Someone Like You (The Ever After Agency #4)

Chapter 1

1

GABY

‘Gaby, it’s back on!’ CiCi calls out from the living room.

Attempting to hurry, I twist the cork so forcefully that frothy wine cascades over the rim, spilling everywhere. ‘Shit.’ I look around for something to clean up the mess and try tearing a sheet from a roll of paper towels one-handed. Only it isn’t a one-handed task and now I’ve unrolled enough to sop up a mid-sized murder scene.

‘What are you doing?’ asks Raff.

‘Help!’ I wail.

I am hands-down the clumsiest person I know – mini disasters like this one are par for the course – but they’re about to announce Raff as the winner, so no time for my typical ha-ha-I’m-such-a-hot-mess brand of self-deprecation.

With a soft chuckle, Raff helps by tearing off a couple of sheets.

‘Thanks,’ I say, mopping up wine from the counter, my hands, and finally the bottle. I deposit the soggy paper towels in the trash, then catch sight of the shitty job Raff’s done of winding up the extra sheets. When she sees that, CiCi will emit a sigh so loud, my parents will hear her back in Seattle .

‘Gaby! Raff! They’re about to announce the winner!’ yells our best friend, Freya.

‘Coming!’ we reply in unison.

‘Are you ready?’ I ask him.

‘Mixed feelings,’ he replies, his lips wrenching into a wry smile.

‘It might not be that noticeable.’

‘A confused me looking for my absent girlfriend while the camera’s zoomed in on my face? Yes, you’re probably right.’

‘Will you two please hurry up?!’ Freya yells again – and Freya rarely raises her voice.

‘After you,’ I say.

Reluctantly, Raff heads back to the living room and I follow. While he folds himself onto the floor in front of the huge modular sofa, I zip around and top up everyone’s glasses then take my seat next to Freya. She claps her hands under her chin with excitement.

It’s corny, all of us pretending we don’t know who wins, but the impending absent-Winnie drama aside, this is also fun. And even though CiCi and I were there on the day of filming, we weren’t allowed inside the barn, so getting to see how Raff made his winning cake has been incredible.

‘You are proper sweating, you are,’ says Raff’s Uncle Devin, his eyes fixed on the TV version of Raff.

‘Well, yes, because they filmed in the middle of August during a heatwave , but we still had to wear festive jumpers!’

‘Shh, this is it,’ says CiCi.

We fall silent, the rest of us leaning closer to the TV while Raff gnaws on a thumbnail in my periphery.

‘And the winner of Britain’s Best Bakers: Festive Baking Spectacular , taking home the coveted trophy and fifty thousand pounds is… Rafferty Delaney!’ says the host, a moderately funny, middle-aged comedian who dyes his hair black .

We whoop and cheer as if we’re genuinely surprised and Raff’s cheeks flood with colour, a wide grin spreading across his face.

‘All right, all right, no autographs, please,’ he says, holding up his hands, pretending to fend off the hoards.

Onscreen, Raff receives one of those giant novelty cheques and a gaudy trophy, then he’s swamped by his fellow contestants. Only, as he’s the tallest person onstage and (literally) head and shoulders above everyone else, it’s painfully obvious the moment he clocks Winnie’s absence from the crowd. His eyes narrow in confusion as he scans the small crowd, then his face falls, switching from elation to disappointment in an instant. The moment passes quickly enough, a back slap from a short, stocky man restoring the smile to his face.

I catch Freya’s eye and jerk my head towards the kitchen. She nods, and as the theme song plays and the credits roll, we sneak off, leaving Freya’s boyfriend, Freddie, rapid-firing questions at Raff.

‘That was brutal,’ Freya whispers when we’re out of earshot.

‘I told you.’

‘I never liked Winnie,’ she says with a scowl.

‘No kidding?’ I say sarcastically. ‘You’ve never said anything.’

We lock eyes, holding each other’s gaze, then chuckle. Freya is the nicest person I’ve ever met and for her not to like someone and admit it is a huge deal.

‘I can’t believe he was going to propose to her after only six months. And can you imagine having her as a pseudo sister-in-law for the rest of our lives?’ she asks. ‘Christmases, birthdays, holidays…’

‘God no. It was bad enough hanging out with her.’

