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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Monday is panic stations at Vogue. While I was away, it turns out that a shitstorm was brewing on one of the editorial photoshoots, the invitations for Thursday still aren't printed, and Lavinia is furious that I'd occupied Ollie's entire weekend, leaving the son of our publisher's CEO to wander London on his lonesome.
For some reason, these are all my problem now. I'm expected to find a solution for the photoshoot while chasing the graphics department about the invitations, and grovelling to Dax Brockhouse for the fact that (technically) his assistant ditched him. Compounding all this is the fact that when I arrived at the office this morning, JoJo Valentine was missing in action. Ollie is also a no-show.
I'm now three hours into juggling my mobile phone and two landlines, trying to navigate models, photographers, and printers, in two different languages.
According to Lavinia, the 'absolute priority' is to get the photoshoot back up and running. With Dax Brockhouse in town, we can't be seen 'running around like headless chickens' or worse still, 'like we don't have a fucking idea how a magazine like Vogue runs.' While I appreciate that the photoshoot has to get back on track, there was a reason that it was scheduled for yesterday; it was the only day we could get Diani Klerk, the highest-paid model in the world, and Antoine Chevalier, world-renowned photographer, on the same continent, let alone the same city. Diani, according to her Shutt'r handle, is now on mainland Europe, while Antoine is in New York, rubbing shoulders with Mr Brockhouse Senior.
"What about a different model?" I ask down the line on one call. The booking agent on the other side sighs exasperatedly as she clacks away on a keyboard- the perks of acrylic nails- but from the non-committal sound that follows, whatever she's about to tell me, it's not good news. And it's not. "You don't have any models at all? How is that even possible?"
A short laugh drowns my ears. "Because, honey," comes the patronising tone. "I'm a damned good booker, and I've booked all my models out for the next three weeks solid. Good luck with finding someone at such short notice."
At the sound of the click of the call ending, I pick up the other phone, hearing the familiar sound of classical music playing while I'm on hold. I've been on hold with the photography agency for the past fifteen minutes, trying to see if they can get Antoine's protégé here within the next few hours. I've stalked her Shutt'r page and I know she's in Paris. Cradling the handset between my ear and shoulder, I pick up my mobile and start typing out my less-than-gracious response to the graphics department about their incompetence at sending the invitations to be printed, and then quickly follow it up with forwarding said invitations as a PDF to our printers of choice.
"Allo?" I suddenly hear someone speak to me. Jumping from the unexpected voice, I gasp. "Ce n'est pas possible. Il n'y a pas personne disponible." [Hello? It's not possible. There isn't anyone available.)
"J'espère queue tu plaisantes," I grumble down the line, holding my head in my hand. The agent is firm in her response. "Et demain? Il y a quelqu'un-" [I hope you're kidding. And tomorrow, is there someone-"
