The Wedding Countdown (7 page)

After Roma rings off I lie awake watching the orange shadows of street lamps pool across the ceiling. I hope I find my soul mate soon. The thought of failing is suddenly too awful to contemplate.

Chapter 7

Why did nobody ever tell me splitting the atom is easier than negotiating London’s tube system?

I turn my tube map upside down just in case this throws some light on the matter, but no luck. The jumble of yellow, blue, green and red lines still looks more like spaghetti than a sophisticated transport system. It doesn’t help that my eyes are all gritty and heavy from lack of sleep, or that when I should be concentrating on getting from Chelsea to Canary Wharf I’m distracted by horrible thoughts of Qas arguing with my parents. So far I’ve retraced my steps three times, going back six stops on the Circle Line, and have nearly broken my neck running down steps to my next tube only to see it pulling away.

All in all not a great start to my first day at work.

I stand on the platform at Westminster Station and try to get my breath back. An information board in gloating neon green tells me the next train to Stratford is eight minutes away. Eight minutes! I check my watch hoping time has somehow frozen but no such luck. It really is nine-fifteen and I’m late for work.

I sit on a bench and put my head in my hands. If only Nish hadn’t reheated the Chinese and then spent the night regurgitating prawn balls. There was no way she could drag herself away from the loo even for Nina Singh and she’d had some very tricky explaining to do. As will I if I don’t figure out the tube pretty bloody fast. A seasoned Londoner like Nish would have no problem negotiating the route but I may as well be trying to get to Timbuktu.

Actually I think I’d have more luck getting there. Why didn’t Eve tell me the journey from Chelsea to Canary Wharf is so complicated?

After what feels like forever there’s a sudden gust of warm dusty air followed by the arrival of a train. Even though it’s packed I elbow my way in, wedging myself between the glass door and someone’s armpit.

I’m relieved when several stops later most of the passengers pile out leaving me space to sit down and flick through the latest issue of
Heat
. I sweep a sheaf of Metro pages onto the floor and settle down onto my seat. The fabric prickles against my legs and for a moment I wonder if I should have stuck to the trouser suit rather than the flimsy
shalwar kameez
. But it’s too late to worry now. The train’s reached Stratford and I gather my belongings hastily, terrified of missing my stop.

Once out of the bowels of the earth and blinking like a mole in the sunshine I try to get my bearings. It’s almost nine forty and the crowds have melted away. I rummage around in my bag and eventually locate the map Nish drew for me. The smudged lines suggest Nish is better suited to a career in journalism than cartography but I manage to decipher it enough to gather that the offices of
GupShup
aren’t very far from the station. Then I look up and start laughing. I don’t need a map! You can see Canary Wharf from miles away.

I cross the square and head towards the imposing glass building opposite. It glitters in the sunlight. Up the marble steps I tip tap in my heels. Come on
saheli
! Don’t be intimidated! This is it. My heart’s thumping and my hands are shaking but in I go. It’s too late to be scared. I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long. This is the start of my brilliant career as a journalist.

At least I hope it is.

I launch myself through the door towards an enormous reception desk. Behind it sit two supermodels. Oh hey up, my mistake! I mean receptionists.

‘Hello,’ I say brightly to one of them. ‘I’m Amelia Ali. I’m one of the new interns at
GupShup
. Any road, I was wondering–’

‘Eighth floor, second elevator,’ she says without even looking up from her Mac. ‘Turn left.’

Sheesh
. Aren’t Londoners friendly? Not. If this was Bradford we’d be having a good old chinwag by now and discovering that we had loads of friends in common. She’d probably even brew me up a lovely strong cup of Yorkshire tea and pull out some Eccles cake. But this isn’t Bradford and the receptionist doesn’t take her gaze from her typing. Feeling foolish I cross the lonely acres of floor and call the lift.

‘Oooh,’ shrieks a voice in my left ear. ‘Those
shalwars
are gorge! I just adore the way that the neck line sits!’

‘Thanks,’ I say.

I look at the speaker and wish I hadn’t because he’s decked in migraine-inducing finery. His luminous purple pinstripe cords are teamed with a lime-green silk shirt smothered in a busy pattern of orange flowers. Around his neck is a vomit-yellow necktie, above which bobs a prominent Adam’s apple. He’s giving me the exaggerated once-over through trendy red-framed glasses. Normally I’d be horribly intimidated if a strange man scrutinised me so closely but this character is clearly camper than the Cath Kidston tents in Millets and as threatening as candy floss.

