Someone Like You (The Ever After Agency #4)

Chapter 14

14

GABY

‘Thanks for coming with me, Gabs,’ says Raff, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

‘No problem,’ I reply.

If he truly understood the extent of this favour, he’d offer me his first-born child in payment. Or an Aston Martin. I’d prefer the latter.

But I should have learnt by now that Poppy Dean can work wonders. Not only did she get Raff to accept the invitation to this little shindig, but after Freya gave a resounding no, she got me here as Raff’s plus one. She didn’t even have to resort to begging. She went with bribery, dangling a carrot so enticing, I couldn’t resist – professional hair and makeup, and a stylist. Apparently, Greta hooked her up. Well, hooked me up.

And once I said yes, I had to bribe Quinn to take my place at the MouMou event. Somehow, I’ll need to convince Elysium to comp me another spa day for Quinn and a friend.

All these backroom deals were signed, sealed, and delivered within twenty-four hours of Poppy’s call to tell me the ‘good news’. Now here we are – me and Raff – in the back of another town car, looking better than either of us has looked before, or likely will again. Tonight is like prom on steroids.

‘You look lovely, by the way,’ he says, regarding me intently across the backseat.

‘Thanks,’ I say, suddenly self-conscious. It shouldn’t feel weird that Raff’s complimenting me, considering how well we know each other, but it does.

He is right, though (if I do say so myself) – the hair and makeup team, and the stylist, did a stellar job. I feel… well, maybe not beautiful but at the very least, pretty.

My shoulder-length hair has been dried pin-straight (which necessitated a quick trim to even out the ends), and the hair stylist parted it on the left, pinning the right side behind my ear with a diamante-encrusted hairpin. The style is reminiscent of 1930s movie stars and my hair is so glossy, Raff can probably see his reflection in it.

The makeup artist gave me a smoky eye in dark green, a hint of peach-coloured blush, and a glossy nude lip. They even gifted me the tube for touch-ups.

But the dress!

It’s so pretty – a sleeveless sheath in slinky, forest-green silk that skims my body, its hem landing mid-thigh. As I have a boyish, athletic figure – no cleavage and not even a hint of a butt, so very un-J.Lo – I’ve gotta love a dress that makes the most of what I do have, namely shapely arms and well-defined legs from working out three times a week.

Rounding out the look are forest-green heels and a matching clutch, both from the Lorenzo/Elle Bliss Mile High Club collection. Global Reach pitched to them last year, but we didn’t land the account. A pity – I’d love to work with them.

Raff looks great too. His hair is in a similar style to the one he had for the Nouveau Life photoshoot, and he’s wearing a modern-cut, dark-grey suit, crisp, white dress shirt, and a patterned tie that has the same hue of green as my dress.

We’re dressed like a couple, I suddenly realise. Ha-ha! Hilarious.

‘If it’s too cold when we arrive, you can borrow my suit jacket until we get inside,’ he offers.

‘Nah, that’s okay. We’ll only be in the cold for a few seconds. The price you pay for beauty, huh?’

He smiles at me. ‘Indeed.’

The car pulls up outside The Leadenhall Building (AKA the Cheesegrater). It’s not the most inspired-looking building. It has some incredible views, though, especially from the forty-second floor where the event is being held. We take the elevator with several couples, excited whispers filling the air.

The last time I was here was for the launch of (yet another) sparkling mineral water brand – not my campaign but a colleague’s and a fairly run-of-the-mill event.

But as we step out of the elevator, I’m left breathless.

The space has been transformed into a winter wonderland. Thousands of fairy lights twinkle and dozens of strategically positioned candelabras make the large room feel warm and cosy. White and silver garlands adorn the walls, and each table has a huge vase filled with silver glass baubles as its centrepiece. There’s a string quartet playing ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’, and I’d have to agree.

Wait! Is that snow ? I reach out and several tiny flakes land on my hand, melting away in an instant.

‘Wowser,’ says Raff, stooping to talk in my ear. ‘This is way beyond anything we’ve ever done – and we’ve organised some cracking events.’

I don’t have time to agree, as we’re instantly greeted by a perfectly coiffed woman, who appears to be in her mid-twenties. ‘Mr Delaney, Ms Rivera, welcome,’ she says with a warm smile. ‘These are for you.’

She hands us nametags embossed on stiff card. Raff’s says: Rafferty Delaney, Winner of Britain’s Best Bakers . Mine says: Gabriela Rivera, Guest of Rafferty Delaney . I affix mine to the neckline of my dress and help Raff clip his onto his breast pocket.

‘That’s quite the party trick,’ I say to him quietly.

