One in a Million. Lindsey Kelk
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a much easier conversation if I had wine.’
‘I don’t know, I might have to work over the weekend,’ I replied quickly. ‘I’ve got an event with one of our vloggers next week and I’ve a feeling it’s going to take a fair bit of time.’
‘And an event with a vlogger is more important than dinner with your family?’ Rebecca asked, head cocked to one side. Definitely something she learned in therapist school.
‘Please don’t make me lie,’ I said. ‘Because you know the answer I’m going to give is not the one you want to hear.’
‘There’s something wrong with you,’ she replied. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘Is that your professional opinion?’ I enquired. ‘Because if it is, it’s a shit diagnosis. I’m going to kill you on Yelp. My work is important to me. This event is important to me.’
‘Of course it is, but work shouldn’t be more important than spending time with actual humans who love you.’
Sometimes I wondered if we were even related at all.
‘It would be brilliant if you could be supportive right now,’ I told her. ‘I’ve literally just walked out of an argument with two idiots in the office making fun of what I do. Making the company a success is very important to me and you know that.’
‘As it should be,’ Becks said kindly. ‘But you need to find a balance. We both know how competitive you can be.’
‘Don’t exaggerate,’ I said with a theatrical sigh. ‘I’m no more competitive than anyone else.’
‘Annie. You were banned from the school sports day for trying to take out that other girl in the sack race.’
I chomped into my sandwich and grimaced. ‘It was the three-legged race, and why do people keep bringing that up?’
‘You get it from Dad, you know,’ she said, nodding confidently. ‘This is classic Higgins behaviour through and through.’
There were some buttons that only family knew exactly how to push.
‘I ought to be getting back,’ I said, fishing for my phone in my handbag. Thirty-two unread emails in the last half hour. ‘I’ll text you about dinner.’
‘Have you heard from Mum this week? I need to give her a call.’
’I talked to her yesterday, she’s gone on that yoga teacher-training course,’ I reminded her. ‘No phones allowed.’
‘Your worst nightmare,’ Becks smiled. ‘Please try to make dinner on Saturday. The girls would love to see you and you know Dad always brings amazing booze.’
‘Dad also always brings Gina,’ I replied. ‘Which is why you need the booze.’
‘You need to be nicer to her,’ my sister said, shaking her head. ‘I think he’s sticking with this one.’
Only time would tell.
I stood up, stretched and looked out the window. Fantastic. It was raining. It had been blazing sunshine when I left the office, not a cloud in the sky. Now it looked like I’d be treating London to a solo wet T-shirt contest on the way back to work.
‘There’s an umbrella by the door,’ Becks said, finishing her sandwich. ‘Take it.’
‘Thank you,’ I kissed the top of her head, ignoring her protests. ‘You’re a good sister. Terrible therapist but a good sister.’
‘That’s because I’m not your therapist,’ she insisted. ‘And please don’t tell anyone that I am. I don’t want to be considered responsible for what goes on inside your brain.’
‘Love you too,’ I called as I left. ‘I’ll text you about dinner.’
‘You’ll see me Saturday,’ she corrected as I closed the door. ‘You knob.’
I knew she loved me really.
When I walked back into the building, Miranda, Martin and Charlie were sitting together in the coffee shop, finishing their respective lunches. I’d managed to convince myself, as I power-walked through the rain, to let go of our argument earlier on. They’d caught me at a bad moment. I was upset about Matthew, I was stressed about our financial situation, I wanted a pizza and I was ready and waiting for something to set me off. There was no point in letting a man’s ego get in the way of a little light flirting, was there? Besides, if everyone who got annoyed with the opposite sex stopped getting it on, the human race would be extinct within two generations. I knew how good I was at my job and I knew how hard I worked. I didn’t need Charlie bloody Wilder or Martin dickhead Green to tell me so.
‘Oh look, it’s the Meryl Streep of social media,’ Charlie said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Afternoon, Professor Higgins. Been out racking up the likes?’
And then everything went red.
I dropped my sopping wet umbrella on the ground, splashing everyone in a ten-foot radius, and slapped both my hands on the table. Martin and Charlie looked up at me with wide eyes while Miranda just cleared her throat as she swept droplets of rain off her leather trousers.
‘Pick anyone in this room,’ I declared. ‘And I will make them Instagram famous in thirty days.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ Miranda asked as Martin got up to drag an extra chair over to our table. ‘You’re already working yourself to the bone.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I said with steely determination. ‘I could do this in my sleep.’
‘If you’re sure,’ she replied, pulling a pen out of her pocket and grabbing a fresh napkin from the dispenser on the table.
‘We’ll need measurables,’ Miranda said, scribbling down some numbers. ‘There are roughly twenty million Instagram accounts in the UK and the average user over the age of twenty has three hundred followers.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a lot,’ Charlie said as he pulled up the app on his own phone. ‘Even I’ve got over nine hundred.’
‘And you own an advertising agency,’ she replied shortly. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. Are you even verified?’
Shamefaced, he put his phone away.
‘Then to win the bet, you need to what?’ Martin asked. ‘Get them a million followers?’
‘That’s not possible,’ I replied. ‘Unless you’re going to knock up Beyoncé while starring in a new Star Wars movie, that is an impossible number. Generally speaking, twenty thousand followers makes you an influencer, meaning you can start making money off your feed. A hundred thousand, you can make a living from it, but that can’t be done in thirty days.’
‘Sounds like you’re doubting yourself, Meryl,’ Charlie clucked. ‘Twenty thousand is nothing.’
‘Says the man with fewer than one thousand,’ I argued. ‘All you’re doing is proving you’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Before we agree to anything,’ Miranda interrupted, snapping her fingers in front of Charlie’s face. ‘Other than wiping the smiles off your smug faces, what’s in this for us, exactly?’
There was a reason she was in charge of driving the business.
‘In it for you?’ Charlie looked completely nonplussed. ‘I don’t know. When you lose, you buy me a pizza?’
‘Or, when we win, we get a month’s free rent?’ Miranda suggested. ‘Since you’re so certain we can’t do it.’
‘A month’s