The lift doors swish open and he follows me inside. I wish I’d borrowed Eve’s beloved Gucci shades because I don’t think my eyes can stand this for too long. 

‘So tell me where you got those divine
shalwars
,’ says the walking migraine.

‘My tailor in Bradford made them but they’re my own design. I like to make things a bit individual, you know?’

He raises a beautifully plucked eyebrow. ‘Darling, don’t I look like a man who has an individual sense of style?’

‘Totally,’ I agree, noticing he’s pressed the button for floor eight. ‘Same for me, please. Floor eight.’

‘So,’ he says, ‘you’re a dress designer? Just like Victoria Beckham?’

‘Well you know, how it is,’ I decide to play along. Who knows, if the journalism thing doesn’t work out I may well turn my hand at design and become the Rupert Murdoch of the fashion world. ‘If Victoria Beckham started off making bucket loads designing ways to make jeans look slightly different, but really you can’t tell them apart unless you go buy yourself a magnifying glass, why not me?’

‘Why not indeed?’

‘Just imagine,’ I continue, warming to my theme. ‘There she was, VB, hmm’ing and haa’ing thinking, “how about I use the light blue thread instead of the pale blue or hmm shall I use the sky blue or should I just stick to blue? Oh, who cares? No one’s going to stick my jeans under a microscope to examine the fine detail of a seam. I’ll just call it VB: Sky Blue so I don’t end up having to deal with a mob of angry jeans fanatics demanding I give back their money because I’ve conned them into buying this season’s jeans when last season’s jeans are almost exact replicas. OK, I've made my decision; sky blue it is. That wasn’t a bad day’s work! It’s a good thing I got rid of those hair extensions because all of a sudden I’m thinking more clearly. Time to give David a call and tell him we’ll be having an Indian tonight. Hmm… How about fat-free lettuce curry [without the oil] with five and a half grains of boiled rice and one mango slice for dessert? Mmm, my mouth’s watering. I’d better go and retouch my lip gloss before my golden boy comes home…”’

I grind to a stop because my companion’s making the oddest sound, a bit like a cross between whale music and a yelp of pain. Then I realise he’s laughing and shaking his head.

‘Girlfriend, you are one crazy chick! That’s so funny! I bet that’s
exactly
what she did!’

Thank God he’s amused. Talk about opening my big gob and putting my LK Bennetts right in. He could work for the Beckhams for all I know.

‘You’re not her stylist are you?’

‘Do I look like I’m the Beckhams’ stylist?’ he says, offended. ‘Do I look like the kind of guy who’d wear a floral sarong?’

‘Definitely not,’ I fib.

‘Thank Christ for that!’ He fans his face theatrically. ‘I was seriously concerned for a moment. I thought I’d have to get Nina to run a makeover feature on me.’

‘Nina Singh? You work for
GupShup
?’

‘I’m not here for my health, angel.’

‘I work here too!’ I can hardly contain my excitement. ‘I’m Mills Ali, one of the new interns.’

‘Raj Patel,’ he shakes my hand. ‘Senior Graphic Designer. We’ve been expecting you. There’s already a very important job waiting for you.’

‘Really?’

Wow! What will it be? Setting out a fashion spread? Designing the next edition’s front page? Writing the next sensational scoop?

‘Yes, really.’ Raj pushes open the heavy glass door. ‘It’s a very important job that we always give our new interns.’

‘Cool.’ I say. Raj is clearly bonkers but I want to impress my new colleague with my enthusiasm and willingness to learn. ‘What shall I do?’

‘See that kettle?’ Raj points to the sink in the corner of the office. ‘Make us a coffee, darling!’

I’m taken aback. ‘Why should I make you a coffee?’

‘Because,’ smiles Raj, ‘it’s my role to make sure new interns are busy little bees and I’ve strictest orders from the boss to keep you well occupied until she’s out of her editorial meeting. Chop chop with that coffee! I’ve got an absolute mountain of photocopying for you next!’

And off across the newsroom he shimmies, blowing kisses and shrieking excitedly at people, leaving me standing in the doorway totally and utterly lost for words.

