Someone Like You (The Ever After Agency #4)

Chapter 5

5

GABY

Because of my role at Global Reach, this isn’t the first time I’ve sat in on an interview. But this is the first time I’ve sat in on an interview with someone I know, especially as well as I know Raff.

Unfortunately, the ease he displayed during the photoshoot has vanished and even though Greta has been lobbing him softballs, such as asking about his favourite recipes, he’s fidgeting like a middle-schooler who’s been called to the principal’s office.

Still, Greta is a pro, navigating the interview perfectly, and it’s not long before Raff’s shoulders begin to drop a quarter inch at a time.

‘And I understand that it was your Aunt CiCi who taught you how to bake?’ she asks, something that was made public when the show started airing.

‘That’s right. My father was a diplomat – he’s retired now – but he and my mother lived overseas for my entire childhood – they still do, actually. I lived with them for the first few years, but once it was time for me to start prep, I went to live with Aunt CiCi and her husband, Devin. They couldn’t have any children of their own – even though they wanted them – so they offered me a stable home, which allowed me to go to school in Surrey, rather than hopping about from country to country and school to school every time my parents were posted somewhere new. It worked out well for everyone,’ he adds, and I catch the slight waver in his voice.

Because Raff loves CiCi and Devin – more than he loves his parents, he once shared with me – but it’s still got to hurt knowing your parents thought it was more convenient for you to live with someone else – for your entire childhood .

‘Anyway, some of my earliest memories are of Aunt CiCi in the kitchen, me standing on a chair at her side and proudly taking on small tasks like cracking an egg or stirring the batter. And I always volunteered to lick the bowl,’ he adds with a smile.

‘Until I was about twelve, she operated a small baking business from home, specialising in scones. She’d bake them in her kitchen while I was at school and sell to friends and friends of friends, and eventually to local cafés and shops. And after an unexpected windfall – an unearthed art treasure that my uncle sold through Sotheby’s – they were able to open a proper shop on Weybridge High Street.

‘And, as Devin was an accountant specialising in small businesses, he became her unofficial business manager. When her shop took off, with people coming from miles around to buy her scones, he joined her fulltime and twenty years on, Baked to Perfection is one of the largest bakery companies in England.’

‘That’s quite the success story,’ says Greta.

‘It is – a testament to hard work, determination, and following one’s passion.’

‘Let’s explore that avenue for a moment,’ she says. ‘So, you grew up baking at your aunt’s side… At what stage did baking become your passion?’

‘I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love it. Even after Aunt CiCi opened her shop and didn’t have as much time to teach me, I baked. I watched baking shows on the telly, I borrowed cookbooks from the library… I was always trying new recipes. I was that one pupil who couldn’t wait for Food Technology.’ He laughs to himself.

‘But rather than becoming a pastry chef, you went into marketing. Why was that?’ she asks, posing the first hefty question of the interview.

‘Ahh, yes,’ he replies, flicking his eyes in my direction. This is something we’ve talked about many times. Raff may be terrific at his job, but he has never really loved it, not the way I do.

‘Off the record?’ he asks Greta, his eyes filled with trepidation.

‘Sure,’ she replies with an understanding head tilt.

‘I chose it after my parents got wind of my initial plan. I’d decided to forgo the expected university course in commerce or law and study to become a pastry chef. As soon as they heard, they wasted no time in coming straight back to England from Switzerland, sitting me down, and forbidding me from – as they put it – “throwing my life away to bake cakes”.’ He wiggles his fingers to make the air quotes.

Greta inhales sharply. ‘They forbade you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ she commiserates, and I can tell she’s being genuine.

‘Yes, well, it was to be expected, I suppose,’ Raff replies, his tone a mix of resignation and resentment.

‘So, if you were supposed to go into commerce or law, how did you end up in marketing?’

‘It was as far into the humanities as I could get them to agree to and still cover my university fees. Even now, my father believes I do little more than attend parties for wankers. Again, those are his words, not mine.’

‘I suspected as much,’ she says, and they share a wry smile. ‘So, back to following your passion. Is there any chance you’ll ever pursue a career as a pastry chef?’

Raff’s eyes dart towards me again, and I nod encouragingly. I told him on the way here that this topic might come up, advising him to be truthful. Even though his decision isn’t public knowledge yet – he hasn’t even told Claire – the article won’t come out until December, so he has time to inform everyone who needs to know.

‘Actually, yes,’ he says with a proud smile, his whole countenance shifting. ‘Aunt CiCi has asked if I’ll join her at Baked to Perfection. She wants to branch out into specialty cakes with me at the helm of the new division.’

