With a breezy chuckle, Sage concedes the battle of wills with Priya and plunks down on the love seat. “Okay, whatever. Let’s give Sandy something to do. IfSports and Tortesis poised to skyrocket with this Gavin Yates plug, we’ve gotta put the pedal to the metal on making me look fun on social media. Regular posts, with viral potential. Maybe he can put a thing together.”
“How’s your photography game?” Priya asks me. “You seem like the kind of narcissist who’s probably always taking selfies.”
“I’m a journalist,” I retort, ignoring the dig. “I daresay I can competently wield a camera.”
Sage hums a laugh. “Ooh, youdaresay, do you, fancy pants? And… you’re not a journalist anymore,” she adds with a wink. “Such a shame. Your blogused tobe good. Like, a year ago, maybe.”
I can’t hide my surprise. “You read it? Before the, erm…” I’m a little embarrassed to refer to how I baited her, but I’d eat glass before admitting it.
She shrugs, one leg bouncing like a metronome ticking out allegro time. “Here and there. Before it turned into another gossipy shit-heap likeSports and Tortes, that is.”
I confess that I do read CJ Ardley’s blog. The woman is sassy and sharp, and her sultry selfies aren’t without appeal. She has that north-of-forty aggressive sexuality that inspires the imaginations of hopeful schoolboys. And within every man, a hopeful schoolboy still resides.
Sage withdraws her mobile, prolonging a carefree sigh while typing something. “Anyway, I’m gonna make a shopping list for you. I want all this stuff by the end of the day.” A wicked smile flickers across her expression. She pauses, gazing at the ceiling, pensive, then taps away with her thumbs again. “All righty, that should do ’er.” She pokes the screen in a showy way, and my mobile chimes in my breast pocket.
I take it out and inspect the list:
A large rubber duck
Tap-dance shoes, women’s US size 7
Three real peacock feathers
A string of Christmas lights (multicolor, not white)
A vintage pulp-style detective novel
Bag of potting soil
A prop/joke knife (plastic, retracting blade, but realistic looking)
A blue glitter keychain that says “I Heart Bahrain” (not a heart symbol, but the actual word “heart”)
Cervical balm (organic, fragrance-free) with applicator
By the time I’ve reached the end of the list, my eyebrows have practically migrated to the back of my head. “This is absurd. Where’s the real list?”
She leans back on her hands, surveying me beneath low lids. “You’re lookin’ at it, honeybee.”
“Bollocks. You’re winding me up.” I peruse the screen again. “A rubber duck.”
“Largerubber duck,” she clarifies.
“And where might I find such a thing?”
“Toy store’s your best bet.”
“Potting soil.” I give her a brittle smile. “Are we a farmer now?”
“It’s a critical part of a video concept I’m developing.”
I glare at the list again. “The keychain design is quite specific.”
“True fact.” She does a littlerah-rahfist pump. “I believe in you.”
I look toward Priya in hopes of support, but she’s stopped typing and is watching the interaction with amusement. “Have fun,” she whispers with an evil smile.
“Oh, cheers.” I lift my mobile in a sarcastic toast. Before tucking it into my pocket, I note the final item again. “And this… balm you mention.”
