‘Mike is a thousand times better than Matt Richards,’ I point out. ‘He wore tracksuit bottoms all the time.’
‘Well, obviously we’re going to have to Facebook stalk him now,’ she says, while Ben wanders off to hang with Mike and the BBQ.
Having established that Matt Richards has neither weathered well nor given up the trackie bottom habit over the past ten years, I stretch my arm around Mila for a snuggle.
‘Do you realise that that’s the first conversation we’ve had about Holly this decade?’ she points out.
‘It’s been so nice to reminisce about those days.’
‘You are brave, Jazzy. You just don’t give yourself enough credit.’ I nestle in to the cuddle. ‘So, are you going to reply to her email?’
‘Notyet,’ I say. ‘Baby steps. Besides, tonight isn’t about writing emails to stupid douchebags. We’re celebrating! I cannot believe you have moved in with a real-life boy, Mils. You are officially the most grown-up grown up I know.’
‘What would the person who hates your guts most in the world say about you?’
I squirm my seat.
‘Um?’
‘That’s all you’ve got? UM? We’re not going to let some no-hoper who can barely string a sentence together to take charge of this social media shoot, are we?’
‘Ummmm. . .’ I’m starting to sweat and not just because it’s hot in here. My interviewer is mean. My interviewer is also Mila. I’d been panicking hard about the Jump gig ever since Becky’s email came through, mostly because I haven’t had a job interview in one bazillion years, so Mila suggested we did a practice one together to sharpen up my skills. I’d envisaged a lovely breakfast on the terrace, reminiscing about last night’s BBQ high-jinx, enjoying a croissant or two while watching the sun rise high into the sky, with a couple of questions thrown in for good measure. Oh no. Mila’s wearing a shirt and a pencil skirt, for a start. She looks like Maggie Gyllenhaal inSecretary. She’s fashioned a makeshift interview desk from her dining table (I’d say Mike’s, because she’s only been living here for a matter of days, but obviously Mila has already completely taken over) and she’s scribbling notes on a pad. She’s also wearing glasses which I know for a fact are not prescription.
Mila drums her fingers and scowls at me.
‘I’m not a no-hoper?’ I try to act assertive but everything coming out of my mouth sounds like a question. ‘And I will be very good at taking charge of this shoot.’
‘How and why?’ barks Mila.
Dearlord, I hope she isn’t like this in her actual job. Mila’s a lawyer and yes, I do regularly wonder how I ended up best mates with the girl who is great at everything. She’s got the serious job, the long-term relationship, the hair of Meghan Markle. On the flipside I’ve got a dogsbody job, no relationship whatsoever and hair like wilted cabbage. When Mila told me she wanted to be a barrister one day, I suggested she practise her flat white technique on me. But despite all of that, Mila seems to love me back. Whether we’re pissing ourselves with laughter over an old sitcom or squabbling over who picks up the prosecco bill at our favourite bar, there’s no one I’d rather spend my time with.
‘Babes, are you okay? Did I go in too hard with the questions?’
‘A bit hard. I’m starting to feel like one of the people you cross examine in court. I bet when you’re dressed like Santa it’s even more frightening.’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘You know, white hair, red outfit. . . Santa.’
‘Yeah. . . No. I think you’re referring to what high court judges’ wear there, sweet pea. You know I’m not a high court judge, right?’
‘Of course! You’re Badass Barrister QC, remember?’ When Mila qualified, I was so excited that I came up with a whole new TV show for her in my head. A bit likeKavanagh QCoff of the nineties meetsSuits.I really should write that plot down because I think TV producers would snap it up.
‘I’m not actually a QC and your knowledge of the British legal system is, frankly, scary,’ Mila points out.
‘Not as scary as your questioning. Can we take a break? You could finally make me a flat white.’
Throwingher hands in the air like she’s given up on life, Mila pads off in the direction of her kitchen.
Chip is out of the dog house. I know this because he and Violet are skipping through St James’s Park hand in hand while muggins over here takes photos of them. They trot over bridges, look out across the lake and stop to share an ice cream. It’s quite cute, really. Things have been peachy since Chip explained to Violet that nothing happened with the girl he got papped with and now they’re making the most of Chip’s time off by getting together some snaps for the blog. Proceedings are quite often interrupted by kids who’ve seen the show and are ‘tohhhhh-dally obsessed’ with their relationship, which Violetloves. If I thought her getting recognised before was sort of irritating, it’s nothing compared to now. Turns out a lot of people watched theTotally Toffssummer spin off. (Including me, on catch up, but please don’t tell anyone? Especially not Violet!)
Anyhow, it’s good to see her happy again and I will be forever grateful to her for scraping me off the floor and bundling me onto the flight back from Switzerland. Violet reports that she woke up to find me muttering the word ‘douche’ at any passers-by, which I blame fully on Holly’s email. Thankfully I’ve managed to block it from my mind, but what I do remember is that Violet was super sweet about the whole thing and even. . . wait for it. . . insisted that she did her own unpacking when we got back to London. I was beginning to wonder whether the champagne had made me hallucinate until she bundled me into a taxi, paid for it to take me back to mine and as I was driven off, I turned to see her stood at London City hailing her own cab. I still don’t think I’ve got over the shock of it all.
‘Lookat those pink rhododendrons!’ Violet beckons us all over. ‘Can we get some pictures here Jasmine? I’m absolutely certain that rhododendrons are going to be the new wisteria.’
‘The new wisteria?’ Chip looks baffled.
‘Yes honey bun!’ Let’s not even go there. ‘Like wisteria was the new cherry blossom a while back.’ I’m pretty sure Chip still doesn’t get it but she pops a kiss on his nose and he gamely marches over to the hot pink flowers. Falling easily into a relaxed pose, he stands proudly next to his beautiful girlfriend. Chip is exactly like you’d imagine and the kind of guy who I might just have gone for myself, if Mila hadn’t told me to ditch my type and if super posh, super handsome men suddenly started falling at my feet. (Al Fresco Al was quite clearly a fluke). He’s tall, with neatly coiffed dark brown hair. He’s got the long but muscular frame and the fancy accent. I hope, for Violet’s sake, that he turns out to be a keeper.
