Margot couldn’t sell.
The thought made my head bulge with a hot mix of panic and possessiveness.
Which meant I was royally screwed.
I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the living room. Amina had left the neon sign blazing again:Queer & Fabulous!screamed in electric yellow like a beacon for lost sapphics. My flatmate collected vintage furniture and memorabilia the way other people collected stamps, and this particular piece had pride of place above our second-hand red velvet sofa. I bent to switch it off, watching the words fade from proud declaration to grey glass.
The open-plan kitchen beckoned from the far end of the room. I set the coffee brewing — proper coffee, that dripped into one of those cute American diner jugs — then located my phone on our retro G-Plan sideboard. Amina and I could both afford to live solo, but we liked living together. Plus, I enjoyed living with Amina’s good taste.
If I was seriously considering this insanity, Aunt Margot was my first port of call. My phone cheerfully informed me it was April 10th, which meant I hadn’t spoken to her since her birthday. Two months of radio silence. In my defence, a lifetime of being the family disappointment had given me excellent avoidance skills.
The thing was, Katy got a free pass. Toddler twins and a husband in banking meant nobody expected her to stride in to play Mrs Fix-It. But me? Single, childless, MBA-wielding? I was supposed to be a slam-dunk. Which is precisely why I’d run in the opposite direction.
I scrolled to Margot’s number, thumb hovering over the call button like I was about to detonate something. Part of me hoped she’d be at her place in the Cotswolds, where reception was chronic. She picked up on the fifth ring, slightly breathless.
“Poppy.” Not a question, just a statement of mild surprise. Like finding a tenner in an old coat pocket.
“I know. I’m sorry I haven’t called sooner.”
“Why break the habit of a lifetime.”
Ouch. Margot’s ability to deliver emotional paper cuts disguised as endearments was unmatched. I probably deserved it.
“I had lunch with Katy yesterday.”
Silence. Then, muffled voices and what sounded suspiciously like male laughter. At 9:30am on a Saturday morning. As far as I knew, Aunt Margot was single.
Well, well, well.
“Am I interrupting something?” I tried to keep the grin out of my voice. “I can call back—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve sent him to make coffee.” The dismissive tone didn’t quite hide something else in her voice. Warmth? Affection?
“Good for you.”
“Sex doesn’t stop at 50, Poppy. Despite what the youth think.”
I snorted. “Bold of you to assume I’m having any sex to stop.”
“That’s because you spend all your time at that dreadful office instead of—” She caught herself. Even post-coital Margot knew better than to lecture me. “Why are you calling?”
Deep breath. “I wondered if you were free this weekend. Lunch, dinner, coffee? Whatever works. I’d like to talk about stepping in when it comes to Voss.”
The pause stretched, took up a Warrior 2 pose, then stretched a little more.
“I see Katy told you my plans.”
“She mentioned something about selling to soulless corporate overlords, yes.”
Another pause. In the background, I heard the clink of china. Whoever was making coffee knew their way around Margot’s Mayfair kitchen.
“The Mermaid in Soho,” she said finally. “The one your mother loved. One o’clock today. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be there.”
The coffee pot gurgled its completion. I poured myself a mug and leaned against the counter, already dreading lunch. The Mermaid had been Mum’s favourite restaurant, all pristine white tablecloths and art deco styling. The last time we’d eaten there together, she’d tried to convince me to join the company. Then she’d tried one more time on our last trip to Switzerland. That was six months before her fatal aneurysm.
I took a long sip of coffee and wondered if it was too early to add whisky. Probably. Besides, I’d need all my wits about me for Margot.
