aholic,’ she says.

‘Very funny.’ I put my phone face down on the table. ‘I wasn’t looking at Instagram, actually. I’m waiting for an email. A very important email.’

‘Uh-huh. About what?’

‘Important things.’

‘Important Instagram things?’

I grit my teeth.

‘I’m not addicted,’ I say, pushing the phone further away from me.

‘Sure you’re not,’ she says, smirking.

‘I’m not, honestly.’

‘Do I need to remind you of the day that your network went down and you couldn’t get online? You nearly went mad.’

‘I wouldn’t say mad…’

‘You went to The Swan to use their WiFi.’

‘It’s a nice pub,’ I say, finding it hard to keep a straight face.

‘Um, it’s a nice pub if you’re touting for business.’

‘It’s not that bad in there.’

‘You got propositioned twice by people wanting your services.’

‘Well, they’re not that used to having women in there.’

‘And you went to McDonald’s, multiple times.’

‘They do surprisingly good coffee.’

‘Uh-huh, and have surprisingly good WiFi.’

I fold my arms defensively. My computer is finally showing signs of life. ‘So the fact that you’ve not been to either establishment since that day…’

‘Still doesn’t mean to say I’m addicted!’

Cleo’s eyebrow is arching – she’s not convinced and neither am I.

‘I’m just checking my email, that’s all,’ I protest.

She smiles and turns back to her keyboard with a smug look on her face as if she’s older and wiser, when in fact she’s only 23 – eight years younger than me. Trust me to sit next to the only millennial who isn’t surgically attached to her phone.

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.

‘Oh no, you’re not looking at your phone whilst we’re in the bar,’ says Cleo. ‘Looking at and talking about Instagram is banned.’

Marissa and I look at each other in horror as it’s our favourite topic of conversation.

‘What else are we going to talk about – work?’ I ask.

‘Ew, no,’ she says, screwing up her face. ‘That’s banned too.’

‘Then what’s left?’

The three of us look around the bar for inspiration.

‘How about real life?’ says Cleo.

‘Real life,’ I say, whistling through my teeth, wondering what on earth I have to talk about. ‘Um, so what are people up to next week?’

‘Ooh, I know, I’m starting a new pregnancy yoga class,’ says Marissa, looking at Cleo for approval.

‘Nice,’ says Cleo. ‘I’m sure that’ll be really good for the birth.’

‘Sod the birth; I’m there to find new friends.’

I laugh. ‘Isn’t it supposed to be about stretching?’

‘Please,’ says Marissa, rolling her eyes. ‘Anything baby-related is only about finding friends.’

‘Don’t you meet those at NCT?’ chips in Cleo.

‘Not anymore. Now you shop for them at yoga, hypnobirthing, Bumps and Burpees and Mum Calm. I’ve spent a bloody fortune so far and I still haven’t found my new BFFs.’

‘Luckily for me,’ I say, not realising I’ve been in danger of losing my bestie to a pack of yummy mummies.

‘You know what I mean,’ she says, blowing me a kiss.

‘At least it’s all good content for your Insta feed,’ I say.

‘There is that, and it’s good way of finding followers too.’

‘Hey, banned,’ says Cleo, looking at her watch. ‘At least you managed a few minutes without mentioning it.’

‘We gave it our best shot. Can you hold this?’ asks Marissa, handing me her drink. ‘I only need to see liquid and I have to pee these days.’

‘So what have you got planned next week, Izzy?’ asks Cleo as Becca comes back with a tray of drinks.

‘I’m going to watch a charity ice hockey match with my parents.’

The tray starts to wobble and the drinks spill a little over the top.

Cleo reaches over and takes the tray before putting it on the windowsill. She doesn’t notice that Becca’s gone white as a sheet at the mention of the charity event.

‘That sounds good,’ says Cleo, dishing out the jam jars.

‘Uh-huh and then I’m going to a masterclass next week to hear Small Bubbles talk about becoming an influencer,’ I say, quickly moving the conversation on.

‘Really? You’ve kept that quiet,’ says Cleo, laughing.

I’m a tad excited about it and I may have mentioned it once or twice or three billion times at work.

‘Small Bubbles?’ says Becca, the colour feeding back into her cheeks.

‘Yeah, you know, Lara McPherson,’ I say.

‘Any relation to Elle?’

‘No,’ I say, shaking my head.

‘Then, no, I have no idea,’ says Becca.

I’ve probably mentioned her at home before but Becca’s not really into social media and the names don’t stick.

‘She’s got millions of followers on YouTube and Instagram? Has a book out? A make-up range?’ says Cleo. Becca shakes her head.

‘Well, it’s going to be good,’ I say.

‘But technically you can’t talk about it as that’s Instagram related,’ says Cleo.

‘Then I give up. I have nothing else to talk about.’

I’m pretty sure any minute tumbleweed’s going to roll past us.

‘See, this is why I keep telling you that you need to date more,’ Cleo says to me, causing Becca to perk up, nodding.

‘Exactly what I’ve been saying to her too. It’s been years since Cameron,’ she says.

‘Who’s Cameron?’ asks Cleo and I purse my lips.

Becca looks at me a little guiltily; I guess she assumed that Cleo already knew.

‘Just Izzy’s last ex,’ she says, shrugging it away like it wasn’t a big deal; like I hadn’t phoned to tell him Ben had died only to discover he was in bed with another woman. ‘And it’s time for you to move on. If only to give us things to talk about in moments like this.’

‘But I haven’t got time for a boyfriend. I’m far too busy doing things that you won’t let me mention.’

‘Faffing about on Instagram is not a good enough reason to stop you from dating,’ says Cleo.

Becca looks at me and raises an eyebrow. She knows that Cameron spectacularly breaking my heart is why I haven’t exactly been rushing to join Tinder, but even she’s started trying to encourage me to meet someone new.

‘You should message Luke from work,’ says Cleo.

‘Who’s Luke?’ asks Becca.

‘An arrogant guy who I will not be messaging.’

‘So not Luke, but I agree with Cleo. Why don’t you look around tonight?’

Cleo pulls a face. ‘People don’t really meet in bars anymore. But perhaps we could turn your Instagram addiction into a Hinge one.’

‘I just hate the idea; you’re trying to find a soulmate, not order a pizza.’

‘That’s the beauty of Hinge,’ says Cleo. ‘It’s not all about the swiping.’

‘Even still. I just don’t think that I’m up for meeting someone online.’

‘What about that guy?’ says Becca, pointing to someone on the other side of the bar.