‘I know – she must have had to study our photographs or something,’ he mutters back.

I straighten his nametag then step back.

‘This way, please,’ says the woman.

She leads us to the end of a short cue where people are waiting to be photographed against a large backdrop, a landscape that is either Lapland or a Lapland wannabe. Gentle, glistening, snow-covered slopes, stands of conifers, their branches so thick with snow it looks like they’ve been frosted in fondant, and a deep-purple-hued sky with traces of the Aurora Borealis. It could be right before sunrise or right after sunset.

The photographer is a pro and efficiently directs the pairs and trios into elegant poses, prompting smiles where none were only moments before. Now it’s our turn.

‘Madam, sir…’ he says, indicating where we should stand. ‘Sir, if you could place your hand on madam’s waist, and madam, turn slightly towards sir.’

‘Oh, we’re not—’ I say, about to correct him.

But he steps forward and moves Raff’s hand to rest on my hip, then positions me. ‘Perfect.’ He steps back and regards us. ‘Madam, chin lifted, please.’ I lift my chin. ‘And soft smiles as if something is mildly amusing.’

Actually, that is mildly amusing – and possibly the cleverest tactic for eliciting an enigmatic smile I’ve ever encountered .

He takes several shots and after each one, I feel Raff’s grip getting stronger. He really doesn’t like having his photo taken. ‘Are we done yet?’ he mutters wryly, and I snigger.

‘Perfect,’ says the photographer, snapping a final shot, one in which I was laughing.

He gently waves his hand for us to clear the landscape and our hostess is waiting for us on the other side. ‘This way, please.’

She leads us towards a small group of people who are standing around bar tables, drinking and talking. As we approach, she turns to us.

‘Grace is making the rounds,’ she says, referring to Grace Wong, the founder of Forty Under Forty, ‘so you’ll meet her shortly. In the meantime, we’ve grouped our guests into specialty areas as an ice breaker. You’re with the creatives, Mr Delaney. And of course, please feel free to mingle with other specialty areas at your leisure. Have a lovely evening.’

She smiles politely, then dips her chin in a half-nod and strides off.

‘Gabs,’ says Raff, leaning in, ‘this is already one of the best parties I’ve ever been to.’

‘One of? I’m going with the best, and we’ve only been here five minutes.’

‘Ten,’ he says, and when I look up at him, he smiles.

‘Madam, sir?’ We’re interrupted by a waiter bearing a tray of brimming Champagne flutes.

‘Oh, yes please,’ says Raff, relieving him of two glasses. He hands one to me, then holds his up in a toast. ‘To my best friend, thank you so much for being my plus one. I would never have said yes to this if you hadn’t agreed to come with me.’

I clink my glass against his.

‘My pleasure. Literally .’

He downs a generous glug and I take a sip. This is the real deal – actual Champagne and it’s so delicious, I could cry. That is, if I hadn’t been made up by a thousand-pounds-an-hour makeup artist.

‘Ready?’ he asks, licking his lower lip.

He means am I ready to mingle, and as someone who grew up with a large extended family – on both sides – I’m prepared to do the heavy lifting here.

I take his hand to reassure him, and he smiles down at me.

‘Hello,’ I say, approaching a trio at the precise moment their collective laughter dies down. They turn to us, smiling, and I introduce us. Then I ask, ‘So, what brings you here tonight?’ – a question that’s designed to spark conversation with strangers and my go-to at this type of event.

Mere minutes in, it’s like a switch has flipped and Raff is engaging with the others, charming and confident, and holding up his end of the conversation with ease. We’ve never really discussed it, his social anxiety or how he overcomes it to be this version of himself. But I know from experience he’ll be comfortable with these people for the rest of the night.

I nod and smile and contribute when it’s appropriate, but mostly I’m looking out for Julia, the artist. She hasn’t arrived yet as far as I can tell.

I think back on what I learnt about her at the screening. Overall, I thought she was a decent match for Raff – it was her obsession with German EDM that put me off. If he likes her, I suppose he can decide if it’s a deal breaker or not.

If he likes her…

The surrealness of where I am and what I’m doing suddenly smacks me in the face.

I’m at the party of the season, looking like I belong here (thanks to an incredible style team), wing-womaning my best friend in hopes of matching him with one of London’s Forty Under Forty to Watch.

My life is weird sometimes.

I cast my eyes towards the Lapland landscape to scope out who’s recently arrived and there she is! Oh, she’s with a guy – a very handsome guy. He looks remarkably like Jude Law did in The Holiday .