‘Wow, that sounds like a dream come true,’ Greta replies.

‘Winning Britain’s Best Bakers was a dream come true. This would be… I don’t know – beyond my wildest dreams, I suppose. Actually, she’s been asking for some time – it’s only now, off the back of my win, that it feels… well, possible .’ Raff’s face suddenly contorts into a frown.

‘Is something wrong?’ Greta asks.

‘Just thinking about telling my parents…’

‘Ah,’ says Greta.

Raff shakes his head as if he’s trying to dislodge the thought.

‘You know, it might not be that bad,’ I say, interrupting, and they both look at me. ‘Maybe they’ll be supportive.’

‘Hah!’ Raff laughs sardonically.

‘Okay, but even if they aren’t… this is your dream we’re taking about. So what if they don’t approve?’

‘Easy for you to say; you haven’t met them. You’d be singing a very different tune if you’d witnessed firsthand how terrifying they can be – especially my father,’ he says.

‘How about we get Gina over from Seattle to mediate?’ I jokingly suggest. ‘She can kill them with kindness – maybe hug ’em to death. ’

My mom’s always telling people, ‘I’m a hugger,’ right as she captures them in a bear hug. There’s no escaping Gina’s special brand of affection. As I’d hoped, Raff laughs and the tension in his shoulders falls away.

‘Gina is Gaby’s mum,’ he explains to Greta. ‘She believes that hugs are the panacea for any malady – even the absence of parental love.’

‘She may be onto something,’ Greta replies. ‘We published an article a few months ago that explored the healing properties of physical affection – particularly for emotional distress and trauma.’

‘Please don’t tell my mom that. She’ll get T-shirts made,’ I quip.

We share a laugh, then Greta checks her notepad. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘How about I ask my last couple of questions, then we can wrap up?’

Raff and I exchange a look and his relief is palpable. ‘We’re nearly done – hooray!’ he says with his eyes.

‘Sounds good,’ he replies, flashing her a smile. Only, unlike me, Raff doesn’t know that Greta’s about to get to the crux of the interview and that smile is about to vanish.

‘So,’ she says, ‘you’ve been touted as something of a sex symbol since Britain’s Best Bakers aired…’

Not surprisingly, Raff groans, his cheeks flushing from embarrassment. ‘Do we really have to talk about that? Can’t we go back to something simpler, like my strained relationship with my parents?’ he asks, his tone ripe with sarcasm.

Greta regards him thoughtfully. ‘We can skip it, but I’m sure many of your fans will be curious about that aspect of your life.’

He huffs out a long sigh. ‘I suppose so,’ he says, his gaze dropping to the floor. ‘Go on, then.’

‘Are you dating anyone at the moment?’

She already knows the answer – Poppy will have told her – but it’s a decent segue .

‘No,’ he replies, his voice strained. ‘I’m single.’

‘So, are you looking for love?’ she asks gently.

But despite her gentle tone, everything about Raff tenses up and he sucks in a shallow breath through his teeth. Then it’s like the moment a key slots into place and turns, and the lock springs open.

Raff’s taut expression softens and a knowing smile of acquiescence tugs at the corners of his mouth. ‘I think those who know me well would say I’m always looking for love,’ he tells her.

I’m in awe at how deftly Greta has navigated this part of the interview. Moments ago, I was positive Raff would clam up entirely. Now he’s spilling about his love life.

‘Isn’t that right, Gaby?’ he asks, fixing me with a knowing look.

‘I… Umm…’

He laughs. ‘Oh, come on, you and Freya are always teasing me about it. Freya’s our best friend,’ he explains to Greta.

‘I wouldn’t say we’re always teasing you,’ I retort.

He stares at me, feigning incredulousness. ‘Only after every breakup and whenever I start dating someone new.’

‘Oh,’ I say, trying to recall anything specific I’ve said along those lines.

‘Admittedly, Freya’s the main culprit, but you have teased me before, Gaby – many times. “You’re such a hopeless romantic, Raff.” Does that ring a bell?’

‘Yeah, okay. I have said that,’ I admit, now regretting the implied judgement of my words.

‘And there’s the chat thread.’

‘The chat thre— What do you mean?’ I ask, baffled.

He looks at Greta. ‘We have a group chat, you see – the three of us. Only Freya and Gaby also have a chat thread that’s just the two of them – one they don’t think I know about. Last week, they got the two threads mixed up. ’

My eyes widen, a sickening feeling settling into my stomach.

