Just Haven't Met You Yet(3)

At the front of the shop window, near my hand, a ruby brooch—a beautiful stone in a weathered silver setting, the trace of writing just visible. I feel a flutter of excitement; is there anything more romantic than an old engraving? I imagine those scratched letters to be a clue, waiting for me to unravel the story they hold, just like the coin I’ve worn around my neck since I was fifteen. My hand reaches up to the pendant, the place my hand always goes to when I’m thinking about Mum. As I’m inventing a romantic backstory for the ruby brooch in the window, a man in a long camel coat leaves the shop. He drops something, a piece of paper, so I pick it up and call after him.

“Excuse me, you dropped this.”

He turns around and looks me square in the eyes. He’s in his thirties with salt-and-pepper hair, deep-set eyes, and a regal nose. He’s attractive, in a Roman emperor sort of way. And for some reason, maybe it’s the emotional morning I’ve had, or the fact that I’m thinking about Mum, but I just get a feeling that maybe this could be the beginning of my “How did you meet?” Sexy Caesar drops a receipt, I pick it up, we get to talking about vintage jewelry, stare into each other’s eyes, and then kablammo, we just know: This is it; we’ve finally found each other.

“What?” he says.

“You dropped this.” I reach out my hand to give him the piece of paper, tucking a strand of blond hair behind my ear and furnishing him with my warmest smile.

“I don’t need it.” He waves a dismissive hand at me and turns to go.

“Hey, wait,” I call after him. “You can’t just drop paper in the street.”

The man stops, turns, and scowls at me, as though I’m a small dog that’s just peed on his gray suede loafers.

“Who are you, the street police?” he asks, shaking his head as he turns to leave.

“If everyone dropped their receipts, then where would we be? We’d be ankle-deep in old receipts, that’s where!” I call after him, still inexplicably waving the piece of paper in the air as though I’ve found one of Willy Wonka’s golden tickets.

“Piss off, litter witch,” he calls over his shoulder. I let out an indignant puff of air. OK, maybe that wasn’t my “How did you meet?” after all. I’ve probably dodged a bullet, anyway. He might have been good-looking, but I wouldn’t want the love of my life to be a litterbug.




Jersey Evening News—23 May 1991

FOUND: Half a ha’ penny, with “Jersey, ’37” just legible on the reverse. Inscribed on the face are the words: “the whole world is for me divided . . .” Seeking information about the origins of this coin. Are you or your family in possession of the other half? It may be inscribed with the words, “. . . into two parts.” Any information, please contact Annie; Bristol PO BOX 1224.





Chapter 2




Pushing through the double doors on the third floor of the Beak Street building, I can see Suki already holding court in the glass-walled meeting room. A dozen of my colleagues sit in two neat rows listening with rapt attention. Editor in chief of Love Life, Suki Cavendish is a slim four foot eleven with a keen aversion to heels, yet she always manages to be the most prepossessing person in any room. Today she is dressed in a tailored cream jumpsuit with her black hair pulled into a taut chignon.

Carefully opening the glass door of the meeting room, I creep to the only free seat left, right at the front. The only thing Suki hates more than lateness is “freegans who shun consumer society.” I’m only two minutes late, but Suki stops talking and everyone turns to look at me. My friend and flatmate, Vanya, shoots me a sympathetic look from the end of the row.

“Nice of you to join us, Laura,” Suki says, one eyebrow darting up her forehead. “Since you’re already standing, perhaps you can help me today?”

Oh great—I’m in the hot seat. Suki likes to punctuate her monthly roundups with a Q&A full of impossible rhetorical questions. It’s like being on a game show that you can never win.

“What are we doing here, Laura?” Suki’s lips pout in my direction, like a cannon preparing to fire.

“Having a meeting?”

Everyone laughs, which makes me even more nervous. I wasn’t trying to be funny; Suki does not like funny.

“No, what are we doing here?” Suki glares at me, lifting her hand up to indicate I should stay standing while I’m in the hot seat.

Though Suki is short, she refuses to raise her eye level to look at people taller than her. I once heard her tell a male client that she didn’t see why she should give herself a neck ache—if people want to look her in the eye, they can come down to her level. As a result, when you speak to her, you find yourself hovering in a crouch position. Vanya swears that she once saw Suki have a meeting with a particularly tall IT guy on his knees.

“Do we all show up at this office for fun?” Suki asks. “Are we here designing blueprints for atomic submarines? What are we doing, Laura?”

“Um, working for one of the top lifestyle platforms in the UK?” Yes! I remembered to call it a lifestyle platform. Suki doesn’t like it being referred to as a website; she thinks it’s reductive. Love Life started out as purely interiors but now covers everything from real life stories to beauty products and travel.

“We are selling a dream—that is what we are doing,” says Suki, clapping her hands together. “We are showing people the life they want—the enviable love stories, the perfectly designed breakfast bar, the expensive mini break to Paris that might save their relationship. We suck people in with a dream, and we send them away with . . . Laura?”