‘He looks about twelve. Plus, I refuse to date anyone who wears skinnier jeans than I do, or anyone who straightens their hair.’

‘Urgh, I forgot that you like them grungier than Nirvana,’ she says.

‘Who’s Nirvana?’

Becca and I stare at Cleo. It’s times like this when the age gap feels like a chasm.

‘I don’t like them that grungy, I just like them a little scruffy. That’s all.’

‘Like him,’ says Becca, pointing out the window.

I watch as she points to a little Mexican café across the road. A guy with a faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt and non-skinny jeans is folding up chairs before carrying them inside.

‘Now he is exactly your type.’

‘You can’t tell that someone is going to be your type after a split second of looking at them,’ I say, staring at the man as he walks back out onto the street.

He looks familiar and it takes a moment for me to place him. And then suddenly I realise – it’s him. He looks different now than he did that day. Slightly fuller in the face. Slightly longer hair. A bit of stubble where before he was clean-shaven.

My cheeks start to burn and my heart is racing. I cling onto the windowsill to stop my feet from giving out from under me. It’s almost like I’m being pulled back to that day and all the emotions that went along with it.

I’m vaguely aware that Becca’s talking but I have no idea what she’s said; I’m too busy staring at the man through the window.

‘Izzy, are you OK?’ Cleo asks.

Marissa comes back and I can hear them whispering.

‘Izzy, what is it?’

Becca puts her arm round me and looks at me before following my gaze to Aidan, who I’ve been searching for for two years – the guy I never got a chance to thank.

‘It’s him,’ I say in disbelief.

‘Him who?’ asks Marissa.

‘Him, the guy who helped me that day at the station when I’d just got the news about Ben. When I broke down.’

Becca and Marissa look out the window in disbelief.

‘Blimey, you never said he was so cute,’ says Marissa.

‘Funnily enough that wasn’t on my mind at the time,’ I say, then regret it.

‘I didn’t mean to—’ Marissa starts.

‘I know you didn’t. It’s just…’ I stop myself. If I talk about it I don’t think I’ll be able to stop tears from falling, and this isn’t the time or the place.

‘So, are you going to thank him?’ asks Becca. ‘I know you’ve always wanted to.’

‘Not now, I mean I wasn’t expecting…’ I can’t speak to him. Not today. ‘I hadn’t really thought of what I’d say and he’s just finished work; he’ll probably want to get home. I’ll come back another day.’

We all watch as he takes the sandwich board back inside the café and shuts the door.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to go over?’ asks Marissa.

‘No, I’ll go another time,’ I say, finally finishing my first drink before starting on the second one. The strength and the taste don’t seem to bother me now. ‘Did you still want to dance?’

‘We don’t have to if you—’ says Marissa.

‘Let’s go,’ I say, firmly.

I look over at the little café just as the lights in the shop go out. I’ve waited over two years to thank him; a few more days won’t hurt.

Chapter 4

There’s something about walking in to the ice rink that always takes me back to my childhood. My dad used to drag Ben and me along to ice hockey matches, then when I was a teenager Marissa and I used to come to the ice disco, trying to pluck up the courage to talk to the boys in their Adidas hoodies.

I spot Mum immediately. She’s the only one around here who isn’t dressed in team colours. I can see the red Heart2Heart sweatshirt peeking out from under her coat. She wouldn’t usually want to come to a match with us – too many memories of us coming with Ben – but this one’s special because it’s raising money for Heart2Heart, which fundraises to test people for heart defects. A charity we wished we’d known existed a few years ago.

I squeeze past the other fans along the row of bright blue seating to get to her.

‘Hello, Izzy love,’ she says, standing up from her seat and giving me a big hug.

‘Hi, Mum, where’s Dad?’ I say as she releases me and I sit down next to her.

‘Getting snacks, you know him.’

I look out over the crowd to try and spot him.

‘You OK?’ she asks with concern.

I turn to her and she starts to study my face.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, pretending. It would be hard being here at the best of times without Ben, but after I saw the guy from the train on Friday night my emotions are all over the place. I felt like a tidal wave of emotions hit me and it’s made me relive that day over and over thinking how grateful I was Aidan stepped in when he did. Trust her to pick up on it.

‘You don’t look fine. Are you taking your vitamins?’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Perhaps you’re getting a cold. Or maybe you’re getting a chill from the ice,’ she says, pressing her hand to my cheek. ‘Make sure you keep your coat on.’

‘You’ve got no complaints from me on that front,’ I say, zipping it up. I wish I’d worn a warmer sweatshirt underneath.

‘Everything OK at work?’

‘Yes, no change there.’

Mum’s still scrutinising me, she knows I’m hiding something.

She knows all about Aidan and how I’ve always wished I’d been able to thank him but I don’t want to tell her I’ve seen him. Lately I’ve seen flickers of her old self. She’s smiling more and laughing, even if there is a residual sadness in her eyes. I don’t think that will ever leave.

‘I had a big night out last week with the girls and I can’t do them anymore, takes me ages to recover.’

‘Oh yes, I heard about that from Marissa’s mum. Fancy her gallivanting around in her condition.’

‘She’s four months pregnant, Mum, she can still leave the house.’

‘Hmm. Well, it was different in my day,’ she says, before she starts touching my cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll go and get us a hot drink when your dad’s back,’ she says. ‘Speak of the devil.’

I look up to see him squeezing down the aisle, smiling away.

‘Hiya,’ he says. ‘I got you a hot dog on the off chance you were here already.’

‘Ooh, thank you,’ I say taking one, my stomach rumbling at the sight of it. ‘You not having one, Mum?’

‘No, they’re full of terrible things,’ she says, turning her nose up. ‘If they don’t clog up your arteries they’ll probably give you cancer.’

My dad gives me a conspiratorial wink before he bites into his and I follow suit. Over the last couple of years my mum’s become paranoid about our health and what we eat.

‘I’ll get us a cup of tea,’ says Mum, getting up. ‘Keep you warm.’

‘She OK?’ I ask Dad as she leaves. ‘How’s the baking?’

‘Not too bad this week. We’ve only had one lemon drizzle cake.’

‘That’s not bad,’ I say. Baking is like a barometer of Mum’s grief: the more cakes she bakes, the worse it is.

‘She’s getting there. She’s finding tonight hard, though. What with it being the first match she’s been to without Ben and the whole charity thing. They were talking earlier about how people could get tested for heart conditions and she nearly cut off the circulation in my hand she was squeezing that hard.’

‘I get that.’

