Chapter 1
Oh God, it’s him. I jump nervously as my phone zings into life, buzzing and trilling around the desk like a half-crazed beetle. I grab it, trying to stop its erratic movement, as people around me look up outraged at the interruption. I hurriedly press the reject button, staring dumbly at the screen, wishing for the thousandth time I’d never given him my number.
The phone bings, proudly announcing to the world that he’s left a voicemail. The third today and it’s only 9am. That’s not including five texts and the bouquet of flowers drooping sadly at my desk. I try to rustle through my papers in a businesslike manner, picking out the next sales leads, attempting to distract my anxious mind. Perhaps if I hide the phone away in the bottom of my bag, somehow he will have gone. I scrabble about in its cavernous depths, trying to avoid the wrapper containing a half-eaten SlimFast bar from the day before. It’s melted, oozy little bits of molten chocolate smeared over my notebook. Great, that’s my favourite one – I scrub at it ineffectually, trying to remove everything carefully without getting chocolate on my new suit.
My phone sings out again, causing me to drop it back into the bag like a hot potato, then frantically rummage around to check the caller ID on the screen. It’s a love-hate relationship, a bizarre fascination – I have to know if it’s him… It isn’t.
‘Hello?’ I whisper, removing myself and my bag from the desk and hurrying out into the hallway, attempting to look inconspicuous.
‘Sophie, are you okay?’ It’s my flatmate, Mel. ‘You sound a little breathless.’
‘Hardly surprising. I’m stuck between the window and a very large pot plant.’ I wriggle about a bit to find a more comfortable position. ‘If Amanda discovers I’m on a personal call at this time in the morning, I’ll be out of the running to win free tickets to the Yves St Laurent Spring Show.’
‘You shouldn’t go in any case; I think they use real animal fur. It’s disgusting. Anyway, Dean’s phoned the flat again. You’re going to have to change our number. I’m sick of hearing his creepy little voice several times a day.’
‘It’s going to take more than that; he keeps trying my mobile.’
‘Buy another one.’
‘But he knows where we live and we’ll never afford anywhere else in Islington.’
‘For God’s sake, why do you always attract complete weirdos?’ Mel snorts. ‘Mike was bad enough but honestly, Dean’s raised the bar to a whole new level.’
‘How was I to know he’s a stalker with a history of attachment issues? I can’t help it if I attract these people.’
‘You’re too nice. Like you never tell them to get lost.’
‘I do try, I just don’t like to hurt their feelings.’
‘And they can tell. You might as well have “puts up with total losers” written on your T-shirt. It’s not like it’s only one or two; you attract them in droves. Thank God you got yourself locked out of Tinder. Otherwise the issue could have gone global.’ Mel laughs in spite of her grumpy mood.
‘I’m not that bad, Darren was quite nice.’
‘Yes, he was lovely but gay.’
‘Nothing wrong with that, as you know.’
‘No, but as a boyfriend it’s a bit of a fundamental issue. And he stole all your clothes. He was a complete kleptomaniac.’
‘I loved that Monsoon top, it was really special – we bought it that day at Camden Market,’ I lament.
‘Don’t remind me, that horrible old bag was trying to sell hundreds of caged birds.’
‘I admit it was upsetting, but I wish you hadn’t gone and picked a fight with someone that scary. I’ve never run so fast in my life.’
‘I had no choice; it was disgusting the conditions she was keeping them in. How would you like to be locked in a tiny cage, like a prisoner, and barely–’
‘Mel, I’ve got to go,’ I interrupt – there’s no stopping her once she’s started one of her rants. ‘Amanda’s just walked into the office, I’ll speak later, bye…’
‘Don’t forget to deal with Dean!’ Mel repeats desperately as I click off the phone, shove it in my bag and scramble from my cramped hiding place, brushing stray pot plant leaves from my skirt, and saunter casually back into the office, hoping no-one will notice anything is amiss.
I think Mel is overreacting a bit about Dean. I mean, I know I haven’t had the best history of dating in the world but they aren’t all weirdos. Some have been sort of okay. Though to be perfectly honest, none have been great really. I just don’t seem to have much luck with guys at all, like ever.
Why can’t it all be a little more simple? I just need someone single, tall, dark and handsome who will well and truly sweep me off my feet. Charming, gentlemanly like Mr Darcy, although he was a bit moody. I always had a sneaking suspicion that he was pretty grumpy a lot of the time, and used to having his own way. Hot though. Or Mr Knightley was pretty nice and I always had a sneaking liking for Mr Tilney. Mel would give me a lecture on feminism if she heard this wish list of idealised masculinity. I can hear her now, saying, ‘You sound like one of those women who can only define themselves by being with a man.’
Of course I’m not like that at all. I am a proud feminist, a totally modern woman – I believe in equality and all that stuff. Yet there is a sneaky little part of me, which I keep very well hidden of course, that desperately wants a man to show some good old-fashioned chivalry, to look after me a little, even if I can really look after myself. Is that so wrong even in the twenty-first century? Maybe this type of guy no longer exists; except captured for eternity in the novels of Jane Austen.
My phone bings again. It’s a text from Mel.
This is so you – attached to the message is an e-card saying… Jane Austen – giving women unrealistic expectations since 1811. (Oh ha ha, maybe I don’t keep my dreams that well hidden after all.) And make sure you deal with Dean xxx
My brother, Ben, always says I have such unrealistic expectations of men due to an alarming overconsumption of romantic novels as a teenager. Maybe he’s right, I know I love to escape into a book – I should probably at least try to live in the real world. But right now it feels pretty inadequate.
As I walk back into the office, the sales team is hard at work, barely flicking me a glance from under their perfectly sculpted eyebrows. The room has a productive buzz about it, making me feel more than usual like a fish out of water.
Amanda’s already writing the sales targets on the board, adding and removing brightly coloured ticks, and crossing through percentages – the only visible evidence of our never-ending stream of phone calls. It’s as though she is playing a glorified form of noughts and crosses all by herself.
I slide quickly behind my desk, gathering work around me like a protective wall to look as though I was here slaving away for hours. A couple of calls later and it feels as though I have been.
It had sounded so glamorous when I spotted the ad in the Graduate Review. They were looking for dynamic graduates to source and pitch advertising in the classified sales department of the iconic Modiste Magazine. I applied, thinking the interview would be good experience, though the trip to London frightened me. Coming from Bampton, a sleepy seaside town, it was all so noisy yet captivating and I was fascinated by the buzz, the air of excitement.