Dating isn't easy. Finding love is harder. But being a Delaney makes it all a thousand times worse because let's face it, with parents like theirs, the NextGen never stood a chance.
11 short stories following the disastrous love lives of:
Seraphina...
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Dinner with Ollie, Lavinia and Mr Brockhouse, I've concluded, wasn't all that bad. I've had worse evenings out, I suppose. The only downside is that Lavinia and Mr Brockhouse had made so many party-related decisions over dessert that Ollie and I are now having to work on a Saturday.
Weekends are usually quiet; Lavinia typically goes out on Friday evenings with her friends, then spends most of Saturday primping and preening, and then goes out to some of the more exclusive clubs in London, only to then recover the entire Sunday. Without her presence in the office, I usually work from home on Saturday, and sometimes work a few extra hours on Sunday rewriting articles or planning alternatives for photoshoots that have been long-planned by Vogue. I never save any of the changes but it gives me a sense of thrill to know that I'm capable of producing work of quality, even if I am my own judge (and biggest critic).
This morning, however, I'm schlepping it into Vogue House looking a little rough around the edges. I haven't washed my hair and consequently knotted it into a messy high twisted bun this morning, and nothing about my black jeans, white t-shirt and leather jacket combination screams 'style icon'. Makeup had also been the last thing on my mind, although I did dab a tiny amount of illuminator under my eyes this morning to make me look a little more alive.
The only thing that will help is coffee. I quickly text JoJo to see if she's in the office and when I get a response in the affirmative, I decide to treat us both to a Starbucks. Nipping into the nearest one to Vogue, I patiently wait in the queue, scrolling through some Shutt'r posts, either liking what I see or rolling my eyes and flicking the images to the left to discard them from my feed.
Having swiped on a post from Wylda Hicks, the next post that comes up on my feed is one of my sister, Éliane, posing next to Mattia Bretscher, the men's World Number One. Éliane is dressed in her sponsor's garb with the comment under the Shutt'r talking about how she and Mattia have had a tough day training and are now off to a well-deserved ice bath. Separately, my sister hastens to add at the end. I have to wonder if she's click-baiting her followers and the media with the photo. There have been rumours for a long time about the state of her relationship with Mattia, and if I didn't know any better, I would be gullible enough to believe that they're more than just friends and doubles partners. But I know my sister and when she swore to me that she and Mattia are just friends, I believed her. Still, I like her post and watch as the image moves up the screen to sit in my Shutt'r Likes.
"You know, you and your sister kinda look alike, and yet, kinda don't," I hear a familiar American accent declare from over my shoulder. Instinctively, I lock my phone screen and shove it deep into my back pocket, turning to glare at Ollie who, at least, has the decency to take a self-preservation step backwards. "I wasn't nosing."
I nod slowly. Can a nod be sarcastic? If it can, then mine was. "Of course you weren't," I say, forcefully smiling in his direction. "You probably sneak up on everyone and watch their social media interaction like a voyeur."
