Shout Out To My Ex: (The Ever After Agency Book 2)

‘And lastly, you have an update for us, Poppy?’ says Saskia, giving me the floor at our morning staff meeting. Seated at the conference table with Saskia are five agents, including me, Paloma, head of client relations, and Mia, our tech expert.

‘Thank you, Saskia, yes. We’ve just had a remarkable breakthrough in the search for Elle Bliss’s long-lost love, courtesy of Marie, and⁠—’

‘Sorry to interrupt, but have you chosen a case name yet?’ asks George.

Of all the agents, I’m the least attached to the practice of finding the perfect case name. Over the years, I’ve endured dozens of huffs, sighs, and eye rolls of disappointment when I’ve chosen something too generic or a name that’s been used before.

Even when I think I’ve come up with something clever and original, one of my colleagues will poo-poo it as ‘too out there’ or ‘too Australian’ – forgive me for being an Australian! We are part of the Commonwealth, you know. While I digress, I am starting to wonder why I bother. I should just assign the naming of cases to the team and be done with it forever more.

‘Well, I⁠—’

‘The key players are Elle Bliss, fashion designer, and – as we’ve just learnt – a shoe designer called Lorenzo who, in real life, is actually called Leo,’ Nasrin interjects.

I scowl at her. ‘I was getting to that.’

‘Come on, Poppy. That’s got to spark some sort of inspiration,’ says Freya (who used to be my favourite).

‘Fine, how about… I don’t know… “The One Who Slippered Away”?’

‘Oh god, that’s terrible,’ says George.

The others seem to agree with him. Freya makes an ‘eek’ face, Nasrin bursts out laughing, and Ursula weighs in with, ‘Oh no, you absolutely cannot call the case that.’ And while nothing on her face moves (Ursula has had more work done than my mother-in-law), I can tell from her tone that she’s horrified.

Even Saskia seems amused by my suggestion.

‘Well, what then?’ I look around the table. ‘What would you call it?’

There’s quiet for a moment, then Ursula raises a hand to get our attention. When all eyes are on her, she says, ‘Elle and the Shoemaker,’ as though she’s announcing a recently discovered symphony by Mozart or a previously unearthed Shakespearean sonnet and not the name of my case.

‘Great. Very clever. I like how you riffed on the fairy tale,’ I say – Ursula always names her cases after fairy tales. She smiles at me benevolently. ‘So!’ I say, continuing with my briefing. ‘Good news. Marie was able to track down Elle’s long-lost love.’

‘Excellent,’ says Saskia.

‘Bad news is we still have no idea why he disappeared ten years ago,’ Nasrin chimes in.

‘Yes, but more good news is that he’s here in London and we’re working with Cassie – the sister – to arrange a reunion.’

‘Bad news⁠—’

‘Nas, can we please stop playing “good news, bad news”?’

‘But is there an additional challenge?’ Saskia asks – her way of getting this briefing back on track.

Nas starts to speak but as soon as I lock eyes with her, she stops. As much as she (obviously) wishes she was lead on this case, I am, and she knows it. She mouths, ‘Sorry,’ and I turn to Saskia.

‘As I mentioned when I first presented this case, Cassie doesn’t want her sister to find out she’s behind the reunion. It’s got to seem like a coincidence. But…’ I grimace, wishing I could find a diplomatic way to put this.

‘Want me to take this one?’ asks Nas across the table.

I chuckle. ‘Sure, all yours.’

‘The sister is a terrible actor.’

A chorus of ‘ahh’ echoes through the room. This dilemma comes up on occasion. We plan a strategy for a ‘happenstance meeting’ but when we run through role plays in preparation, we discover that the person who’s supposed to pull it off has the acting talent of a tea towel.

‘I mean, she has been able to keep all of this under wraps,’ I say, indicating the agency, ‘so at least she has a reasonable ability to fib.’

In the context of cases, the term ‘fibbing’ is preferable to ‘lying’, as it’s far more palatable (even though we all know they’re the same thing).

‘Yeah, she’s spun something about a side project she’s been working on,’ says Nas, picking up the thread, ‘which is perfect ’cause we’re going to use that as the foundation for the meeting.’

‘Exactly. We’re planning to get Elle and Leo-slash-Lorenzo together to discuss a possible partnership, some sort of codesigned collection… That sort of thing.’

‘Sounds plausible,’ says Saskia.

‘Yes, but as for Cassie achieving a look of genuine surprise at that meeting… Well, she’s got Buckley’s,’ I say, my face scrunched.

‘And that’s Australian for…?’ Ursula inquires.

‘No chance,’ I reply. I sometimes forget that my colleagues don’t speak fluent Aussie. That’s probably why they veto half my case names.

‘Can she be coached?’ asks Saskia.

‘Not even if we sent her to RADA for a year,’ quips Nas, and I snigger. Now that she and I are in the flow, we’re pinging off each other quite well.

‘So,’ I say to the team, ‘any thoughts on how to proceed would be greatly appreciated.’

‘What if she just doesn’t attend?’ asks George. ‘The sister, I mean.’

‘I’m not sure that would make sense,’ I say. ‘Cassie is essentially Bliss Design’s one-woman management team. She would be in a meeting about the two fashion labels working together.’

‘What if you went, Poppy?’ suggests Freya. ‘Perhaps do a bit of side-coaching?’

‘But as what – or who?’ asks Nasrin, leaping in before I have the chance.

Around the table, we collectively mull this question over, but even I’m stumped about what role I could play.