I glance at Raff, trying to see him through fresh eyes – Julia’s eyes. He really does look good – his hair suits him like that. As if on cue, he laughs, his head tipping back, and he looks so handsome, my heart could burst.

If he and Julia hit it off tonight and they’re a match, she had better be good to him or I’ll…

‘Hello, everyone. I hear this is where the fun people are.’

Talk about making an entrance.

She’s even more gorgeous up close. Tall, curvy (she’s down the J.Lo end of the spectrum), with long blonde hair worn in a deliberately messy up-do, and a very pretty face, right down to her large hazel eyes and pouty pink lips.

Essentially, the opposite of me.

Julia introduces herself to our little group, then says, ‘And this is my brother, Peter.’

Oh! Her brother ! Well, hello, Peter! Added bonus of playing wing-woman for your bestie? The hot brother.

After introductions are made, Julia starts chatting to Raff. I sip my Champagne and look around, doing my best to hide that I’m watching them out of the corner of my eye as well as eavesdropping.

‘Full confession,’ she says, ‘I’m a die-hard Britain’s Best Bakers fan – and I read the article in Nouveau Life – so I know who you are.’

Raff chuckles at that – a far cry from the pink-faced stammer he typically trots out when confronted with being recognised .

‘Well, you have the advantage,’ he replies, ‘as I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your artwork. Sorry.’

She waves her hand modestly. ‘Plenty of time to talk about that. I want gossip .’

‘Gossip?’ he replies, his mouth curling into a curious smile.

‘Yes. Tell me, is Dame Vicky really that fun in real life or is that only for the cameras?’

‘Oh, I see.’ I can tell from his tone that he’s amused.

‘It’s just… I adore her, you see, and I need to know it’s not an act – that she’s not a total cow off camera.’

Raff laughs, then spills the tea on Dame Vicky – that she is as lovely offscreen as she is onscreen, and just like that, it’s finally happening! Raff has met his match.

Well, hopefully, but this is looking way more promising than our previous attempts.

With no further wing-womaning required in the foreseeable future, I sidle up to Peter, who’s been left on his own. ‘So, how did you get roped into this?’ I ask.

He laughs and it may be the sexiest sound to ever grace my ears.

‘My sister and I drag each other along to all sorts of things this time of year. This is me returning a favour.’

‘Really? For what?’

‘My work Christmas party. I’m a project planner for the City of London in the most boring division ever – traffic management – so it’s always dull as dishwater. Catering by Tesco – including the plonk – soundtrack by Radio 1, excruciating party games, and a visit from our boss dressed as Father Christmas, handing out gifts from Poundland.’

‘Sounds like torture,’ I commiserate – even though it sounds like his boss is doing their best to spread Christmas cheer on a budget .

‘It is. The sort of do you only take a date to if the relationship is in its final days and you’re looking for an exit strategy.’

‘Right, so cause of death: work Christmas party.’

‘Exactly.’

Peter sounds like he might be a bit of a player.

‘So,’ he says, leaning closer, ‘is he your boyfriend?’ He jerks his head in Raff’s direction.

‘Best friend. I’m also here as a favour,’ I add, even though he didn’t ask. He’s hot but he’s not the best conversationalist.

‘And what do you do, Gabriela, guest of Rafferty?’

‘I’m a marketing manager.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

How can it when I’ve only given him a job title? It’s a sloppy line but he’s so gorgeous, I play along.

‘Far more interesting than traffic management, that’s for sure,’ I say. I take a deliberately timed sip of my Champagne and look around the room, feigning disinterest.

He moves even closer, taking the bait, and I get a whiff of his cologne. He’s wearing Aventus by Creed – an expensive cologne for a public servant. But then, I know from his sister’s profile that their family has money – serious money.

‘You’re rather sexy,’ he says, low in my ear.

I meet his eyes, then smile serenely, as if I hear that all the time. I don’t.

Peter may be a player, but he is hot as hell and I haven’t had a hot-as-hell guy in my bed for so long, I’ve forgotten the last time.

‘Gabs?’

Crappy timing, Raff. Can’t you see I’m being seduced by the hot guy? Or am I doing the seducing? Either way…

‘Yes?’ I say, stepping back from Peter, who emits an audible groan of disappointment.

‘Julia here has been to Seattle.’ He waves me over .

I can predict how this conversation will go: we’ll compare favourite haunts, saying, ‘Oh, yeah, that place is great,’ then we’ll run out of places we have in common and that will be that.

But the real issue is that Raff is supposed to be flying solo now.

And , yeah, having done my duty, I was about to cut out early with the Jude Law lookalike.

I plaster a smile on my face and join them. ‘You don’t say?’