‘Technically speaking, he said “phone number”, but it amounts to the same thing.’
‘It does not.’
‘It does.’
‘Not.’
‘Does!’
‘What are you two going on about?’ Mel breaks us up as she arrives for work.
‘Nothing,’ Nicola mutters, a little flustered as she refocuses on her emails.
I could try to placate her, but I don’t think there’s anything I can say so I get on with checking my own emails instead.
Jonathan Laurence, the Editor-in-Chief ofMarblesmagazine, walks in.
‘Good morning,’ he says to Nicola and me. Mel has gone to make tea so he’ll have no flirty chat today. ‘Good weekend?’
‘Great, thanks,’ I answer pleasantly.
Nicola manages a small shrug, but that’s it.
‘Can I ask you girls a favour?’ Mr Laurence says.
Mr Laurence?His name isJonathan. Now I’m sounding like Mel!
‘Sure,’ I respond.
Nicola says nothing, soJonathandirects his attention at me.
‘Our editorial assistant is ill and our picture assistant is on holiday this week, and we’ve got a bunch of photographers coming in with their portfolios. Could you have them wait down here and call up to me when they arrive?’
‘Of course,’ I tell him. ‘Do they have allocated time slots?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shall I make a note of them, and then I won’t bother you if you’re still with the one before?’
He looks relieved. ‘That would be great.’ He rummages around in his briefcase and pulls out a diary, flicking through to the correct week. ‘Here they are.’ He passes it across the reception desk to me and I glance down at the notations under today’s date. I quickly scribble down the names and times on my pad and hand back his diary, but not before my curious eyes have unwittingly scanned the next couple of day’s worth of entries.
Wednesday:Lisa flowers
Thursday:Anniversary/Pier Frank launch
Pier Frank. . . I know that name. That’s right, he’s a photographer. I remember seeing an article about him in . . . I think it might have beenMarblesmagazine, actually. Not that I readMarbles– it’s a glossy men’s title – but we try to keep up with what’s happening in all our publications.
‘Thanks so much for that – sorry, I don’t know your name.’ He looks apologetic.
‘Lily.’ I smile. ‘And it’s not a problem.’
‘Are you English?’ he asks as Mel returns with our tea. I see her momentarily falter and tea sloshes over the side of one of the cups. She winces as the heat scalds her hand, but skilfully manages to stay quiet.
‘Yes, I grew up there.’ I answer his question.
‘Good morning, Mr Laurence,’ Mel chirps.
‘Good morning, Melissa,’ he says back.