Dad leans over and puts an arm around me and gives me a squeeze. We never used to be a very tactile family but that all changed two years ago when they phoned to tell me that my brother had died.

Ben was only 31, the same age that I am now. He went to bed one night and never woke up. His fiancée, Becca, found him when she woke up the next morning. He died of sudden arrhythmic death syndrome; he’d had a heart defect which acted like a ticking time bomb, and we’d never known. That’s one of the reasons that we try and support Heart2Heart whenever possible.

It might have been two years ago, but it feels like it was yesterday. People tell you that you’ll heal in time but they’re lying. You learn to cope better but you don’t properly heal. How could you?

I just can’t get over it. One minute he was in my life and the next he was taken away without any warning. I’d never even told him I loved him. I mean, who tells their brother that? But every day since then I wish I had.

That’s all I seem to do. Wish about all the regrets I have. I wish I’d made more effort to come back to Basingstoke to see him. I wish I’d invited him up to stay more. But I mostly I wish that he was still here.

‘I got chocolate too,’ says Dad as I try to blink back a tear without him noticing.

‘The hockey hasn’t started yet and we’ve already gone through most of your snacks,’ I point out.

‘That’s the beauty of a game that has two breaks: plenty of time to run for reinforcements.’

He pulls out a giant packet of Minstrels and, despite having just polished off the hot dog, I’m not shy digging in.

The music starts to blare out as they announce the teams and Mum hurries back and hands us both a steaming cup of tea.

My dad wolf whistles and claps as his team comes in – as does everyone in the rink – and my ears start to ring. The players are all wearing special Heart2Heart jerseys and I feel proud. I hope that thanks to tonight’s match more people will be able to be tested for heart defects and other families will be spared our pain.

My parents cheer loudly and I find myself joining in. Whilst it wouldn’t be my number one sport to be a spectator at – I prefer ones which have lower risk of a frozen projectile hurtling towards me – I do love the cheesy North American elements of all the music and lights; it’s a complete theatrical spectacle. At least thanks to my mum’s new aversion to risk since Ben’s death, we no longer sit behind the goals. I’m never convinced that those black nets are going to stop anything.

I pull my phone out and hold up my camera to take a video to pop on my stories.

‘You’re keen,’ says Dad.

‘It’s for Instagram,’ I reply, wincing as two players slam into the wall near us. I finish recording and add a few monkeys covering their eyes and horror face emojis to articulate what I’m feeling watching this.

‘Right. You still doing that?’

‘Uh-huh,’ I say, biting my lip a little waiting for the tone of disapproval. My parents think it’s a waste of time and that I should get a proper job. They think it’s a waste that I’m temping after I had what they thought was a glittering career in London. They don’t understand that being an influencer could be a job in its own right. Or that it was the last thing that Ben and I talked about properly and that it was him that had spurred me on.

‘I was speaking to Ned the other day and he was saying that they’re expanding at White Spot,’ says Dad.

I bring up my Insta profile and check the comments and likes.

‘That’s good for them,’ I say, trying to sound uninterested to make him change the subject.

I spent a university summer doing an internship for a family friend’s advertising company. It might have looked impressive enough on my CV to get me the copywriting job in London but the only things I learnt that summer were how to make barista-level coffee and that fancy photocopiers are the root of all evil.

‘They’re recruiting again. I could put a word in. Oooh,’ Dad says, gasping when blood spurts out of a player’s nose after a collision on the ice. The player continues to skate and I’m slightly mesmerised by the trail of red now following him.

‘I’m not actually looking for anything at the moment,’ I say.

‘I told you not to mention it,’ whispers Mum.

‘She can’t temp forever,’ he says as if I’m not here.

‘This isn’t the time, Si.’

‘It never is,’ he says, folding his arms.

‘I’ll tell you what, Dad. I’ll take a look at their website and see what they’re up to. Thank you,’ I say, intervening to stop them from bickering. They’ve been doing that a lot lately and I hate it.

‘Izzy, I bumped into Roger Davenport’s mother whilst I was getting the drinks,’ says Mum. ‘Do you remember Roger? He had such lovely thick hair.’

I almost choke on my tea. I remember Roger Davenport all right. I went to school with him and I used to chat to him sometimes because I thought he was funny. It wasn’t until years later that I learnt that Roger had told all his friends that he and his fingers had got very friendly with me one night at a party.

‘I remember him,’ I say through gritted teeth. I’d love to give him a piece of my mind.

‘Apparently he’s single, recently divorced, has a nice big house just outside Basingstoke. He runs a call centre.’

She’s not exactly selling him to me.

‘I’m not really interested in meeting anyone at the moment.’

Dad shakes his head at Mum.

‘So it’s OK for you to give our daughter life advice, and not me?’ she snaps at him.

There’s an edge to her voice that I haven’t heard before.

‘I’m trying to get her to fulfil her potential at work by moving on to a better job, not to get her a boyfriend so she stays in the area.’

‘That’s not what I was doing,’ says Mum, pursing her lips.

‘Of course it was.’

‘Hey, hey,’ I say, thinking that I can’t keep up with of all the fighting on the ice, let alone having to keep up with it off it, too. ‘Look, I’m fine, really. I’m happy being single and the Instagram account is going well. I’m getting sent free products and I’m really close to getting a paid deal.’

My stomach sinks as I think of the email I got last month but I’ve got to stay positive – there are plenty of other companies that are looking for micro-influencers like me. Plus I’m off to hear the wisdom of Small Bubbles next week and I’m hoping that I’m going to become instant BFFs so that we can rule Instagram, or at the very least she offers a little nugget of advice that’ll make my follower numbers rocket up.

Our team scores and the player who scored does a speedy lap round the ice to cheers and whistles.

‘I just don’t get why you do all the funny phone stuff and you won’t go back to an agency,’ says Dad.

‘But I’m on the cusp of getting paid for it. This way, I’ll get to run my own business.’

Mum and Dad exchange a sceptical look and I’m pleased that they’re at least united in something, even if it is that they think I’ve lost the plot.

‘Some influencers make a lot of money and they do it as a full-time job.’

‘I just think you should give Ned a call. I bet he’d be pleased to hear from you,’ says Dad.

‘And Roger’s mum gave me his number, just in case you wanted it.’ Mum passes me a piece of paper.

I take it, only because now I can send Roger an abusive text whilst drunk telling him where he can shove his fingers. And spoiler alert: it wouldn’t be anywhere near me.

Mum smiles like it’s a victory and I almost wonder if I should go out with Roger as it’s so nice to see her looking happy.

