Page 132 of Falling for You

‘What?’ Brian says, his eyes narrowing. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing!’ I say quickly, noticing Greg and Gary from socials popping their heads up. ‘Nothing. It’s delicious. Thank you.’

He peers at me, taking a step forward. ‘Why did you pull that face, then?’

‘What face?’

‘Like it tastes horrible? The milk isn’t off, is it?’

Oh God, I cannot let him realise on my first day here that I hate tea. I will be ostracised.

‘Nope,’ I say, forcing a huge smile, ‘it’s perfect. I always pull a weird face when I drink a … hot drink.’

He looks at me for a minute before accepting my answer.

‘Okay,’ he shrugs, ‘well, make yourself at home. Pick whichever desk you want and just … start writing!’

A cold wash of dread sweeps over me.

Just start writing?

‘I usually review events and things …’ I say, following him out of the kitchen, ‘is there anything you want me to cover?’

‘Nope!’ He smiles. ‘We don’t have much on at the moment. So just write whatever you like, see where inspiration takes you.’

He catches the look of panic on my face and shakes my shoulder. ‘You’re a writer, you must be full of ideas!’

I laugh weakly as Brian walks off, leaving me at an empty desk.

Well, if I wanted to know if Brian was a writer himself, I know now for sure.

Every writer knows that, actually, we never have any ideas.

Ever.

CHAPTER FIVE

Annie

I grip the pin between my teeth as I reposition the material against my sewing machine. It’s a thick fabric, almost too thick for my machine, but the brief was a ghost costume that could survive an outdoor Halloween party set in the grounds of a castle.

In my eyes, anyone who is cool enough to go to that level of commitment for Halloween deserves a good costume, so I’m going all out. All the bells and whistles, pockets and thermal linings. I’m nothing if not practical.

I reposition the fabric so it’s perfectly aligned, adding another pin so it stays firmly in place. Once I have received the brief from the client along with their measurements, I design the costume. This usually involves hours of sketching and scribbling, stitching my favourite parts from each design together until I come up with the perfect outfit. Then, using the measurements the client sent through, I adjust the pattern to make sure it’ll fit correctly and set about sourcing the fabrics. I go to a fantastic shop in Camden. There are a million fabric shops in London, half of which are far closer to me. But they don’t have Jade, the shop owner.

Jade is around thirty, with electric-pink hair and big, glittery earrings. Her shop is like an Aladdin’s cave: streams upon streams of glistening, beautiful fabrics, every colour under the rainbow. I could spend hours in there, admiring each roll and imagining what I could make with them.

‘Are you all right, love?’

I narrow my eyes before sticking the final pin into the fabric to tack up the hem. I nod at Mum, who is balanced against my copy ofPride and Prejudice, on FaceTime. She’s in her kitchen, half bent over a bubbling stove as she peers into the camera. My mum is a wiry woman with thin, wild hair and an extensive collection of pashminas. You can find them coiled round her neck like fabulous snakes all year round. She gets away with it, as whenever someone notices how enormous her collection is, she proudly tells them that she made them all herself. Then, instead of being slightly deranged for being so obsessed with cashmere scarves, she’s suddenly very impressive.

It makes me want to learn how to make wine.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That hem was just a bit tricky. The fabric is so thick.’

‘Let’s see it?’

I hold an offcut up to the camera and Mum nods knowingly. ‘Gone are the days that you’d wear a simple bedsheet.’