‘Or not hanging out, as it were,’ retorts Freya. Winnie didn’t exactly like socialising with us. Throughout their entire relationship, Raff and I rarely got together outside of work .

‘What are you two gossiping about?’ CiCi enters carrying a picked-over platter of antipasto.

‘Nothing,’ I reply.

‘Winnie,’ Freya replies immediately after. If Freya were a Viking in a former life – a possibility considering her heritage – she’d be ‘Freya the Benevolent and Guileless’, as she’s a stalwart of kindness and honesty.

‘Horse-faced cow,’ CiCi mutters under her breath, but still loud enough for us to hear.

‘CiCi! That’s not very nice. It’s not her fault she looks like that,’ scolds Freya. As I said – kind, but also honest.

CiCi chuckles. ‘Fine, that wasn’t the nicest thing to say. But ending things with our Raff the way she did – and by bloody text message! Surely I’m entitled to call her a cow after that?’

‘Hmm – fair, I suppose,’ Freya concedes.

‘And you disliked her as much as I did,’ adds CiCi, wagging her finger at Freya.

‘Also fair,’ says Freya.

‘Okay, so none of us could stand her – are we all in agreement?’ I ask, eliciting self-aware laughter from them both.

I’ve lived in England eight years, and I love it, but I still don’t understand the convoluted way people express themselves here – all that understatement and politeness. CiCi is one of the few English people I know who tells it like it is – maybe the only one.

‘Agreed,’ says CiCi, ‘and if I ever see that little trollop again, I’ll?—’

‘Okay, okay…’ I interject before she starts plotting revenge on Winnie. She may be sixty-something and only five-two, but I wouldn’t cross her.

‘Actually, I’ve been thinking…’ says Freya. She trails off like usual, leaving her thought incomplete and us hanging.

‘About?’ I prod .

‘Matching Raff,’ she replies in a conspiratorial whisper.

Ah, of course. Freya is a professional matchmaker, Raff is our closest friend, and he’s been moping about ever since Winnie ended their relationship. I should have seen this coming.

And it’s not a terrible idea.

‘But you’ve been a matchmaker for years. Why now?’ asks CiCi, eyeing Freya curiously.

‘Because of that ,’ Freya whispers, her arm extended towards the living room. ‘Raff was putting on a brave face just now, but you could tell it still hurts – the breakup.’

‘Hmm,’ CiCi murmurs, a concerned frown nestling on her face.

‘And think about it,’ Freya continues. ‘Normally, Raff would start seeing someone new within a week – maybe two – but it’s been ages .’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Three months – give or take.’

‘Exactly. He’s obviously still devastated by what Winnie did and if I can help in any way, then…’ She trails off again, looking between me and CiCi.

‘I take your point, but are you allowed to do that?’ CiCi asks. ‘Match one of your closest friends?’

She edges closer, her eyes on Freya as she fixes the messy paper towels. I knew she wouldn’t be able to let that slide. Her kitchen looks like something out of House and Garden – even after hosting a celebratory gathering for Raff. Fitting, I guess, for one of the UK’s most successful bakers.

‘Well, no,’ Freya responds, ‘but I could refer him to a colleague. Do you remember Poppy?’ she asks me.

‘Oh, yeah, the Aussie gal. I like her – she’s cool.’

‘I can ask her,’ Freya says. ‘It’ll depend on her case load, of course. We’d also have to get approval from Saskia and Paloma,’ she says, referring to the agency’s founders and her bosses, ‘but don’t forget I get a gratis referral each year. ’

Oh, I haven’t forgotten. I’ve known about Freya’s annual freebie since she left the marketing firm where we met and became a matchmaker. It was one of the first things she told me about her new job because she wanted to match me . I declined so vehemently – I’m strictly a casual dater – that she never offered again.

‘What would that entail, Freya?’ CiCi asks. ‘Do you just set Raff up on lots of dates and see how it goes?’

‘Er, not exactly…’

While Freya always maintains client confidentiality by anonymising identifying details, she’ll sometimes spill about her juicier cases to me and Raff. It’s been fun to get a peek into such a fascinating field. There’s also a lot of cross-over between matchmaking and marketing: primarily, gaining an understanding of what people want – even if it’s different to what they say they want – then giving it to them.