A player slams into the wall before falling back and hitting the ice. ‘Holy shit,’ I say. ‘This is brutal.’

‘We’ve not even made it through the first period yet,’ says Dad, laughing. ‘More chocolate?’

‘Always,’ I say, needing a sugar hit.

I thought this evening would be stressful because of the charity connection to Ben, but I hadn’t factored in my parents trying to meddle in my life, the underlying tension that’s appeared in their marriage or all the fisticuffs on the ice; my nerves are practically shot. If only I could make my Instagram career take off and then my parents would have one less thing to worry about. It would show them that my life’s not such a disaster after all.

Chapter 5

If Marissa doesn’t get a move on we’re going to be late for the Small Bubbles event. I hastily dial her number and scan the street whilst it’s ringing, hoping that I’ll see her hurrying along to meet me.

‘Hey, don’t kill me,’ she says as she answers. My stomach sinks. Nothing good can possibly follow that phrase. ‘But I was at a Bumps and Burpees class this morning and I pulled a calf muscle and I can’t put any weight on it.’

I knew those baby classes were a bad idea.

‘Is the baby OK?’ I ask in concern.

‘The baby is fine seeing as she’s nowhere near my calf,’ Marissa says, laughing. ‘Tim was the same, he wanted to take me to A&E as a precaution. Could you imagine, A&E on a Saturday morning when all the football and rugby injuries are piling in? I’d be there forever.’

‘Well, as long as the baby is fine, that’s the main thing.’

‘Yes, and the calf will heal apparently, might take a bit longer with the weight of the bump. Are you already there?’

‘Uh-huh,’ I say, looking up at the imposing hotel front, wondering if I’m brave enough to go in by myself.

‘Take a selfie with Lara for me! I wanna hear all about it when you get home.’

‘Of course,’ I say, feeling nervous. ‘I hope you get on OK your end.’

‘Don’t worry about me; Tim’s waiting on me and I’ve got the Amazon Fire Stick controller. Speak to you later,’ she says, hanging up.

I’m not usually one to mind going places on my own; I often go to the cinema and I’ve been to local Ted X talks, but it’s not every day I get to go to a masterclass with Lara McPherson, aka Small Bubbles, aka the Queen of Instagram, where there is massive potential for me to totally fangirl. If Marissa was here she’d keep me in check and make sure I didn’t do anything stupid to jeopardise the future where Lara and I become BFFs.

I still can’t believe I managed to get tickets to the event in the first place; they were limited and sold out within minutes. I’m guessing that we’ll get loads of one-on-one time to talk and for me to make a good impression.

I head towards the revolving door and my phone beeps. I look down whilst walking and smack into someone.

‘Oh, sorry,’ I say, holding up my phone as a way of apology.

The man I bumped into holds up his too and laughs.

‘I guess it’s inevitable, right? You come to an Insta-event and everyone’s walking with their heads down, looking at their phones.’ He smiles, and his teeth sparkle with their perfect whiteness.

Hang on. I’d recognise that quiff anywhere.

‘Oh wait, it’s you,’ I say, amused.

His eyes light up and he smacks his lips together.

‘You know me?’ he says in a Joey Tribbiani voice, his eyebrows raised.

‘I do,’ I confirm.

He gestures for me to walk in front of him through the revolving door. He’s giving me such a deranged look that I’ll quite happily go inside where there are people rather than be left outside on the street here alone with him.

‘Thanks,’ I say, stepping forward.

‘I can’t believe this has happened. I hoped it would but it’s totally unexpected,’ he says, following me, his hand clutched over his chest like he’s giving an Oscars acceptance speech.

‘Because we’re both here?’ I ask. I always find it weird bumping into colleagues outside of work; I seem to forget they have actual lives too, but if I’d really thought about it I should have guessed Luke and his selfie stick would be here.

‘I just never thought I’d get recognised in real life!’ Luke says, still gushing.

‘What? Oh,’ I say as the penny drops. Now it’s awkward. He thinks that I know him from Instagram, which is slightly offensive that he doesn’t remember who I am at all.

‘Do you want a selfie with me?’ he says, leaning in closer.

‘Have you got a big stick?’ I say, unable to resist.

A smile breaks out over his face and he pulls out his telescopic selfie stick from his trouser pocket.

‘I never leave home without it,’ he says with a wink.

‘Perfect,’ I say as he slots the phone into the stick. ‘Has anyone ever told you you look like Channing Tatum?’

He looks at me again and does the stomach ripple move. ‘All the time.’

He holds the stick out and leans into me.

‘Shall we do “Blue Steel” pouts?’ I say.

His arm drops and he turns to look at me, narrowing his eyes.

‘We’ve met, haven’t we?’ he says, lowering the stick and taking his phone off.

‘Yes, we met in the stairwell at McKinley’s a few weeks ago.’

His face falls.

‘You look different.’

‘More make-up.’

He nods his head. ‘You look good. So are you looking forward to this?’

He smiles at me as if there’s been no misunderstanding. How does he do that? I’d have been mortified and would have been halfway back to the train station by now. But there’s no hint of redness in his cheeks or flash of embarrassment in his eyes.

‘I’m Luke,’ he says, holding his hand out and I shake it.

‘Izzy,’ I reply, in disbelief. He has got to be the most self-assured person I have ever met.

‘Do you think we should find where this event is, then?’ he asks, scanning the lobby.

I glance round too. There are a few people sitting on comfy-looking, egg-shaped chairs reading papers or scrolling through phones. I join the queue to speak to the receptionist, who’s busy leaning over the large desk annotating a map for some guests.

‘Ah, back there,’ Luke says, pointing to a board spelling out the name of the event. ‘There it is.’

He holds up the selfie stick and takes a few photos of himself next to the light box.

‘Would you mind?’ he asks, handing me his phone. He leans his arm over the sign and poses.

‘Of course not.’

I snap away, trying not to laugh at his pout, which could give Victoria Beckham a run for her money.

‘I guess these will be OK, for stories,’ he says, looking through, and I bite my tongue.

We make our way to the queue to get our tickets scanned at the door.

‘What kind of content do you post?’ I ask.

‘Sort of urban male lifestyle – you know fashion, city living, fitness.’

My eyes sweep over his body and a shirtless Channing Tatum with all his ripped muscles pop into my mind.

‘Do you blog as well?’ I ask, trying to get those kind of thoughts out of my head.

‘I vlog on YouTube.’

Of course he does.

