Nicola pulls out a nail file from under the desk and begins to file her already-perfect talons. The door whooshes open again and she quickly puts it down to flash her welcome smile at the latest employee to arrive this morning. It’s funny working here. You get to see all kinds of people. The suits tend to get in early. The creatives: late. And you don’t see a single lads’ mag bloke arrive before ten o’clock, usually looking hungover and pasty.
Three tall teenage girls wander waiflike through the doors and approach the desk.
‘We’re here for a casting,’ the one in the middle says.
‘With which magazine?’ I ask, reaching for the phone.
‘Blinker.’
That’s a glossy teen title.
‘Take the lift to the third floor, turn right and go through the double doors. Good luck!’
‘Thanks,’ they mumble and wander off listlessly.
‘I hate models,’ Nicola comments when they’ve gone.
‘Only because they’re younger and more beautiful than you,’ Mel teases.
‘No, because they have the personalities of a dishcloth.’
‘They’re not all like that,’ I chip in.
‘The only reason I’d want to be a model is because of the photographers,’ Nicola states.
We get a lot of male photographers through these doors, and most make Nicola go weak at the knees. Neither of my colleagues have boyfriends, but if they date they usually go for wealthy, well-dressed men (Mel) or sexy, dishevelled boys (Nicola). My Richard falls into neither category. At twenty-eight he’s two years older than me and seems strangely unlike a man or a boy. I guess I’d call him a man if pushed, but . . .
Twenty-eight is how old you were when I met you.
I can’t believe I’ve never thought of that before. Ben seemed older somehow. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was me.Iseemed younger. I thought I was so mature at the time. Looking back, how wrong I was.
But I did love him. I still do.
That’s the scary thing about unrequited relationships – there’s no line you can draw underneath them. The love just keeps on living, bubbling away below the surface.
I wonder what you look like now? You’d be thirty-eight. Is that old? I don’t know.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Mel breaks into my thoughts.
‘Nothing,’ I blurt out.
‘You looked all mysterious there for a minute.’
I smile and raise one eyebrow, trying to act the part.
‘Tell us,’ she urges.
‘I was thinking,’ I start – she’s all ears – ‘about whether I should go for tomato and basil or carrot and coriander today.’
Mel’s expectant smile slips into a look of irritation.
‘Tomato and basil,’ Nicola interjects. ‘Although they did have leek and potato yesterday.’
‘No way!’ I say. ‘I can’t believe I missed out on a leek and potato day.’
The three of us have practically lived on soup all summer. This trendy soup kitchen opened up around the corner a few months ago and the concoctions are so tasty we’ve become addicted despite the heat. Summer’s almost over now and the weatherman is predicting a wet and chilly autumn, so I hope we haven’t out-souped ourselves because a hot lunch should go down a treat when the temperature dips.
‘Nice little change of subject there, Lily.’ Mel gives me a sly look and I flash her an innocent one.
