Page 24 of Little Miss Fortune

He had set up a massive argument the day before so that I could feel the emotional low before the ultimate high, which is just fucking weird. When he explained that this, the bizarre confession, was the reason he manufactured a disagreement about me not caring about him and his interests, I shut the door in his face. It woke me up. I cared too much; he cared too little. He viewed me only through the lens of his life, how I fitted into his story.

And now he is contracted out by SIMPO to shoot an ad for a client. This is as convenient as a wedgie. Steven hollered Toby and me over to join the meeting in the glass-walled room.

‘Which one is it?’ Toby asks.

This corridor feels long. ‘Drop it.’

‘I don’t think it’s the one with the beard. He just looks too dull for you ever to have had an interest. It’s not one of the two girls, is it?’

‘That feels like workplace harassment, mate,’ I hiss.

‘As I said, in for a penny—’

‘It’s a tenner by this point.’

‘I don’t think it’s the Black guy. I feel you would have stayed together. He’s stylish and has kind eyes.’

He is quite fit, to be fair.

Fuko, no. Not the time.

‘Oh, my lord.’ Toby puts his arm out and stops me seconds from the door. ‘It’s the mullet man. I didn’t see the mullet man until we got here, but it is so the mullet man. Isn’t it?’

This journey feels like that one scene from the 2003 Oldboy film, where Oh Dae-su walks down the corridor and fights the guards, except I’m not met with steel pipes and bloodied fists but with Toby Lewis’s annoying speculations, and I would much rather be beaten by pipes right now. He steps to the side and lets me enter first.

‘Oh, Fuko! Ohisashiburi.’ John G. Bigby stands up and bows. His fuckass mullet swishes from the rapid movement.

Hisashi-bury-your-fucking-ass-into-the-pits-of-hell. ‘Yup. It’s been a minute.’ I squeeze a smile and take a seat next to Steven.

Disbelief and pure joy flood Toby Lewis’s face. I sigh. This is going to be a long meeting.

The meeting was an introduction between SIMPO and CM Shot. There weren’t even vague smiles on anyone’s faces at the ridiculousness of the name. CM Shot? Cum Shot? C’mon people. A message comes through the work portal.

Toby Lewis: Are they not hearing the name? How can they give a contract to a company with such pornography?

Fuko Brewer: Thank you! It was driving me up the wall.

Toby Lewis: Why is it even called CM? Isn’t the founder JB, John Bigby, your ex-lover?

Fuko Brewer: I know a two-letter acronym you should be very interested in: HR.

Toby Lewis: That was good. You got me. Pay attention to the meeting, your honey-poo is speaking.

John has an incredibly annoying tendency of adding a triple yeah to the sentences that don’t require even a single yeah. It’s good to see that even in his professional life, he stays true to himself.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, we had a meeting with our legal team, and they said that the terms are equivalent to the industry standard.’

‘So no qualms about having members of our staff be present on-site?’

‘No issues, yeah, yeah, yeah.’ Every yeah is a needle to the eardrum. ‘It would make sense to ensure that the shoot is strategically aligned with the goals of the client.’

Some files are shared. Predicted timelines, estimated costs, success measurements, CM Shot’s scope (ha ha), SIMPO’s scope. I don’t understand the details, but I am sure I will figure it out. John keeps throwing ardent sidelong glances my way, which Toby notices and does an awful job of hiding his smile.

‘All right, thank you so much for coming, everyone.’ Steven begins the handshaking goodbye procession.

The two women on John’s crew are swift with their goodbyes. The handsome man, who’s called Malik, shakes my hand and winks at me. Should I ask for his number? Is that problematic after a work meeting? Most definitely. I’ll keep our tender moment in my memory. The other two men—one short, one tall—are quick but firm, perfect business-handshake form. And then, finally, there’s John. His hand is sweaty, and when he pulls it away, it lingers on mine.

Ugh.