“Yes. That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He grins and throws a couple into his mouth. “Sorry. You were saying.”
“Yeah—the photographer taking my pictures, for my headshot... It was the guy I got chatting to in the pub in Shoreley, that night I saw you on the street, remember?”
“In The Smugglers?”
“Yep.”
“Didn’t you say he gave you his number?”
“Yeah, he did.” I laugh a little stiffly.
“That must have been awkward.”
“It was a bit, at first.”
“Didn’t it feel weird, him taking your picture?”
“No, he was super-professional.”
I’m not really sure why I’m telling Max this. I’m not trying to make him jealous. He’s never been a jealous kind of person. Maybe it’s just because bumping into Caleb was an odd little coincidence, and that’s the kind of thing I want to share with Max.
I tell him more about my day—the morning’s meetings and my afternoon with Seb, who showed me some of his recent work: an animation for a high street bank, a social media campaign for a recipe boxdelivery service, and a series of billboard posters for a big-brand lingerie company.
The whole time Seb was talking, I kept trying not to stare too hard at him, because I was so fixated on this moment—thatthiswas my new creative partner, that I was now a writer atthisagency with talented people likethis. Given my lack of writing experience, I wouldn’t have blamed Seb for being wary, or for worrying that he might have to carry me creatively. I know it’s down to me now to prove I deserve to be there.
Still, self-doubt didn’t entirely stop me enjoying the moment. In fact, the longer Seb and I talked, the harder it became to resist jumping to my feet and performing a kind of victory lap around the breakout area, weaving in and out of beanbags and high-fiving passing creatives.
“I’m kind of proudest of this one,” Seb told me, passing me the lingerie scamps to flip through. “The client wanted to go for this sleazy campaign straight out of the eighties, and eventually what we talked them into was—”
“Classy,” I said, seriously impressed by the elegance of the design concept and copy. “Really classy.”
Seb nodded, uncrossed his legs. He’s very thin and tall, and his trousers today were so short they rode halfway up his calves when he sat down, revealing a particularly jazzy pair of socks. “And they had this one really overbearing guy on their marketing team, so to talkhimround felt like a real win.”
“There’s always one,” I said, thinking back to my planning days at Figaro, to how many meetings I’d had with thatexactsame guy.
“Isn’t there?”
I smiled. I could already tell I was going to like Seb.
“So why’d you leave your last place?” he asked.
“I wanted to move to London, have a fresh start,” I replied, which although not entirely true, didn’t feel like too much of a leap.
Seb laughed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Most people want to moveoutof London to do that.”
When I describe for Max the Supernova offices, right down to the custom-printed toilet paper—designed, apparently, by an ex-intern who’s now very high up at Supernova in New York—he says, “God, a bar at work. Think I could sell that to my VP?”
“Definitely. Is there any reason why lawyers should be more serious than anyone else?”
“Yeah. The lawsuits when we get stuff wrong.”
“Isn’t it quite difficult to sue a lawyer?”
He laughs. “Nope. That’s why we have insurance.”
I sip my ginger beer. “Now I’m picturing you all being very businesslike, taking everything super-seriously.”