‘I know!’ says Freya, sitting up taller. ‘What if the initial meeting is a simple meet-and-greet between the two creative visionaries – no other people, not even her sister, no business talk, no finances or logistics – just to see if there is, you know…’ As she often does, Freya leaves the rest of the thought unsaid, her words hanging in the air.

‘Creative alignment?’ offers George.

‘I was thinking “a spark” but yes,’ she replies. ‘Call it a meeting but make it more like a date.’

‘I love that idea. And excellent use of buzz words, George,’ I add.

‘Well, you know, half an arts degree has to pay off sometimes,’ he says with a slice of self-effacement. Ursula pats him on the hand.

‘Nas? What do you think? Can we sell that to Cassie?’

‘I should think so. She knows how rubbish she was in that role play. “Oh my god! Leo?! Is that you?”’

Nasrin’s impersonation is enough to kick us all off. Even Saskia joins in, smiling faintly while her slim shoulders shake almost imperceptibly. This is the Saskia equivalent of me throwing back my head and belly-laughing.

‘Right,’ says Paloma, ‘if that’s all, I’ve got a call with Berlin in five.’

‘Thank you, everyone,’ says Saskia.

As we’re leaving the conference room, I hook my arm through Freya’s. ‘You ol’ romantic, you.’

She casts me a sidelong glance, the corner of her mouth lifted. ‘We’re a matchmaking agency, Poppy.’

‘Yeah, but not all cases are about romance.’

She nudges me. ‘This one is. Start with the romance and everything else will fall into place,’ she advises.

‘See? Spoken like a true romantic.’

‘So, marriage hasn’t turned you into one?’ she teases.

‘Nah, just a sexaholic.’

‘Bahahaha,’ bellows George from behind us.

‘You weren’t supposed to hear that,’ I scold.

‘Open-plan office, Poppy. Everything’s fair game,’ he retorts.

He has a point.

Elle

He’s late. Of course he is. It’s not like I’m in the middle of preparing for the biggest fifteen minutes of my life or anything. And who schedules a business meeting at 8 p.m. on a Tuesday at a (quite nice) restaurant? The next big thing in shoes, apparently.

I cannot believe I let Cassie talk me into this. Surely this could have waited until after Paris.

At 8.18 p.m., I give in to the yeasty smell rising from the centre of the table, snatch up a now-cold grainy bread roll, and stuff half of it in my mouth. It was a ridiculously early start this morning, followed by a twelve-hour workday, and all I managed to eat was an overripe banana, a cold ham-and-cheese croissant, and a handful of wine gums. Okay, it was two handfuls.

‘You must be Elle,’ says a voice.

I’ve still got a mouthful of bread when I look up to find a sixty-something woman sporting a kaleidoscope of colours – her outfit, her makeup, and her spiky hair. She looks like unicorn vomit. I smile and swallow at the same time, which means I end up grimacing at her.

‘Hello, sorry, yes. Elle Bliss.’ I rub my palms together to dust off the breadcrumbs and hold out my right hand. She takes it in one of those limp, wet-fish type handshakes. I hate those.

‘Ser, Lorenzo’s publicist,’ she says with a strong American accent I can’t quite place. Her name sounds like ‘Sair’, but I’d be hard-pressed to spell it correctly.

‘Hello,’ I say again. She continues to hover. ‘Um, is Lorenzo coming?’

She sniffs the air and I can’t tell if it’s because, like me, she’s famished and there are some delicious aromas wafting in from the kitchen, or if it’s an affront of some kind.

‘He’s on his way.’ She’s looking at her phone now, which she taps on impatiently.

‘Right. Well, he’s late,’ I joke. Only she clearly doesn’t think it’s funny and her eyes narrow as they swing in my direction. ‘Will you be joining us?’ I ask, hoping she says no.

‘No.’

Well, good, because you have the conversation skills of a dung beetle, I think. Then I feel bad for dung beetles.

‘He’s here,’ she says, and without another word to me, she heads towards the door. Wait, did she only come in to tell me he’d arrived? How odd.

I watch her and just inside the doorway, she’s joined by a man: tallish, slim, platinum-blond hair tied into a half-ponytail, wearing ultra-wide-leg jeans (he could smuggle ham hocks in those), a tight denim waistcoat (double denim? Who is he, an extra from Barbie?), and enough bangles on each arm to (almost) cover his tattooed forearms. He’s also wearing sunglasses. Inside. At night-time.

Fuck me, what a poser! And I work in fashion – I encounter all sorts. But this!

Ser points towards me, then leaves, and I school my expression as I wait for him to join me.

There’s been all sorts of buzz about Lorenzo in the fashion forums – when I get a chance to read them, that is, which is rare these days. He’s all about sustainably produced leather, even jumping on the leather-from-cactus bandwagon, and ground-breaking designs that offer style and comfort (something promised by most shoe designers, but rarely delivered).

And if what Cassie says is true, a partnership between Bliss Designs and Lorenzo could be our big break – possibly even bigger than Paris.

She’ll kill me if I cock this up.

He approaches the table, flops onto the chair opposite me, and without even saying hello, raises his hand to a passing waiter.

‘Hey, man,’ he says with a drawl, ‘can I get a beer? Like, a real one? You know, in a bottle? I can’t do that warm piss in a pint glass you guys call beer.’

As the waiter disappears to retrieve a ‘real beer’, chills prick the crown of my head, as if a thousand tiny spiders are dancing in stilettos. They crawl down my face to my neck, shoot along my spine, and land heavily in my stomach where they settle in and kickstart a swell of nausea.

I know that voice.

And when his head finally swivels in my direction and he removes his sunglasses, I know that face too.

‘Leo?’ I choke out, right as his eyes widen and he replies, ‘Ellie?’