‘Iss-y! Iss-y! Iss-y!’ Felix chanted.
Others joined in. ‘Iss-y! Iss-y! Iss-y!’
Soon the whole room was chanting like a crazed mob.
A sense of deep trepidation took hold of her, but she forced a demure smile onto her face and weaved her way to the front of the room. Faces blurred and the sound of voices warped in her ears. Her heart pounded as Hugh pulled her up onto the stage.
‘Thank you all for coming to celebrate the birthday of this wonderful woman.’ He waited as people clapped and cheered. ‘But—’ he turned to her, putting a hand into his pocket, ‘—this is notjusta birthday party.’ He pulled out a small box. Issy felt hot. Someone hooted again. ‘Issy, some people might think three months is a short time to be with someone, but when you know, you know. And I’ve never been more certain of anything when I say … I want to spend forever with you.’ He got down on one knee. Excited whispers rippled through the room as he flipped open the box to reveal an enormous solitaire. ‘Isobel Iris Ashworth, will you marry me?’
A wave of nausea rose up in her throat as she looked at the ring. It had to be five carats, at least. Hugh’s eyes bored into her, waiting for an answer. She looked over at her parents. Did they know about this? He must have asked her father, surely. The hushed voices of the catering staff in the next room were the only sounds.
She looked back at Hugh. His smile had dropped a fraction. What on earth was he thinking? This was too soon! Panic rose in her chest but she pushed it down, thinking of the Party Talk column in theSun Times. There were plenty of people here who had that bitchy columnist on speed dial. What would the column say this Sunday?
She had no choice.
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Yes, of course I’ll marry you.’
The room erupted in applause as Hugh put the ring on her finger, his hands shaking slightly. He pulled her into a tight embrace as their guests closed in. Her parents pushed through the throng.
‘Congratulations, you two!’ Malcolm stepped between them, putting a fatherly arm around each shoulder. ‘Well done, son!’ he said to Hugh. ‘She had no idea! No easy feat, pulling off a surprise where my daughter is concerned.’
She beamed her brightest smile back at her father and her … fiancé. She felt light-headed. Fiancé. She had a fiancé.
Chapter 5
The lunch crowd at Denny’s was an eclectic mix of locals with dogs, workers with laptops and mums in activewear meeting for a quick bite before school pick-up. Meg and Deb had started meeting there for a takeaway coffee during the lockdowns and it had been a favourite ever since, on days when they were both working from home.
She searched the tables for Deb and found her sitting in the far corner, typing quickly, brow furrowed. Meg’s heart sank slightly. She’d been hoping to beat her there. If she couldn’t meet a deadline, at least she could be on time for lunch.
‘Deb, I’m so sorry,’ she said when she arrived at the table. ‘I couldn’t find a bloody park. I ended up in a thirty-minute zone. Do you think I can claim a parking fine as a tax deduction?’
She was joking, but Deb shook her head. ‘I think you’d be pushing your luck.’ She closed her laptop screen and took off her tortoiseshell glasses, knocking over the pepper grinder as she placed them on the table. It clattered onto the floor, drawing the attention of diners at nearby tables. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, shaking her head as she bent down to retrieve it.
Meg laughed, feeling a surge of affection for her friend and mentor. If it wasn’t for Deb’s uncanny ability to spill things, they wouldn’t have met on a wet Monday morning eight years before, when Meg was hiding in the ladies’ loos in the foyer of the Park Street office on her first day as an intern atThe Times.
Meg had arrived early that day, riddled with nervous excitement, so she was sitting in a stall, scrolling mindlessly, when someone entered the bathroom, swearing under her breath. She’d opened the door of the stall to see Deborah Jenkins splashing water onto a large, brown stain on her cream, silk shirt. Meg recognised her from the authoritative black-and-white photo that accompanied her articles. She was already a high-profile investigative reporter by then, although at that moment, swearing and dabbing at the stain with a paper towel, she looked anything but authoritative.
‘Um … are you … okay?’ Meg had asked, glancing sideways as she washed her hands at the next basin.
Deb stopped dabbing and looked at the stain in the mirror. It was even worse now. ‘Not really, unless you happen to have a spare shirt in your handbag.’ She threw the paper towel in the bin and put a hand to her forehead. ‘I’m doing a panel presentation at the Hilton in half an hour with Leigh Sales and Kate McClymont.’
Meg thought for a moment. They looked about the same size. ‘Swap shirts with me.’
Deb eyed Meg’s navy blouse. She’d bought it the week before on a special outing to add some more conservative, corporate pieces to her wardrobe, which was mainly full of frayed denim and faded T-shirts.
‘Seriously?’
Meg nodded. ‘If this is okay?’
Deb was already unbuttoning her shirt. ‘You’re an absolute lifesaver.’
Meg unzipped hers at the back and slipped it off, wishing she’d worn a better bra.
‘What’s your name?’ Deb asked, as she tucked the blouse into her trousers.
‘Meg Hunter. It’s my first day. I’m just an intern.’
‘Hey,’ Deb said, looking up. ‘No justs. It’s not easy getting an internship here. That’s something to be proud of.’
