‘It could never be me,’ he replied aghast. ‘And it won’t be you either. As your agent, I’m very much expecting you to shower me with extravagant gifts and luxury holidays.’
‘All you did was give the contract a once-over after I negotiated it myself.’
‘It was a very thorough once-over.’
‘You sent it back with a thumbs up emoji in less time than it took me to make a cup of tea.’
‘I’m very efficient.’
Zipping up my empty suitcase, I slid it under the bed, disproportionately pleased with how neatly it fit. Across the room, nestled against the sofa, was Joe’s overnight bag. Even though it was half the size of my suitcase, it filled the entire cottage with his presence, the worn, masculine leather quietly confident amongst all the soft, feminine furnishing, and it took every ounce of strength I had in me not to hurl it away into the field, like Miss Trunchbull hammer-tossing that little girl by the pigtails inMatilda.
‘What’s the deal with this one?’ William asked, crossing the room to inspect the bag for himself. ‘I haven’t had the pleasure yet.’
‘I wouldn’t to call it a pleasure,’ I replied. ‘Tall, dark and twattish.’
‘Genuinely hot or publishing hot?’
‘Genuinely,’ I admitted through gritted teeth. ‘And he knows it.’
It was an important distinction. Meeting an eligible man who worked in publishing was like finding the last bottle of water on a desert island, only the island was an office building in London Bridge and the bottle of water was an incredibly average-looking man called Tom. Single men had an unfair advantage over single women simply because they were a rarity. There was no getting away from it, Joe Walsh was a unicorn. Undeniably, earth-shatteringly, brain-meltingly good-looking.
Not that I cared.
‘I’d say come and stay with us but we’ve got Sanjit’s family and they’re already using all the hot water before I even get in the shower,’ William said, plopping down on the arm of the sofa, prodding the cushions with thesame expertise he’d shown when examining the walls. ‘I vaguely remember Joe from when we were kids. Awkward bugger as I recall. Didn’t he move to America with his mum?’
I nodded.
‘Moved to America, went to Harvard, worked in publishing in New York after uni, came back to London a few months ago and now he’s blagging it at MullinsParker as some sort of incredibly self-important creative director. Lives in King’s Cross like a wanker.’
My brother folded his arms across his chest, head cocked to one side.
‘What?’ I asked, embarrassed to realise I’d been talking so fast, I was out of breath.
‘Thanks for the bio, Wikipedia.’
‘Know thy enemy,’ I replied hotly. ‘I’m an adult woman with access to the internet, took me two minutes to find that out. His Instagram isn’t private and the weirdo updates his LinkedInconstantly.’
In the two minutes I had to myself between moving my stuff to the cottage and William’s visit, I conducted my search, certain there had to be something in his digital footprint that would give me a good, strong case of the ick. But no. He only used his Instagram to showcase his annoyingly impressive work and, as far as I could tell, he didn’t have any other social media accounts. His enthusiasm for LinkedIn should’ve been a turn-off but it somehow managed to have the opposite effect. Aside from the fact he clearly had a strong work ethic, having kept himself busy with part-time jobs all through university, he was still listed as a board member of a volunteer organisation that helped underprivileged kids get involved in the arts in New York. If that wasn’tbad enough, in between all the usual boy music, his public Spotify playlists were littered with Beyoncé and Taylor Swift tracks,andhe only listened to Taylor’s Versions.
The man was too good to be true.
Given a little more time, I was certain I could find something incriminating, something unforgivable, like a video of him kicking puppies or throwing up a peace sign next to a tiger in Thailand or, even worse, drinking Logan Paul’s energy drink. There had to be something. There was always something.
‘Poor Joseph,’ William laughed. ‘He’s met his match, hasn’t he?’
‘He prefers Joe,’ I replied adding; ‘Not that it matters.’
‘Not that it matters,’ my brother agreed gleefully. ‘Shall we have a look in his bag?’
I pasted on a look of shock, as though I hadn’t spent every single second between Joe’s departure and William’s arrival fighting the urge to do exactly that.
‘William Leo Taylor, I am disappointed,’ I said, dashing over to the window to peek out the curtain. The coast was clear. ‘That you didn’t suggest it earlier. Get it open.’
He hoisted the bag onto the sofa and unfastened a tarnished brass buckle before opening the zip, each soft click-clack of the teeth parting ways tickling my eardrums. The cottage suddenly seemed very, very quiet.
‘Looks pretty standard. Shirts, socks, deodorant,’ he said as he poked around inside. Then he stopped and looked me dead in the eye. ‘Oh my.’
‘What?’ I asked, my heart racing as I dashed to his side.