Tickets checked, we step into the room and it’s not quite the intimate setting I was expecting. It’s a huge ballroom with row upon row of seating and nearly every one is filled. I’d have expected a sell-out crowd if we were in London but I hadn’t expected it in Reading. Especially when I’ve paid £65 for the privilege. Maths isn’t my strong suit but even I can work out they’ve made a killing.

‘There’s two seats together over there. Shall we?’ he says, as if it’s a given that we’re going to sit together.

‘Sure, that would be great. I was supposed to be coming with my friend but she’s pulled a muscle and she’s pregnant,’ I say, drifting off.

‘Does she Instagram too?’

‘Yes, although she can’t work out what she wants to do. First she started off with pictures of her dog Bowser, but with his tight black curls it was impossible to tell his bum from his face. So she bought a cat called Molly McMittens and her feed became cute pictures before she found out she was allergic and had to give her away. Then she got married and she focused on weddings,’ I say, taking a breath. ‘After that she did a food thing – comfort food versus unusual ingredients thing – and now she’s pregnant so it’s a baby feed.’

‘Sounds like she can’t settle into her niche. It’s hard to find your calling.’

I try hard not to laugh.

We shuffle down a row of chairs where everyone sighs loudly and squeezes in their legs as we pass. None of them make eye contact, they’re all too busy on their phones.

‘So what’s your niche?’ he asks.

‘Lifestyle with an affordable living slant to it. I felt too many of the influencers have a London bias and the clothes and accessories they feature are too expensive for normal people. So I tend to focus more on high-street brands.’

It still feels weird saying that out loud. It’s how I’m now pitching myself to brands – pretending that was always my intention when I started my blog and my Instagram account, when really I’d started going for cheaper products because I couldn’t afford the designer price tags.

‘How many followers have you got?’

‘Just over 15,000,’ I say a little proudly.

‘Nice,’ he says, ‘I’ve got 18,000.’

Of course he has more. He holds his phone above his head and snaps a selfie without flinching in embarrassment like I would.

‘I’m working on ways to get it higher,’ he says. ‘I want to reach 30k by Christmas.’

‘That’s ambitious,’ I say, shocked. That’s a huge undertaking.

‘I’m hoping Small Bubbles will help.’

‘That’s why I’m here too,’ I say, pretending that it’s not to try and make Lara my new BFF.

‘So do you get much free stuff?’ he asks, taking photos of the room.

‘I get a few clothes, mainly from smaller companies, homeware like candles and photo frames and beauty products. I have enough mascaras to last me a lifetime.’

‘I see you make good use of it,’ he says, laughing for the first time.

I feel a little stupid that I put on extra make-up today like I would for my Insta photoshoots, in the unlikely event that Lara might have seen my feed and recognise me.

‘I once read this article about Claudia Winkleman where she said that she’s almost unrecognisable without her eye make-up and I thought it was a good idea, you know, so that I can go out incognito without being hounded when I become a mega influencer.’

‘Important to prepare for these things. I’m the opposite though. I want to be recognised wherever I go.’

Of course he does. I secretly like that he’s more of an Instagramwanker than I am; it means he doesn’t judge me. I remember once trying to explain my eye make-up strategy to Becca and she was not impressed.

‘What’s your Insta name?’

‘This underscore Izzy underscore Loves.’

He types, clicks and swipes.

‘I’ve followed you,’ he says, raising an eyebrow.

‘Oh right,’ I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket. I open up my app and click on the hearts to see that Lukeatmealways has just followed me.

‘Luke at Meal Ways? Where’s Meal Ways?’

He doesn’t look impressed.

‘It’s Luke at Me Always,’ he says with added emphasis.

‘Oh, right,’ I say, wondering if he could be more vain.

I turn my attention back to my phone. I’ve already mentally pictured what his content will look like. Moody photos of him and his smouldering good looks against beautiful backdrops. I tap ‘follow’, feeling smug as I scroll through his photos – I was right. I have to hand it to him, though; it’s a beautifully curated feed.

There’s a sudden ripple of excitement in the audience as the lights start to dim and music starts to play out through the speakers.

‘I guess this is what we’ve been waiting for,’ whispers Luke.

I give him a smile and sit on my sweaty hands as I’m beginning to have palpitations. I’m sure Luke would like to think it’s because he got so close that his aftershave worked its pheromonal magic, but it’s actually because Lara has just glided onto stage. She strikes poses to the beats of the music until it dies down. Everyone whoops and claps and there are camera flashes everywhere. I watch Lara basking in the attention. She’s lapping it up like this is what she was made for.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ she says when the adoration dies down and she steps up to the podium. ‘Now, who’s ready to become an influencer?’

The whole audience raises their hands. I sit up a little straighter just in case she’s going to pluck one of us out of the audience to make our dream come true.

‘Well, you’re not the only ones. There are over 23 million Instagram users in the UK alone and one billion worldwide. Not everyone is going to become an influencer, and it’s certainly not going to happen overnight. It’ll take hard work, time and perseverance. But that’s how I did it – and now I have over 6 million followers.’

She pauses, and there’s an applause that she laps up again.

‘So, let me take you on the journey of how I became Small Bubbles…’

‘Wow,’ I say as the lights go up.

Luke nods next to me. ‘That was quite a show.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

I’m even more in love with my idol now than when I came in. And given the amount of time I spend watching her on Instagram stories, I didn’t think that was possible. I might not have the blueprints to Instagram stardom like I’d hoped but I do feel enthused that it is possible to go from zero to hero.

We stand up and we head towards the aisle.

‘So are you going to queue up for a selfie?’ he asks.

I look at the line already gathering down the aisle. Lara’s standing in front of a table, leaning against it and the first audience member goes up and beams away with her as she has her photo taken.

‘Well, I thought I might as well, as I’m here. You know, it might boost my followers.’ I try and keep my voice casual as if I hadn’t given it much thought.

‘Me too,’ he replies nodding, and we make our way over to the queue.

‘So have you been working at McKinley’s long?’ I ask as we shuffle slowly forward.

‘About six months, I was an estate agent before.’

I know I shouldn’t stereotype but he lives up to it, being over-confident, over-styled and over-aftershaved.

‘I bet you were good at that.’

‘Absolutely, I was so good I could have sold an igloo to an eskimo.’

‘Yet you still left?’

‘The sales weren’t fast enough,’ he says, shrugging. ‘How about you?’

‘I’ve been there two years. It was only supposed to be a stop-gap.’

‘Isn’t that what everyone says? But let me guess, the dream is to become an influencer, quit your job and live happily ever after.’

