Reader I Married Me

by Sophie Tanner

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Chloe Usher has had enough of men.

After breaking up with the love of her life, Chloe's friends tell her she needs to get back out there and find another man before it's too late. But after a particularly disastrous date and one too many gins, Chloe has a revelation - she doesn't need a man to make her happy. It's up to her to do it herself.

Never one to do things by halves, Chloe decides to make the ultimate commitment to self-love - she'll marry herself!

But planning a solo wedding isn't easy, and soon Chloe finds herself on a bumpy journey of self-discovery. Will she finally get her happy ever after?

A feel-good, fun listen for anyone in need of a boost, perfect for fans of Lucy Vine and Joanna Bolouri.

Release date: January 1, 2019

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 336

Sample

Is it just me who finds sharing a hot tub with colleagues a bit awkward? Though I spend half my life with these people, I’ve no desire to touch naked flesh with Keith from accounts.

We’re staying at log cabins in the New Forest for a team bonding experience and most of my workmates are already outside, submerged in frothy bubbles.

I stand under the unforgiving spotlights in the deluxe bathroom in a green polka-dot bikini, inspecting myself in the full-length mirror. I wasn’t expecting to be sporting swimwear in the middle of January.

I’ve always had quite an athletic frame but my winter of too much content has made me considerably puffier. It’s not my fault they start selling Christmas treats in October and then discount them all in the New Year.

I scoop my red hair into a bun, pull on a white towelling robe and eye up the packets of individually wrapped slippers in the cabinet. No: far too frivolous. I don’t want to contribute to some massive only-worn-once slipper graveyard.

Right, time to take the plunge. Must be less British. I’m sure in places like Scandinavia co-workers are always strategising in steam rooms, perfectly comfortable with each other’s barely concealed genitalia.

I stride through the lounge in bare feet, nodding at the few people sitting on the sofas, looking sheepish.

‘Not joining us?’ I ask.

‘Got a verruca.’

Shit, should’ve worn the slippers.

On tiptoes, I grab a bottle of Prosecco from the fridge in the kitchen and poke my head through the glass doors. My breath bites crystals in the cold evening air as I quickly assess the occupants of the two hot tubs on the outdoor wooden terrace.

In the tub to the right is my boss, Giles. He owns Top Banana, the digital marketing agency I work at in Brighton. Conker-brown from his Christmas Caribbean holiday, he’s rubbing his copious blonde chest hair and waving his arms around as he talks.

The sweaty account managers around him are edging as far apart as possible and attempting to look professional despite their scanty attire.

The tub to the left hosts the younger contingent of Top Banana. Giles likes to hire savvy digital natives who have no memory of life before mobile phones. The girls are shrieking so loudly the birds in the trees have probably all flown the nest.

I climb the steps and breathe in the earthy scent of the forest. Hmm, I really should join Giles’s tub and attempt to engage in some top-level business chat. Senior management need to start recognising me as one of their own. I’m thirty-five years old and still just an account executive on a poxy salary. I have jumped around a bit in my career but, still, surely my years of experience should count for something.

‘More bubbles, guys?’ I brandish the Prosecco as I approach Giles’s tub, dropping my robe and swinging a leg over the side as nonchalantly as possible.

My foot slides on the plastic seat and I inadvertently lunge towards Giles. There’s a resounding crack of skulls as our foreheads clash.

‘Argh!’ Giles clutches his head as I scrabble to disentangle myself from his long slippery limbs. Jess, the HR manager, comes to my rescue; grabbing the bottle and pulling me down next to her by the back of my bikini bottoms while Theresa, the office manager next to her, howls with laughter.

‘Shit, sorry, Giles!’ I hunch my shoulders in mortification, rubbing my forehead and sinking up to my chin in the hot water.

‘Christ, I’m used to ladies throwing themselves at me, but not like that!’ Giles’s eyes are watering and he now has a reddening bump directly between his brows.

Clearing his throat, Keith, the finance director, leans forward. His glasses are opaque with condensation. ‘As I was saying, Giles, Top Banana is maturing and we’ll soon need to revisit our business plan.’

Giles slicks his sandy hair off his forehead. ‘Yah, absolutely, Keith, time to get our ducks in a row – once we’ve peeled the onion I’m sure we’ll find plenty more windows of opportunity.’

Keith looks at him in confusion. ‘I’m not sure I …’

‘My main focus this year is more business profile pieces on me – in the Telegraph and Guardian and whatnot,’ Giles continues.

‘I’m happy to help with that,’ I pipe up, keen to make amends for my inadvertent head-butting.

‘Excellent – it’s what you PR girls are good at, after all.’ Giles turns to me, his eyes gleaming aquamarine, matching the hot-tub water.

