‘But there might not even be another date . . . What if he doesn’t want to see me again?’ I ask, thinking that this might actually be a possibility. The date was two days ago and now he’s disappeared ‘south’.
‘If you did what I – sorry – the book told you to, he will. And you’re sexy. He’s definitely asking you out again.’
‘Don’t try and flatter me; it won’t work.’
‘Sure it will.’
‘And, wait, what the hell do you get out of this?’ I reply defiantly.
He takes another mouthful of lunch. ‘Well, I get the pleasure of proving you wrong. So, what do you think? It’s either that or I tell your editor, your readers and everyone with a Twitter account that we had a very, very dirty one-night stand and you therefore cannot be trusted.’
‘You’ll slut-shame me? Seriously?’
‘Easy, girl. No, don’t be ridiculous. What I will do is journo-shame you. That’s worse. It seems you’ve attracted quite a following, but no one wants a journalist that makes shit up—’
‘That’s why we have authors,’ I goad.
‘Please don’t interrupt. Anyway, once I tell them what you’ve been up to, your loyal readership will know you’re a fraud. Remember Julianne Bowers?’
The manipulative little wanker has a point. I do remember Julianne Bowers. She was a popular health writer for Hey! magazine who followed the Atkins diet for her column at the height of its popularity. Every week she swore to thousands of readers that it was complete tripe, but then a photo of her dining at Prezzo with yards of tagliatelle hanging out of her mouth appeared online, and she was dropped. No one knows where’s she’s working now. I cannot believe that shagging Guy Wright could be my downfall. He could be my tagliatelle.
‘Fine, I’ll do it,’ I reluctantly agree. What choice do I have? ‘But I think you’re a devious arsehole, let’s be clear on that.’
‘Yes, I thought you might. I’ve already run it past Natasha. She loves the idea. I didn’t tell her the full story obviously. I just told her I thought you might need some help sticking to the rules, and being the good guy I am—’
‘Are we finished here?’ I reach over and take my notepad, tossing it back into my bag.
He looks taken aback. ‘What’s wrong, Cat? You hardly touched your food. Aw, are you mad at me?’
‘Thanks for your time, Dylan – sorry, Mr Wright. It’s been delightful.’
‘Pleasure,’ he replies. ‘I look forward to working with you. Can I have my pen back now?’
‘Can you fuck!’
I toss my bag over my shoulder and march swiftly through the restaurant, past the lunchtime diners and straight downstairs to the ladies’ toilets, where I lock myself in a cubicle and take several long, deep breaths. I can’t believe this is happening. Not only do I have to follow his bloody rules, but now he’s going to be my fucking personal advisor?
*
I trudge back to work and Natasha immediately waves me in to see her. She’s finishing up on a phone call so I sit across from her and gaze around her office, which always smells of a combination of Very Irrésistible Givenchy and the popcorn she relentlessly munches on during the day. She covers the mouthpiece on her phone to speak to me.
‘Sorry about this. Alexander from payroll’s being a twat again . . . hang on . . . what? . . . I don’t care if you heard that! I meant it. Sort my fucking expenses out, you useless prick.’
She hangs up and gives herself a little shake. ‘Honestly, that man makes me livid. Anyway, tell all! What was he like? Did he explain his idea for how to progress your column?’
I want to say, ‘Well, he’s like a big attractive, untrustworthy bastard who just happens to be the man I shagged on Friday,’ but instead I say, ‘Not as bad as I expected really. And yes, I’m sure his input will be invaluable.’
‘Wonderful. Glad you’re on board, Cat. We both know your column hasn’t been as popular as it once was, but with the reaction so far to The Rules of Engagement, it looks like it’s back on track. Even Caitlin Moran shared a link on Twitter. It seems Guy’s book has been a blessing in disguise.’
I smile and make sounds of agreement through gritted teeth.
‘Oh, and don’t mention this to the rest of the staff – I promised Guy we’d be discreet. Now, I’ve emailed you three features to do, so if you could crack on with those, and I look forward to reading your next dating column. I know you can’t force these things, but in the interests of entertainment . . .’
Christ, how the hell am I going to get Tom to meet me again if I’m not allowed to contact him? I can’t submit another piece about waiting around for something to happen. ‘Yes, of course,’ I reply confidently. ‘It’ll be great.’
I get back to my desk and grab my phone from my bag, desperately hoping that a message from Tom wanting to meet up again before my copy is due has miraculously appeared. No such luck. And now Patrick is staring at me.
‘Can I help you with something, Patrick,’ I ask, ‘or are you hoping I’ll tell you what Natasha and I were discussing?’
