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Lara was in a foul mood. Stella could sense it even from a distance. As she walked up Brick Lane, it was like her boss had a pitch-black cloud over her head. Lightning and everything.
Stella was glad she had brought gifts: strong tea and bacon sandwiches. That would cheer anyone up first thing in the morning.
‘Do you know how hard it is to find a proper caff around here?’ said Stella, filling in the silence as they met at the corner of Bethnal Green Road. ‘This is supposed to be the East End, fergawd’s sake.’
‘Hipsters don’t do grease,’ said Lara, taking the bag and peeking inside. She grimaced. ‘Too early for me. Maybe Eduardo will want one.’
They crossed the road, heading into the arty enclave of Shoreditch.
‘You alright boss?’ said Stella, trying to lift Lara’s mood. ‘Teeny bit hungover?’
‘Why do you say that?’ Lara could do froideur when she wanted to and she was giving off icy vibes right now.
‘Wasn’t it Alex’s birthday party last night?’
Lara glanced at her as if she was surprised she had remembered.
‘I only popped in,’ she said in a way that suggested the subject was closed. Perhaps they’d had a ding-dong – shame. Alex Ford was the best-looking bloke at the Chronicle and the deputy editor to boot, something of a catch by anyone’s standards. Certainly, everyone in the office fancied him, even the married ones. Gayle in Features had been in dedicated pursuit of Alex for at least a year, even joining his gym, although Stella wasn’t sure Alex was even aware of Gayle’s feelings. There were rumours of a girlfriend – Alice, Alicia? – but no one had ever seen her. Besides, it was so obvious that he liked Lara, although Stella wasn’t sure it was mutual. After all, if it was, wouldn’t something have happened by now? Stella had always been curious to know but now was not the time to start digging. Lara was all business this morning, updating Stella on the events in Monte Carlo, particularly the ‘Inner Circle’ names Jago Bain had given t
hem. She clearly wasn’t in the mood to speculate on Alex’s romantic status.
Instead Stella updated Lara on her family drama. Her mother had gone ‘batshit’ when she had heard that Stella had ‘left poor Glenda in the lurch’ by walking out of Jimmy’s café. She’d ranted about gift horses and Jimmy’s golden heart until Stella had finally snapped and told her how much salary Lara was paying her.
‘You said I was giving you how much? Does she think I’m a billionaire?’
‘Yeah, she does,’ said Stella apologetically. ‘Sorry boss, it was the only way I could shut her up.’
They stopped outside a tall, narrow building with ancient brickwork. It had once been some sort of mill or workshop as there was a pulley system and access doors on the second floor. It had, however, all been sandblasted and repointed, with only a little of the grittiness deliberately retained.
‘Looks like your friend Eduardo’s come down in the world,’ said Stella, grinning at the thought of a regal Spaniard in a hipster flat.
‘Eduardo doesn’t actually live here,’ said Lara. ‘I think he’s got a place in Kensington. This is just the collective’s new office.
The door buzzed and they stepped inside. The building’s interior had also been stripped and buffed, with exposed brickwork and iron joists painted tasteful shades of green and grey. Even the entrance door was slick, a single sheet of glass with ‘Le Caché’ artfully etched down the side. It all said, ‘We’re edgy, but we’re serious,’ which Stella supposed was the whole idea. Whatever, it was cool. And… OMG.
Stella’s heart did a little jump as she caught sight of the Le Caché guys.
When Stella first came down to London, she had a romantic idea – that all journalists would look like Robert Redford in All The Presidents Men, or at the very least, like Johnny Depp in Fear and Loathing. They did not. Journalists were generally pudgy, pasty and losing their hair; they didn’t even dress well, seeming to favour the colour beige. Stella had once even seen someone wear a cardigan.
But Stefan and Eduardo were exactly as she had imagined writers to be. Eduardo was tall, dark and had hair like a Spanish prince – in fact, wasn’t he actually a Spanish prince? Whatever – he was hot, even if he looked like the sort of man who owned a suede brush. And Stefan had those continental cheekbones and Euro-chic thing going on.
Stefan introduced himself to Stella, then his eyes flicked across to Lara’s and she mouthed ‘hi’, accompanied by a bashful smile. Stella caught the blush on Lara’s cheeks.
‘Come in, come in,’ said Stefan, leading them into a high open-plan space lit by long windows. ‘Sorry about the chaos. We only got the furniture yesterday.’
It was unruly, certainly, with boxes stacked here and there, some of them open and half-unpacked, but there was a sense of purpose here.
‘I’ve brought breakfast,’ said Stella, holding up the tray.
‘So kind of you,’ said Eduardo, graciously taking the offerings through to a little bar area to one side of the room. There was already a huge silver coffee machine sitting on the counter, but Eduardo still fussed around putting the sandwiches on plates, flattering Stella for her thoughtfulness. Briefly she entertained the idea of her and Eduardo, even picturing asking him back to her house-share with T-shirts on the floor and damp on the walls. Could happen. Unlikely, yes. But never say never.
‘So shall we discuss the Inner Circle?’ said Eduardo, leading them all over to the brand new designer sofas which were soft and white and still with a showroom smell. To Stella, there was something miraculous about a new sofa. Growing up in a rented house where the sofa had been used by the six previous tenants did that to you.
Eduardo had propped up a series of whiteboards on easels, each with a name written at the top.
‘Richard Stewart (US/Miami)’, ‘Donald Van Leder (S. Africa)’, ‘Bernard Gander (London), ‘Philippe Marsaud (Geneva), ‘Eugene Dre (Caymans)’
They had neat notes beneath each name with print-outs attached to the boards with little magnets.