‘Pretty much,’ I say, nodding. I’ve always known it was a ridiculous dream but seeing a whole ballroom of people trying to do it too has really hammered that point home.

‘Me too. The sooner I quit the rat race, the better.’

‘I used to work in advertising up in London, I was a copywriter before I… before I joined McKinley’s, and I was going to try and move into marketing but then my Instagram started to take off and I thought I’d see where that went. It’s a lot easier to have the time and mental head space to run my feed without worrying about work and long hours like I used to.’

‘I can imagine. Let’s hope we’ll both be quitting our jobs before we know it, thanks to that talk,’ he says with a wink. ‘Did you live up in London too?’

‘Uh-huh,’ I say, thinking of the shiny flat I shared with Cameron and how quickly I left.

‘Isn’t it a bit of a comedown living in Reading?’

‘Actually, I live in Basingstoke.’

‘Bloody hell, that’s even worse.’

A surge of hometown pride ripples over me. ‘It’s actually got a lot going for it.’

He raises a sceptical eyebrow.

‘It does. There are couple of cool bars now and a few decent restaurants.’

‘Because London doesn’t have any of them.’

‘And it’s got good shops and we’ve got an ice rink.’

‘You’re really selling it. Although ice rinks are pretty good places to go on dates; if I take a woman who can’t skate she’ll be clinging onto me all night.’

‘Is that the only way to get a woman to touch you?’ I say, laughing.

‘Oh believe me, women are always touching me. I’m like one of those guys from the Lynx adverts.’

I think of the adverts with the guys dousing themselves in aftershave only to be surrounded by dozens of beautiful women pawing at them. The only thing that I can imagine Luke having in common with that scenario is the dousing himself in aftershave.

We’re edging closer to the front of the queue and my heart is starting to race. I’m thinking what I’m going to say to Lara. The queue moves forward every thirty seconds or so, which means I’ve got thirty seconds to convince her to become my new BFF.

‘Wow, look. That girl’s dressed in Lara white,’ says Luke, pointing at the woman at the front of the queue.

Lara’s always dressed top-to-toe in white and the young woman is following suit. She’s wearing a white summer dress, which was either an optimistic outfit choice on a cold day, or she wanted to colour co-ordinate with Lara and it was the only white thing she owned.

‘So try-hard,’ he says, slipping off his jacket to reveal a tight white T-shirt.

I look up and down the queue and I notice everyone is dressed in fifty shades of white.

I look over at Lara standing in her top, fluffy cardigan, stone-washed jeans and brogues, all of which are white. I’m going to totally clash. I’ve worn the trendiest thing I own which is a pretty, vintage-style tea dress that a local designer sent me, and I’ve teamed it with black biker boots and a leather jacket to hide the safety pins I use to hold the dress together as I can’t get the zip done up. I thought it would make me look super on-trend, but it’s so bright compared to her – I might as well be wearing neon. How did I not think about that?

‘Izzy? Are you OK? You’ve gone all pale.’

‘Have I?’ I say, pleased. At least my face might match her style.

‘OK, so are you two having your photo taken together or singularly?’ says a bored-looking PR woman as we reach the front.

‘Oh, I think—’

‘Together,’ says Luke.

‘Great. Gets us through quicker. So you’ll get two photos taken but with the same device. No touching Lara,’ she says in a stern voice, her eyes narrowing on mine as if she knows I’m a super-fan who won’t be able to control myself. ‘If you want to make it look like you’ve got your arm around her you can balance your hand on the table behind like so.’

She demonstrates with the same tired enthusiasm as cabin crew pointing out emergency exits.

The PR woman drifts off to prise away the girl having her photo taken with Lara and it’s our turn. I’m so excited. Luke has to give me a little nudge as my feet don’t appear to be working and we’re directed to stand on either side of Lara.

‘Hi,’ she says, beaming. ‘You two a couple?’

‘Oh, no, we’re colleagues,’ I say with a high-pitched squeal.

‘Oh, that’s a shame. You look like you’d make a cute couple and couples always do really well with brands on Insta,’ she says with a hint of sneer. ‘There’s always so much content for them – first they have the big wedding, then they do the house renovation, then they have babies. Anyway, are you ready for the photo?’

The PR woman stares at me so I make sure that I leave a safe distance between me and Lara when I balance my hand on the table. My hand makes contact with another hand and I immediately jump. At first I think in horror that it’s Lara and that I might get ejected before I get my selfie, but it’s only Luke. I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief when his hand tries to hold mine. I snatch my hand away, grazing Lara’s fluffy cardigan in the process.

‘Smile,’ says another PR woman, who snaps a photo on Luke’s phone.

‘Thanks for coming,’ says Lara. She moves forward, only I go with her. I look down in horror and see that my watch is stuck on her cardigan.

‘Come on, Izzy,’ says Luke, going to grab my other arm before he gasps.

‘What’s going on?’ asks the PR woman, surging forward.

Lara bends down to get a bottle of water off the floor and I go along for the ride, not wanting to rip her expensive-looking cardigan.

‘Oh my God. Is she touching me?’ she screams.

‘I’m not touching you,’ I say, flustered. I’m aware the whole room is watching me. ‘It’s just my watch. Look, my hand is here.’

I do a wave but it’s fruitless as Lara can’t actually see my hand behind her.

‘A watch? Who in this day and age wears a watch? Why would you when you have a phone!’ she shrieks.

‘I’ve always worn one,’ I stammer. ‘I’ve never got one stuck before.’

Of course the first time had to be now.

I turn to Luke for help, but he’s holding up his phone – he’s actually filming this.

‘Hey!’ I shriek in a tone to rival Lara’s.

He shrugs and puts his phone down.

‘Get her off me. I can feel her touching me,’ says Lara.

The two PR women push me out the way so that I’m as far away as I could be without dislocating my shoulder. They examine the stuck watch in such a way that anyone would think that they were performing open heart surgery.

‘There’s a thread that’s wrapped right around it. We could cut it,’ says the woman who took the photo.

Lara gasps in a way that lets them know that’s not an option.

‘If I could just—’ says one of the women twisting my arm round impossible angles, ‘aha, got it.’

My arm falls and I rub my aching shoulder.

Lara turns and glares at me, before her hand flies up to her forehead.

‘I need a moment,’ she says loudly. She storms up the stage stairs and into the wings.

‘I told you not to touch her,’ the PR woman hisses and I start to back away. ‘God knows how long she’ll be. Do you remember when the woman touched her arm in Birmingham? She didn’t come back for 40 minutes.’

