The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (book series for 10 year olds .txt) 📕

loudly and scurries a centimetre or two across my notebook. This doesn’t bother the rest of Lovr’s seven employees, who are all scrolling through digitised notes, but it does make Mitchell glance from my phone to my paper, which he looks at with a slight twitch. A few months before I got here Mitchell gave an impassioned presentation on the necessity of going paperless, influenced in no way by Louis, the successful Stanford dropout and CEO next door, who had done the exact same thing earlier in the week. So thoroughly applied is this new ethos that Rachael, who works on the front desk, meets the postman every morning on the pavement outside and types up anything worthy enough to ping over in an email.

As it buzzes once more because I didn’t pick it up the first time, I slide the phone onto my lap and unlock it. In the darkened room, my face is upwardly lit with the light from my screen and I catch my concertina of chins staring back at me as I accidentally switch the front camera on. I jab at the screen to open my messages and glance up at Suki, who watches Adam with her chin propped up on a fist. Without catching my eye, she gives a slight Mona Lisa smile.

Her message reads,

Do you think Adam purposely wore shorts that show his ball sack to best advantage or is this a happy accident?

I try to suppress the laugh I’m holding in my ribcage and instead trace the outline of my lower lip with my finger in an attempt to look appropriately thoughtful. Rhea – our infuriatingly competent PR manager – starts nodding, so I nod too.

Adam clicks through to his last slide, which shows a stock photo of two suited executives grinning like maniacs whilst shaking hands. He lifts one foot onto a chair that he’s swivelled round to face him in what he likely thinks is a ‘power pose’, but instead causes everyone’s gaze to drop three feet to his eye-level bulge. I bite my lip and try going back to my grocery list. I don’t really feel like adding to it now. Of all the long hours spent in this room, this has surely been the longest.

‘People do business with people, guys,’ Adam says with an expression of mock pride, ‘especially if those people are three Jägerbombs down and have scored a hole in one!’

Another buzz. Suki has sent a string of green ‘sick’ emojis. I slowly shake my head and purse my lips, focusing on the corner of the ceiling.

Mitchell, notoriously unpredictable in his reaction to these briefings, is silent for a moment. Looking down at his highly polished brogues, he chuckles and waggles his finger at Adam as though he’s a cheeky grandson who has taken an extra chocolate biscuit. ‘Good man, good man. You’re seeing Gabrielle and Raj from Pound tomorrow?’

‘Yes, boss,’ Adam says, thankfully now sitting on the edge of his seat. He crosses his ankle onto his thigh, flip-flop bouncing against the sole of his foot. ‘Drinks in the Sky Garden then press night with the British Olympic boxing team – my mate over at Red Bull sorted us some passes.’ Adam pouts and smugly leans back against the springs of his chair. God, I hate him.

Suki, in what I now recognise is her version of an eye roll, blinks rapidly and pulls her face into a vacant smile. A meet and greet with boxers? How Adam’s overeager public-school lisping, and a clear sense of the obligations owed to him by others, works in any way other than to expose his brazen arrogance is beyond me. Mind you, Mitchell believes and talks bullshit in equal proportions. It’s like they speak the same language.

Do you think he’ll wear closed shoes for that?

I message Suki, tapping on my phone under the table. Within seconds, it buzzes back a reply.

High tops and his Yeezy shirt – he’ll want to make a good impression, obvs.

I smirk, looking down at my nails still half covered in a shellac manicure I’d paid for with a Harvey Nichols gift card, courtesy of Mum. The midnight-blue polish is now scuffed and waxy, but I can’t afford to have it taken off, so I’m letting it grow out. Another couple of weeks should do it.

Just when I think Rhea might announce coffee, and thus the end of the meeting, Mitchell turns to me with his chin held in the air. ‘You’re up, darlin’.’

Like always, I choose to ignore his slightly sexist introduction. Instead I think back to last Thursday, remembering how utterly miserable it was. In an attempt at ‘market research’, I’d set up a little ‘dating booth’ in Waterloo station (a table for two, an M&S picnic selection, and a ten-minute timer), and although my presumption that singles would be lured by a mini lamb kofta was right, my hope that they would feel an obligation to stay and chat was wishful thinking. One guy didn’t even bother sitting down. At one stage, I was actually lunging for commuters as they walked past – which I’m sure is harassment of some kind – and a group of secondary-school kids swiped handfuls of pretzels whilst my back was turned.

‘Yes, thanks, Mitchell.’ I am going to be sick. Today is the day I am going to vomit on someone.

I bounce myself up and off my ball and side-step once, just behind Jonathon, purely so I don’t have to see his face as I talk.

‘Do you need the projector, Elissa?’ he says with a half-smile, using this moment to comb his hair along the ruler-straight line of his parting.

‘No thanks, Jonathon, I’ve got it all here.’ I flop my notebook a little too enthusiastically in my hand. Deep breath. ‘So, the pop-up Lovr stall in Waterloo had a really strong reception from the public.’ Not a lie. Not technically a lie. ‘And we had constant footfall next to the booth, which is great for brand exposure.’ Of