The girls get on the bus ahead of me and tell their friends, who start taking pics too.
My fingers hover over Josh’s number, but I don’t know what to say. As we pull up at the next bus shelter, there’s yet another pic of me. This time sayingTell your friends #joshlovesgreer.
What the actual fuck?
My phone starts blowing up.
There are literally hundreds of notifications on Twitter. I open it up and check Trending. Sure enough, #joshlovesgreer is number one in Sydney, with dozens of photos of me from the bus stop and inside the bus.
Instagram is no different—there’s a new page—@joshlovesgreer, where dozens of photos of me are posted.
I look up at the next stop. And the next. Every bus shelter from my flat to the office has a poster of my face, all with the #joshlovesgreer. Everyone on the bus is laughing and cheering and calling their friends to tell them they’re on a bus with Greer. I lose count of the number of selfies I’m asked for, until, finally, we reach my stop.
And there is a picture of me. With Josh. I can’t even remember it being taken. It’s in the back-yard of his house, and we’re smiling at one another. My heart, which has been doing backflips and forward rolls since I got to the bus shelter, dismounts from the parallel bars onto the mats with a splat.
Because this one says,I love you Greer#joshlovesgreer. And what’s more, directly across the road is another bus shelter, with a photo of Josh on his own, looking forlorn, and the captionIf you love me, you know where to go#joshlovesgreer.
Someone yells out the window of a passing bus. “What are you waiting for, Greer? Go get him.” People are whistling and cheering, and still my phone is going crazy with notifications.
I can’t stand on the pavement all day in the rain, but I don’t quite know what to do with myself, so I head inside and up to my office. Which gets me a standing ovation.
“What are you doing here?” Jonathan asks. “Don’t you have someone to meet?”
“I …” I start before promptly bursting into tears.
I’m shuffled into the conference room and given a hot cup of tea and a box of tissues. Looks like the usual Monday morning Work in Progress meeting is all about me and my crazy love life this week. Nobody seems to mind. They’re all talking over each other.
“Do you know where he wants you to go?” “Do you need a lift?” “No, get a cab.” “She can’t go like that, look at her face.” “Come into the bathroom and we’ll clean you up first.” “Don’t worry about work; we’ve got you covered.”
Finally, they run out of steam, and Jonathan takes control.
“Right. I’ve ordered you an Uber to take you wherever it is you need to go. It’ll be here in ten minutes, so go with Catherine to the ladies and she’ll fix up your makeup for you. We don’t want to see you again today, but we do want a full report by close of business. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank you.” I’m laughing and crying and shaking like a leaf as Catherine, who has gone out of her way to make me feel welcome since I started here, leads me off to the bathroom.
Somehow, I find myself in an Uber, giving them the only address I can think of. The rain has made traffic a gridlocked nightmare. We get tangled in the backlog from an accident on Military Road, and by the time we approach Spit Hill, the peak hour is officially over, even though the traffic suggests otherwise. As we crawl down the hill, I see the time. Ten thirteen. No. No. No. Please let us make it. The flashing lights start. Dammit. Right on time for the first bridge opening of the day. I strain against my seatbelt as though leaning forward will somehow propel us over the opening and onto the other side. The bridge deck rises at glacial speed. There’s not one but three boats waiting to pass through. Who goes sailing in this weather? It’s apocalyptic out there. The boats cruise through like three lazy snails with nowhere to be, and it seems like hours before the deck starts to descend again.
I jump around from deciding to call Josh to resolving to wait to see him in person and back again a hundred times.
Finally, the car is pulling up in front of the house I love so much, and I’m falling out the door. The rain is torrential, and I left my umbrella in the office, so by the time I cross the footpath and make it up the front path, all the hard work Catherine put into fixing my hair and makeup is completely ruined.
The door is ajar, so I slip my sopping shoes off and push it open to find a trail of red and orange and hot pink flowers and petals running down the hall and up the stairs. There’s still no furniture until I get to the door of the master bedroom, where an enormous four-poster bed sits perfectly against the wall. It’s dressed in fluffy white pillows and a fat white quilt, where a heart of petals has been laid out.
There is no sign of Josh, so I step into the room. On the wall opposite the bed, above the beautiful newly refurbished antique fireplace, is a massive painting. A nude. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say it could be a painting of me.
Chapter Forty-One
Josh
ImovedthefurnitureI might need in over the weekend. The bed and the nude of the woman that looks just like Greer. It crosses my mind she might find it creepy. Too late to worry about it now. If she hates it, I’ll sell it. Whatever she wants. If she’ll only give me a chance.
I’m there at the house at seven am on Monday morning. In case she’s early. And I settle in to wait. The hashtag starts trending on social media just after eight o’clock. My team and the guys in the media department, especially the social media manager, have really pulled a rabbit out of a hat. Twitter and Insta are both blowing up. But I have no way of knowing if she’s seen any of it. Until eight thirty when the first ‘sighting’ of Greer gets posted. Some teens have taken a selfie with her at the bus shelter near her flat and posted it with the hashtag. God bless gen Z. Or maybe they’re gen Alpha. Who cares? Bless them anyway.
Greer looks a little shell-shocked. Not angry or unhappy, though, so I take some comfort in that. From there, things escalate quickly. There are sightings and videos right up until nine am when a video of her going into her office building is posted. Then it’s radio silence on the visuals, although people are still posting #joshlovesgreer. #whereisgreer and #findgreer are also trending. It crosses my mind this would make a great case study, but that’s a thought for another time.
Ten o’clock comes and goes and still no sign of Greer. Maybe she didn’t know where I expected her to go. No. She’d know. Maybe she couldn’t get away from work? Maybe she’s too embarrassed to leave the building? Or maybe she’s not coming.
Which I refuse to believe. She’ll be here. She has to. Because if this doesn’t work I don’t have a plan B. Yet.