The other PR woman nods her head and, along with all the people in the queue, gives me a frosty stare.

‘Thanks, sorry, I’ll leave,’ I stutter. I hurry out of the room in fear, only stopping to catch my breath when I reach the safety of the lobby.

‘That was intense,’ says Luke, who did his best to distance himself when Watchgate was going down.

‘Not quite to plan,’ I concede.

By now Lara was supposed to have followed me on Instagram and we’d be meeting after the event for cocktails to cement our new-found friendship. I fear the only reason she’d want to know my name right now would be to take out a restraining order against me.

‘Photo looks good though,’ he says, showing me.

He clearly means of him and Lara, who look in perfect harmony in their white outfits and perfect smiles. I, on the other hand, stick out like a sore thumb with my bright dress and my goofy star-struck grin plastered on my face.

‘Hmm,’ I say, thinking that it doesn’t really matter what I look like, ‘I can’t post that now.’

‘Come on, she didn’t even look at you and I reckon after all those pictures she won’t even remember who the person with the watch was.’

‘You think?’ I ask, hopefully.

‘Of course. I’ll even promise I won’t put the footage on YouTube.’

‘You’ll delete it instead?’

‘OK, I barely got anything before you shouted at me anyway.’

We walk back out of the revolving doors and we stop on the pavement and I’m about to say goodbye when he leans close to me and holds up his camera. ‘Say, “Cheese”.’

I automatically smile before I realise what’s happening.

‘Huh,’ he says looking at it. ‘Look, she was right, we do make a good-looking couple.’

I look at the photo and whilst Luke is so far from my type, you’d never know that from that photo. We do look good together.

‘So this has been fun, we should meet up again,’ he says.

‘We should?’

‘Definitely,’ he says, fixing his eyes on mine. I almost get the impression that he’s coming on to me. Although my non-existent love life is testament to the fact that this isn’t really my area of expertise.

‘Right, well, I better go and catch a train,’ I say before I turn and hurry towards the station in an attempt to diffuse the situation.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ he shouts down the street and I turn and give him a half-hearted wave.

It takes until I get seated on the train until I feel brave enough to pull out my phone to check if Watchgate has gone viral, only to see a picture of Luke and me pop up on my feed. He must have posted whilst he was walking.

Lukeatmealways

What a night. Not only did I get to meet the gorgeous @small_bubbles but I got to meet the equally gorgeous @This_Izzy_Loves too. Our eyes met across a crowded room of Instagrammers #instalove #smallbubbles #instaconference

Hashtag Instalove? So he was being flirty.

I could not imagine a man that I’d want to date less. Let’s just hope he forgets me like the first time I met him. I don’t really have a whole heap of experience of letting men down gently and something tells me Luke and his giant ego doesn’t have a whole lot of experience of being on the receiving end of it.

Chapter 6

I scroll through a contract template on my computer, trying to ignore the fact that Mrs Harris has being trying to catch my eye for the last ten minutes. I start to fill in the details of the new client when Mrs Harris clears her throat loudly.

I notice Colin’s face is mere inches away from the paper on his desk as he tries to keep his head down, quite literally.

‘What do you need, Mrs Harris?’ asks Cleo.

‘Ah, Cleo love. What a poppet you are. I didn’t want to disturb you when you were so busy. Plus, I need Izzy and her skills for this job.’

‘What skills does she have that I don’t?’

Mrs Harris sighs. ‘The ability to not get too distracted. I need Izzy because she’ll stay mission-focused and won’t start flirting with the first stud muffin she sees.’

‘Stud muffin,’ says Cleo, giggling.

‘What would my mission be?’ I ask, looking up over my screen.

‘I just need you to pop down to Adjustments. I’ve heard some rumours that they’ve got muffins today.’

‘Stud ones?’ I say, setting Cleo off again and earning a tut from Mrs Harris. ‘There are biscuits over in Accounts; I could grab you one of those instead?’

That would save me a set of stairs to walk down.

‘No, no, I think the muffins downstairs are supposed to be very good. Be a poppet, get me one or two. I’m a bit hungry, forgot my lunch today.’

‘Right,’ I say, knowing she buys her lunch in the canteen. ‘So this has nothing to do with the rumour that Jason is testing out a recipe for the next stage in the competition?’

‘Izzy, however could you think that of me? That I could resort to such – such underhand espionage? All I want is to not waste away at my desk.’

‘We wouldn’t want that now, would we?’

I could probably do with stretching my legs, so I pick a folder out of my in-tray to give myself a cover story for my walk around.

‘And whilst you’re there, stop at the second floor and see if Mary in Billing has baked anything or Miles, he’s on that floor too?’

I mock-salute and head off on my mission. I walk down the stairs thinking of Luke posing here before and it makes me nervous that I’m going to bump into him. Not that he’d be here now: it’s raining, making the light in here terrible.

I still can’t get over that photo he posted the other night. We work in the same office block so the odds of bumping into each other are statistically quite high. I’ve started walking round the office with a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach, reminding me of when I moved between lessons at school, hoping I’d bump into one of my crushes. Only this time, it’s the opposite. I’m trying not to bump into him. I’ve never been very good with unwanted advances from the opposite sex although luckily for me it doesn’t happen very often. I’m just hoping that I won’t see him for a few weeks and he forgets who I am, again.

I push the door open to Claims Adjustments. Their floor has got an identical layout to ours and I’m always freaked out seeing the wrong people sitting at the desks.

I spot Jason and make a discreet beeline for him, pretending I’m searching for someone else.

There are a couple of people at the end of his desk hovering over some tin foil containers and the scent of cinnamon is wafting through the air. But before I can reach it, Jason leaps into my path and folds his arm like a bouncer.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Oh yes,’ I say, looking down at my folder as if hoping it’ll give me some magical answers. ‘I’m looking for Sarah.’

Every department has a Sarah, right?

He looks at me suspiciously.

‘She’s not in today. She’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Right,’ I say relieved that my cover story has held up.

‘Do you want to leave a note?’

‘No, no, I’ll come back,’ I say, trying and failing to see over the side of the silver container. ‘Boy, something smells good.’

‘Tell Mrs Harris I said hello,’ he says, glaring at me.

‘Will do,’ I mutter sheepishly.

I hurry out of their floor. I’d make a terrible spy. I’m slightly scared of going back to Mrs Harris empty-handed, so I make my way to the next floor down to see if I can find Mary or Miles.