‘Wait, what…’ I reach for my satchel and take out my phone while Raff and Greta look on. I open the chat thread – the one with all three of us – and scroll up. There it is, an exchange between me and Freya about Raff, concluding with this from Freya:

You know I’m right. Raff’s only truly happy when he’s in love. And not with someone like Winnie *vomiting face emoji*

‘Oh, fuck.’

Raff chuckles. ‘See?’

‘Why didn’t you say anything? How hard is it to type out, “Hey, guys, wrong chat thread!”?’

He shrugs, his laughter dying down. ‘Look, even before those messages, I knew. You think I blindly lurch from relationship to relationship, seeking love.’

‘I do not. Not blindly – more like hopefully .’

‘You’re splitting hairs,’ he retorts, and we’re both quiet for a moment.

I note that Greta allows us to talk – not interrupting our conversation, but observing it. If it’s a tactic, then kudos to her, as she’s gaining quite a lot of insight simply by being quiet.

‘Wait,’ I say, something occurring to me. ‘Why haven’t you dated anyone new since Winnie?’

He shrugs. ‘Well, when a woman ends your relationship the day you’d planned to propose to her, you start wondering if you’re just rubbish at choosing who to love. And when your closest friends confirm it in a chat thread…’

‘Raff, I’m so sorry. We totally fucked that up, but it comes from a place of love, I promise.’

‘I know. That’s why I didn’t say anything.’ He looks over at Greta. ‘You should probably know that Freya is a matchmaker, and she wants a crack at matching me.’ He chuckles good-naturedly, shaking his head.

Greta and I exchange a look and I catch the excitement in her eyes. Raff has unwittingly circled back to the one question we need a definitive answer to.

‘And is that something you’d be open to?’ she asks evenly.

This is it – the moment that will determine if we’re going ahead or calling this whole thing off.

Raff looks her straight in the eye and says, ‘Well, she can’t be any worse at it than I’ve been…’ He gives a half-hearted shrug. ‘So, why not?’

OH MY GOD!

Raff does want to fall in love – with the right person this time – and he’s willing to let Freya (well, Poppy) match him.

Greta smiles, then drops her eyes to her notes and scans the page. ‘You know, I think we have enough here to leave out your romantic status,’ she says, following Poppy’s ‘script’ to the letter. ‘Especially if I shift the focus to your upcoming career change.’

‘Really?’ Raff asks. ‘But just before, you said… Sorry, I’m confused.’

‘That’s my fault. I know what I said, but I’ve changed my mind. We don’t need it.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ says Raff with a relieved sigh. ‘I really hadn’t intended to be so… well, open about all that. In hindsight, it was a bit daft of me.’

He’s right. If this were any other interview and he was my client, I would have stepped in and shut down that line of questioning.

‘And it will certainly make my life a lot easier if all and sundry aren’t showing up at my doorstep to court me,’ he says with a laugh, ‘especially in light of what else is going on in my life.’

‘I completely understand,’ she replies, smiling warmly .

With that, Greta wraps up the interview, and we have our big, fat green light.

‘You did great,’ I tell Raff on the ride home.

‘Until I told her how pathetic I am – Rafferty the Lovelorn,’ he says ruefully.

I look across at him. ‘You’re not— Why do you do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Put yourself down like that.’

He shrugs, his eyes fixed out the front window. ‘Habit, I suppose.’

I wish there was a way to make him see himself the way others do. Not the sex-symbol stuff – that’s just media hype and the masses romanticising celebrity – but how we see him, the people who know and love him.

I also wish I knew how to express all that, but I’m not eloquent when it comes to this stuff. I can design a multi-layered, multi-faceted marketing campaign, right down to the press release, but expressing emotions ? Somehow that chip in my brain never got activated.

I huff with frustration. ‘Well, quit it, okay?’ It’s lacking, but at least I’ve said something.

He looks across at me, amused. ‘Quit it? As in “go cold turkey”? I know that can work wonders for smokers but I’m not sure about self-deprecation. I’ll have to run that past my support group at the next meeting.’

I try my best to stifle my laughter. ‘I’m being serious , Raff,’ I chide.

‘I can tell by the smirk and the way your torso is shaking.’

I release the snigger and backhand him in the chest. He can always defuse a tense moment with a well-crafted quip, something I both admire and envy.

‘Dork,’ I say, shaking my head at him.

His reply is a self-satisfied grin, then we both go back to watching out the front window as we zip through inner London traffic towards the Shard.