If I had any interest in HEAs, as Freya calls them – or ‘happily ever afters’ to us mere mortals – then I’d leap at the chance to work for the Ever After Agency. It sounds like a blast.

But I am not what you would call ‘a romantic’.

CiCi prompts Freya to expound upon ‘not exactly’ and Freya explains how matching Raff might work – essentially, building a comprehensive profile of Raff, then vetting and ranking potentials matches, and then the part where he’s set up on dates.

‘The first two steps are the most time-consuming,’ she says, ‘but the more thorough we are in the planning stages, the more chance of success.’

‘Chance of success for what?’ asks Raff, who has somehow snuck up on us.

Our open-mouthed heads turn in sync as if we’re those clowns at the carnival – the ones with the pivoting heads you throw balls into.

‘We were…’ I start .

‘Oh, nothing,’ says CiCi, waving him off.

‘Finding you a match,’ Freya replies.

‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ I mutter. Sometimes I wish she had at least a scrap of guile.

Raff splutters out a nervous laugh. ‘Uh, no thanks,’ he says, looking at me then CiCi to share the joke.

Only it’s not a joke, which becomes apparent almost immediately and the smile falls from his face. He clears his throat. ‘Seriously?’ he asks Freya. ‘That’s what you were talking about? As if I’m some sort of desperate charity case?’

‘No!’ we all chorus.

‘And you know my clients are anything but desperate charity cases,’ Freya asserts, but Raff seems unconvinced.

‘What’s all this then?’ asks Devin, entering the kitchen. He sets a decimated bowl of chips on the counter, and I fish for crumbs – there’s just enough for a mouthful.

‘Apparently, they’re in here conspiring to find me a girlfriend,’ Raff replies, his hands placed indignantly on his hips. He looks ridiculous.

‘Okay, drama queen,’ I say, my hand over my mouth. I swallow the chips. ‘We’re not conspiring .’

‘We only want you to be happy, love,’ CiCi chimes in.

‘And to be with someone who deserves you,’ says Freya. ‘Because you’re wonderful , Raff.’

‘Yes, you’re the thinking person’s crumpet,’ adds Devin with a devilish grin.

This portrayal of Raff started doing the rounds on social media the week after episode one aired. The show’s producers leapt on it – and who could blame them? It’s a genius marketing angle. And so, Raff, with his strawberry-blond curls, wide-set green eyes, and crooked smile, has become something of a heartthrob across Britain, particularly amongst straight women and gay men .

‘Oh god,’ Raff groans.

He breaks into a reluctant smile, shaking his head as the rest of us chuckle.

‘That’s a good point, love,’ CiCi says to Devin. She turns to Raff. ‘No need for a matchmaker when half of Britain’s banging down your door, is there?’

‘It’s hardly— There was that one time,’ Raff retorts with a reluctant smile.

He’s talking about an incident at Tesco where someone recognised him in the fresh produce department, and he ended up signing autographs and taking selfies for twenty minutes. I’m positive he wishes he hadn’t told us about that.

‘Why are you all laughing? This isn’t funny!’ Raff insists, only it is funny and he knows it, which is why he starts laughing too.

‘Have we moved the party in here, then?’ Freddie asks as he enters.

‘Sorry, Freddie, we didn’t mean to forget about you,’ Freya replies. He appears to take her comment in stride even though it’s mildly insulting. ‘We’re talking about Raff’s love life.’

‘Can we not? Please? ’ whines Raff, setting off another chorus of chuckles at his expense. Freddie pats him on the shoulder the way men do to show solidarity, and Raff must see this as an in for getting Freddie onside.

‘Did you know your girlfriend has this ludicrous idea about matching me?’ he asks.

‘Well, she is a top-notch matchmaker and you are “sans girlfriend”,’ Freddie replies, making air quotes. ‘So why not?’

Raff’s shoulders slump a full inch. ‘ Et tu, Brute ?’ he asks, but Freddie only shrugs. ‘So, let me get this straight,’ says Raff, addressing all of us. ‘I’ve just been named Britain’s Best Baker?—’

‘Well, you were three months ago,’ interjects Devin, but Raff silences him with a scowl. ‘Sorry,’ says Devin, shooting CiCi a look that says, ‘Oops’.