I push open the door, it’s so noisy. There are long rows of desks and everyone’s wearing headsets with microphones and it’s impossible to tell who’s talking on the phone and who’s talking to each other.

I try to look purposeful with my red folder as I walk briskly along, sniffing the air for baking scents. I notice a collection of biscuit tins on a central table and people seem to be swooping in and grabbing mini cupcakes on their way to and from the giant printer. I try and keep my heart rate steady whilst I make my way to the printer, reaching into the tin as I pass. And just like that, I’ve taken one brazenly. I’m chuffed I got away with it until I come face to face with a woman who I recognise from a health and safety training course I had to go on.

‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’ asks Brenda.

‘Oh, I was saving it for a cup of tea,’ I bluster.

‘We haven’t seen you on this floor before,’ she says, not taking her eyes off the cupcake I’m holding.

I suddenly feel like I’ve edged into the wrong side of town and I hastily shove it into my mouth.

I’m hit with a burst of something boozy and citrusy and usually I’d savour every single second of it, but I’m too scared so instead I wolf it down.

‘I recognise you,’ says Brenda, ‘Don’t you work in Contracts?’

I watch her turn and wave at Mary – whose cupcakes they are – and her face looks like thunder.

‘I – er, I’m here to find someone,’ I lie.

‘She’s with me,’ says a voice and I look up and see Luke. I’d forgotten that Billing and Sales were on the same floor; so much for trying to avoid him.

He flashes Brenda, and Mary who’s joined us, one of his winning smiles and they relax.

‘Ah, Luke, have you had a mini cupcake? They’re mojito-flavoured,’ says Mary slipping into cougar mode.

‘Thanks, but I’m watching my figure,’ he says, patting his stomach.

Mary and Brenda titter with laughter and he grabs my elbow and guides me down to the other end of the office in case the spell he’s cast wears off.

‘What are you doing?’ he says. ‘It’s savage down here at the moment! This Bake Off is bringing out the worst in people.’

‘Thanks for rescuing me.’

‘You’re just lucky it wasn’t Miles,’ he says, nodding across to a man who almost snarls at us for looking in his direction. He must have witnessed the exchange with Brenda and Mary because he’s clutching his tin of baked goods close to his chest. ‘Now, open that folder and I’ll pretend to look at it. I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet.’

I hastily open the folder and he starts nodding.

‘I’ll point at this, and you nod.’

I play along.

‘I had fun the other night. Turn the page.’

‘Umm-hmm,’ I say, pretending I’m fascinated with the piece of paper in front of me.

‘I was going to send you a message using Link but I didn’t know your surname.’

‘Oh,’ I say, shutting the folder and then regretting it as my name is written in large letters on the front.

‘Izzy Brown, got it,’ he says with a firm nod. ‘I’ll send you a message when I resolve the situation.’

He speaks loudly and gestures for me to go.

I have one last look at Brenda and Mary who are standing with their hands on their hips, shooting me daggers.

‘Oh right. Thanks for your help,’ I mutter. MI6 really aren’t going to come knocking on my door anytime soon.

By the time I make it back to my desk I’m exhausted and in desperate need of a cup of tea.

‘Well?’ says Mrs Harris, lowering her glasses onto the tip of her nose and looking over them.

‘Jason wouldn’t let me get within three metres of his creation, but it smelled of cinnamon.’

‘Just cinnamon?’

‘Like a cin-a-bon concession.’

‘Got it,’ she says, writing it down on her notepad. ‘Go on.’

‘And then I swung past Mary’s desk and her mini cupcakes were mojito-flavoured. And oh my God they were soooo—’ I stop abruptly when I see Mrs Harris’s nostrils flaring. ‘They were OK. You know, the sponge was all melt-in-your-mouth-fluffy and the frosting was all creamy and the lime was zingy on my tongue then the rum gave it an unexpected kick—’ I can still taste it on the tip of my tongue. ‘They were just OK, though. And, you know, so unimaginative. I bet if you’d have made them they’d have tasted heaps better.’

‘You weren’t supposed to taste it, that was my job. I’m the one with the sophisticated palate.’

‘Sorry, I couldn’t help it, Brenda from Sales was coming for me.’

‘And Miles?’ she says arching her eyebrow.

‘He saw me get rumbled by Mary.’

Mrs Harris tuts loudly and turns her attention to her screen. I think I’m in the dog house.

Colin gives me a little smile in solidarity.

My computer beeps and I see I’ve got a new message on Link. I click on it and read it.

Luke Taylor:

I’ve got something I want to talk to you about. Do you want to meet me for lunch today?

Blimey, I didn’t expect to hear from him so quickly. Does this mean he’s super keen? I’m so out of the loop with dating. How do I tell him I’m not interested in that way?

Izzy Brown:

I’m a bit busy today. Snowed under. Could we do it another time?

I’m hoping he’ll take the hint. I’d actually been planning to phone my mum during my break to see how she’s getting on. Going to see the ice hockey has set her back and I’ve been trying to phone her daily.

Luke Taylor:

Yes, you seemed busy walking round our floor trying to steal baking secrets.

I don’t know what to write. He’ll be seeing the dots to indicate that I’m typing and unless I respond smartish he’ll expect an essay. Think, Izzy, think. What subtly says ‘I’m not interested in you’ but is still very polite?

Luke Taylor:

Just come along and hear what I have to say. Meet you outside the main block at 1pm?

He isn’t giving me much room to get out of it and I get the impression that he’s going to be persistent.

Izzy Brown:

1pm is fine. See you then.

‘How are you so flushed in this ice box of an office?’ says Cleo, wheeling her chair next to mine. She touches her cold hands to my cheeks. I didn’t know they were burning.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it was the rum in those cupcakes.’

‘Or maybe it’s because Luke Taylor just sent you a message,’ she says, her eyes lighting up. I turn back to my screen to see that he’s sent a message saying, See you then.

‘What’s all that about?’ she asks. ‘Nothing! I saw him the other night at that Instagram event—’

‘Oh, you did, did you?’ She’s doing a patronising head tilt and overemphasising all her words. ‘I did. And now he wants to meet me for lunch.’

‘Lunch,’ she parrots back, eyebrow raised. ‘Yes, just lunch. He has something he wants to discuss, appar ently.’

‘Uh-huh,’ she says, smirking. ‘You’ve got a date, it’s about time.’

‘It’s not a date,’ I say firmly.

‘Whatever,’ she says, winking.

I give up. She’s never going to believe me. It’s absolutely and categorically not a date and not because I’m afraid of having my heart broken again but because he’s not my type in the slightest.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.