Page 167 of Falling for You

‘And?’

‘And nothing!’ I cry, trying my very best not to explode at him as I turn back to my laptop. ‘I had to leave, I didn’t gether number or her name. It was a ten-minute conversation, if that. It was nothing.’

Silence falls across the office and I click through my emails, hoping to signal that the conversation is over. When I glance up, I spot Helen and Brian beaming at me smugly.

‘What?’ I snap.

‘There’s the story!’ Brian says triumphantly, slapping his knees and getting to his feet.

‘There is no story,’ I say, bewildered. ‘Nothing happened!’

‘Oh!’ Kayleigh says, excitedly turning to Brian. ‘We could do like a “Are you my Cinderella?” type story! We could include Nate’s picture and try and find her!’

Brian clicks his fingers into two guns towards Helen. ‘Love it. Let’s do it.’

‘Do I not have any say in this?’ I say indignantly.

‘Not unless you can come up with a better idea,’ Brian grins, sauntering over to the finance department.

‘Brian,’ I start, ‘I really—’

‘Nate, relax!’ he calls, picking up a ping-pong bat and twirling it in his fingers. ‘What’s the worst that can happen? Gary, take a nice picture of Nate, will you? And let’s stick it on the socials and see what happens.’

‘“Have you seen this man? Tall, dark and handsome, Nate Simpson is our New York heartthrob trying to find his Miss Right. Were you at a masquerade ball on Saturday 31st October? Did you have a drink with Nate? If so, we want to hear from you …” Why have they made it sound like you’re a convict on the run?’

I pull two beers out of the fridge and hand one to Stevie, flopping down onto the sofa and groaning.

The rest of my day was an absolute nightmare. Everyone in the office was so excited at playing the role of matchmaker that they all abandoned their laptops to help choose the best photo of me and write my dating bio before plastering it all over social media. We spent the entire afternoon watching to see if any woman came forward who might be Bat Girl.

Spoiler: nobody did.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘And they’re supposed to be writers. They all thought it was great.’

‘Do you think she’ll see it?’

‘I really, really hope not.’

Stevie laughs, scrolling through the article on his phone. ‘What would you rather? A hundred girls get in touch that you have to date with your boss in the corner, or nobody messaging at all?’

‘Nobody,’ I say at once. I want Brian as far away from my love life as possible.

‘But what will you write about? Don’t you have to, like, write something to be a writer?’

I give him a warning look. ‘You’re not allowed to say that. That’s blasphemy to writers.’

Stevie grins and sips on his beer. The football has been lightly yelling at us from the television for the past thirty minutes. I realised, if I was going to spend my Saturday with Remy going to an actual football game, then maybe I should watch a game to try and understand the rules. I said this inpassing to Stevie, which led to a full lecture on football culture and how important it was that I cheered for the right team, depending on where I was sat. Also, from the way that Remy invited me, I gathered that giving me his spare season ticket was like handing me the golden keys to the palace, so I needed to treat it with respect.

I’ve also decided I’ll go to Aunt Tell’s on Sunday.

‘Do you know what’s going on?’ I say to Stevie, pointing at the screen with my beer.

‘Yeah, of course,’ Stevie nods. ‘I understand football, I just don’t like it. That’s Marcus Rashford.’ He gestures towards a Black man in a purple kit. ‘Everyone knows who he is. He’s a national treasure.’

‘Marcus Rashford,’ I repeat, resisting the urge to write the name down so I can revise later.

‘How’s Mom?’

I look round, slightly surprised. Stevie is still staring at the TV, but I notice a slight change in his expression.