Chapter 8

By half eleven I have RSI from making coffee and photocopying. Raj wasn’t joking when he said it was a mountain. Nina Singh is going to see me at some stage and this thought fills me with terror. I feel like I’m waiting to see the dentist.

Raj breezes over and plonks another wodge of copying down.

‘See her?’ he stage whispers, waving a languid hand in the direction of a girl dressed in the oddest mixture of Burberry and Kappa. ‘That’s Kareena. She holds the title of Office Gossip Monger.’

‘Really?’ I’ve only known Raj a couple of hours but I would have tipped him for that position.

‘Never tell her anything personal unless you want it to be public knowledge before lunch time.’

‘I’ll try to remember that,’ I say. ‘What’s her role here?’

‘Her official title is PA. And no, that actually doesn’t stand for Public Address, which of course it should, but for personal assistant.’

Kareena, sensing she’s being talked about, glowers at us. Undeterred, Raj blows her a kiss. ‘She’s about as much use as a chocolate kettle but wildly entertaining. Her dearest ambition is to be a WAG so she’s just biding her time until some Premier League hunk whisks her away to a life of shopping.’ He looks thoughtful. ‘You don’t think there are any gay footballers who’d want to whisk me away for a life of hedonism, do you?’

‘Um. No. I don’t think so.’

‘Pity,’ sighs Raj. ‘I suppose I’d better get on with doing some work while I wait for Johnny Depp to realise he’s gay. Keep busy, darling girl!’ And off he flounces, back to his desk.

Feeling flat I begin the next pile of photocopying. Most of the office staff have followed Raj’s lead and given me theirs too. So much for the exciting assignments I’d been hoping for. The office is buzzing with the rumour that Celina Roshan, the stunning Bollywood actress, is buying a house in London with a mystery man, and two reporters have already been dispatched to root out the truth. That’s where I want to be! Following leads and hunches and breaking big stories. Not flipping photocopying.

I suppose even John Humphrys had to start somewhere.

I sigh heavily and then start because I’m no longer alone.

‘Sorry,’ says the guy who’s joined me, his voice as rich as chocolate fudge cake. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump but you looked like you needed rescuing.’

I open my mouth and for a moment no sound comes out because the sight of him has stolen my powers of speech. He has café au lait skin, dark just-out-of-bed hair and cheekbones so chiselled that you could ski off them. The whole effect is shockingly sexy.

Eve would be so jealous of this office view!

‘Rescuing?’ I croak. ‘What from?’

‘Your photocopying! It’s the favourite staff gag, giving the newbies a mundane task like photocopying or filing. Everyone plays along; we’ve all been there.’

‘You mean I don’t have to do all this?’ I glance at the Everest of paper stacked alongside me.

He smiles and I notice the dimple in his cheek. ‘Kareena’s supposed to do this kind of stuff but she and Raj aren’t talking at the moment.’

‘But Raj doesn’t like her,’ I say, feeling stupid as I realise I’ve been stitched up good and proper. ‘He said to give her a wide berth because she’s the office gossip.’

His green eyes crinkle. ‘To be fair, Raj and Kareena share that title. They bicker but they’re thick as thieves most of the time. My advice is don’t trust either of them! They’re great fun but they take working for a gossip magazine very seriously – bitching and rumour mongering are their true vocation.’

‘Oh crap,’ I groan. ‘I believed him. I assumed photocopying is what new interns do. That and coffee making, of course.’

‘Actually I think coffee making probably
is
on your job description. I’m Darwish by the way, Chief Photographer, but everyone calls me Wish. Welcome to
GupShup
!’

Wish holds out his hand and I shake it, hoping none of my auntie-
jis
have set up
Big Brother
-style cameras in the office. Shaking hands with a strange man would be a scandal they could milk for months.

‘Mills Ali,’ I tell him. ‘I’m one of the new interns.’

‘You’re not from round here?’ Wish perches on an adjacent table and gives me another crinkly smile.

‘Bradford, up in Yorkshire? I suppose my accent’s a giveaway?’

‘Just a bit, but it’s very cute and makes a great change from all the mockneys round here.’

He thinks my accent’s cute! Feeling absurdly pleased I lose the plot a bit and end up jamming the photocopier. Lights flash, there’s a horrible crunching sound and the whole thing grinds to a halt. I fling open the door and peer inside, frantically trying to locate the stray piece of paper that’s caused the poor machine to have a nervous breakdown. ‘I’ve broken it!’