Sophie
To:Sophie Smalls
Sorry, Mum.
I use a VPN, though. They’ll never catch me alive.
Saying that, not having to spend a week’s rent on a trip to the cinema is worth the possible jail time. Besides, they have all the Indiana Jones movies I can watch instead of working. Oh, I forgot to say, Eddie Bailey rang yesterday about ten minutes after you’d left for the evening. He’s still not happy with the logo. You need to call him back.
Happy copyright infringement!
K
I consider drowning myself in my second bowl of cereal. I find his number on file and ready myecstatically happy to talk to youvoice before I pick up the phone.
‘Eddie, how are you?’ I ask, plastering a smile on my face, hoping that my voice follows suit.
He sniffs. ‘Bit of a cold actually, which is surprising given that I stay hydrated and follow a nutrient-rich diet.’
How can anyone be this level of boring? It’s almost impressive.
‘Sorry to hear that,’ I reply, ‘and sorry I missed you yesterday. What can I help with?’
‘So, the logo. Still not feeling it. I think it’s the blue lettering.’
‘I see. Did you have another colour in mind?’
He’s going to say red, isn’t he? A sexy, playful red.
‘I was thinking that red might be better.’
I throw my head back and mouth several expletives. Once again, this could have been an email. ‘That’s no problem. We can change that and email them over. Sound good?’
‘Perfect.’
‘Excellent, let me get right on that. I hope you feel better soon.’
‘I haven’t had a cold since 2022 but that was before I embarked on—’
I blurt goodbye and hang up. There is no escape from this man, even in my own home. His account doesn’t even bring in that much money, but predictably, Rupert pushed for it as a favour to another more profitable client.
If we ever get someone new in marketing, I’m punting him over to them with my size sevens.
I open my email tab and click on Kieran’s link. They have twenty-two seasons ofLaw and Order: Special Victim’s Unit. Eddie Bailey can wait.
Chapter 15
With predictably no matches from Games Night, I decide that my next choice, tango dancing, sounds the least horrendous activity, despite having never tried it. I’d rather be a beginner at that than try to chase a ball around or remember how to ride a bike after thirty-five years. I could dance. I have rhythm. I think. I’m also not in bad shape. For a forty-five-year-old woman, I can still touch my toes and I’m able to climb at least one flight of stairs without needing a ventilator. I sign up for their next tango event and immediately jump on to YouTube to get some pointers. You need special shoes: closed-toed, three-inched heels, preferably leather or suede. I don’t relish the thought of forking out for tango shoes, but I don’t want to turn up like a loser in my worn-out ballet pumps.
Forty-quid later, new shoes in hand, I make my way to the Dance Well Academy, a studio based in central London. Including my new shoes, the one-hour lesson has set me back £110. I could have paid someone to be my boyfriend for less.
I give my name to a man on reception. As usual, I’m issued with a name badge though they’ve called me Sopphia with two ps. Honestly, I’m not even mad.
I enter the dance hall, a spacious, bright area with yellow walls and spotlights on the ceiling. It’s already filled with people, maybe around forty with at least half the room looking like they’ve done this before. Men in button-down shirts, women in little skirts and fishnets. I see a couple of women in yoga pants and one guy in grey joggers and dance shoes. The rest, thankfully, are in an array of casual shirts, leggings and jeans. I place my bag on a chair at the side of the room and stand awkwardly waiting for the class to begin.
‘Welcome, everyone. My name is Amaya.’
I turn towards the soft-spoken woman at the front of the room. She’s wearing a black wrap dress and beautiful vintage-looking velvet shoes, probably crafted in Argentina by Eva Perón herself. They make mine look like I purchased them on a whim from Amazon from a seller with only one three-star review. Which I did. Amaya’s hair is pulled tightly into a neat bun and I long to be that graceful at some point in my lifetime.