‘As I was saying, I’ve just been named Britain’s Best Baker on the telly ,’ Raff says, pointedly clarifying that it’s now public knowledge, ‘and all you lot can talk about is that I’m single. Not successful or accomplished, not perfectly happy, thank you very much. But single .’

‘Oh, love,’ says CiCi. ‘Of course, we know how successful you are – and happy,’ she adds.

But what’s left unspoken is that everyone in this room – except maybe Freddie – knows that Raff is only truly happy when he’s in love – or believes he is. Including Raff.

‘How about this?’ he says, turning to Freya, a defiant glint in his eyes. ‘Go ahead and match me.’

‘Really?’ she asks, surprised.

‘Really. If I’m such a miserable, lonely git?—’

‘Hey, you’re none of things,’ I say vehemently. CiCi and Freya also protest but he talks over us.

‘Wait, where was I? Oh yes, a miserable, lonely git,’ he says again, the tone of self-deprecating humour ebbing from his voice. ‘ And if you’re so convinced that you can save me from my misery,’ he says to Freya, ‘then how can I say no?’

‘Seriously?’

‘Sure, why not?’ Raff replies sarcastically, throwing his arms out wide.

This conversation is stupid and it’s upsetting Raff. We need to shut it down.

I catch Freya’s eye and lift my hand to draw it across my neck – the universal sign for ‘STOP!’ – but her eyes have taken on an excited glow. Crap! She’s taken Raff at his word, but it’s obvious he’s only saying yes to shut us up. He doesn’t mean it .

‘Only I don’t want to know anything about it. I don’t even want to know it’s happening,’ he adds, his voice strained.

‘Know it’s…? Wait…’ says Freya, her head tilted. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Yeah,’ I throw in, now curious. ‘How can Freya match you without you knowing?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll leave that to the professionals to figure out. But I’m not going on any more bloody dates. I’m done with dates!’ he declares.

‘To be absolutely clear,’ says Freya, that gleam still in her eyes, ‘as long as I avoid setting you up on dates, you’ll let me match you?’

Raff expels a sigh. ‘Freya, if you’re positive you can find me a match without me having to go on any dates, then be my guest. I honestly don’t care.’

Freya emits a high-pitched, excited peep. Yup, she definitely thinks he’s serious. I’ll need to intervene before she starts lining up eligible women in the driveway.

‘Right,’ says CiCi, draping a dish towel over one shoulder, ‘have we sufficiently celebrated your crowning as Britain’s Best Baker?’ she asks Raff.

‘As in, this is your polite way of asking us to leave?’ he responds.

‘Exactly.’

And just like that, the topic of Raff’s love life is closed, and we’re being ousted. Gotta love a hostess who essentially says, ‘I love you, but please get out of my house.’ I wish I could be as forthright as CiCi. If she taught lessons, I’d sign up in a heartbeat.

As always, our offers to help clean up are met with pursed lips and a knitted brow from CiCi and a friendly, ‘No, thanks, we’ll manage,’ from Devin.

Freya and Freddie leave first to walk to the train station a quarter mile away. But as I’m a total wuss when it comes to walking through a torrential downpour, I’m springing for an Uber back to Kingston. Although, it’s not that far – CiCi and Devin only live in Weybridge – and Raff will split it with me; his apartment is only a few streets away from mine.

I tell Raff when the app says our driver is three minutes away and we head to the foyer to say our goodbyes.

Stooping to land a kiss on CiCi’s cheek, he says, ‘Thanks again, Aunt CiCi. It really was lovely.’

‘You’re welcome, love,’ she replies. ‘And let’s talk next week, yes? You’ve been dodging me for far too long.’ She flashes a smile that takes the edge off her wagging finger.

Raff straightens to his full height. ‘Yes, yes, all right,’ he replies with trepidation. Something’s up but I’ll ask about it later.

When the car arrives, we dash from the front door to the driveway, getting drenched in mere seconds. I slide into the backseat first, then Raff climbs in, slamming the door behind him. The driver confirms that I’m Gaby and as we back out of the driveway, I ask, ‘What’s going on with CiCi? What have you been dodging?’

He sighs. ‘Aunt CiCi wants me to come work at Baked to Perfection.’

‘What, like part-time? How would you even fit that in?’ I ask with a laugh.

‘No, not part-time. She wants me to leave my job. She wants us to be partners.’

‘Partners— Wait, what ?’