Giles is obsessed with his reputation as a successful entrepreneur. He’s already heir to the Harper’s Biscuits fortune – his grandfather invented the Viennese Whirl – but he likes to show his family how well he can do on his own. Even though he’s hardly ever in the office and I’m pretty sure it’s thanks to Keith that the agency is still afloat.

‘With a bit of careful planning we can continue to grow the top line at a decent pace,’ Keith persists, catching my eye. I purse my lips and nod thoughtfully. I can’t say I’ve ever actually understood exactly what the top line is. Or the bottom line, for that matter.

As Keith launches into a complicated dissection of the agency’s finances, I feel a sharp elbow digging into my ribs.

‘Fuck, is it weird that I feel horny?’ Jess murmurs next to me. Her blonde bob is mussed up and mascara streaks down her flushed cheeks.

‘I wouldn’t say our agency’s full of talent.’ I lower my voice, looking around the tub; there’re more than a few beer bellies and moobs on offer. ‘Who’ve you got your eye on?’

‘I’d hump anyone right now, Chlo. Typical, the one time I actually feel like having sex and my husband isn’t even here.’

‘It’s true what they say about married sex then?’

‘Yep. After ten bloody years of living together and two kids it just feels like another chore. One of the more tedious ones. At least doing the laundry gives me a sense of achievement – and the washing machine is more likely to make me come.’

I wrinkle my nose in sympathy. ‘It could just be a dry patch.’

‘Yeah, so dry we’re in danger of a fucking forest fire. John doesn’t even get there’s a problem – he leaves the bathroom door open when he’s having a crap, for Christ’s sake! You wait till you’re married with kids – you’ll see.’ Jess points an ominous finger at me. ‘Isn’t it time you and your bloke tied the knot anyway?’

‘What, after your glowing review?’ I laugh. ‘Ant’s definitely my soul mate but there’s no rush.’

Though Ant and I have only officially been a couple for three years, we first met at Goldsmiths uni when we were eighteen. Having both grown up in the sleepy English countryside, we were bedazzled by the bright lights of London and plunged headfirst into the capital city like kids in a sweet shop, trying everything at least once. I was drawn to Ant’s impish nature; he was always playing practical jokes on people. He’d raise his dark eyebrows and flash me a cheeky grin and I wouldn’t be able to resist. We were partners in crime but I never thought of him like that. It was only later that we realised our attraction was physical.

‘Aren’t you at least going to move in with him?’ Jess squints to focus on my face.

‘He says it’d feel too crowded.’ When Ant moved to Brighton two years ago, he bought a one-bedroom flat with inheritance money and he’s quite precious about it.

‘Then get a bigger place between you and share a mortgage.’

‘It’d make sense,’ I admit. ‘My flatmate is doing my nut in at the moment.’

When I first arrived in Brighton after travelling, I moved in with my mate Dom, who I’d met at a blogger meet-up in LA. He’s a fashion vlogger/model and is one of the most charismatic people I know. We had an amazing few years living together, dancing around the lounge in our PJs and throwing outlandishly themed parties, but last summer he bought a flat with his Greek boyfriend. Unfortunately the girl who replaced him, Saffron, is a total fucking nightmare.

‘I hate the way she always burns patchouli incense. It makes my clothes stink,’ I moan.

‘Ugh, I couldn’t cope.’ Jess shudders. ‘You can’t keep living like a student, Chlo, you have to settle down sometime.’

‘I guess.’ I smile as I think of how much Ant hates the phrase ‘settle down’. He’s always had a bit of a problem with convention; nothing terrifies him more than the idea of buying a nice semi-detached house in the leafy suburbs and staying in the same office job for the rest of his life.

I understand his sense of claustrophobia; the world is such a big place and there’s so much to see – which is why I went travelling just before I turned thirty. Then Ant joined me out in Central America and we explored together. Ant is definitely happiest when there’s no routine and he can be impulsive, which is why I never pressure him with boring domestic stuff. We’re having too much fun; I don’t want to ruin it.

‘I don’t know how you two still do so much partying. I’m way too old for all that now.’ Jess pokes the skin around her eyes. ‘Look at these crow’s feet!’

I flick water at her. ‘Jess, come on, we’re the same age. You’re just mega tired cos you’re a mum. And a total MILF at that!’ She is; she has an hourglass figure and cherub face with adorable dimples. But I know from experience that there’s no reasoning with her when she’s on a self-deprecating rant.

‘Hardly! Have you seen these spaniel’s ears?’ Jess wiggles her breasts. ‘And I’ve got an empty pouch of flesh round my middle like a nineties bum bag.’

‘I know what you mean, Jess. I’ve never felt less attractive.’ Theresa, sitting next to Jess, leans forward. ‘My son brought home a painting of our family from school and he’d given me scarecrow hair and black shadows under my eyes, the little shit!’

I glance at Theresa’s mass of stiff straw-coloured hair. To be fair, it does have a touch of scarecrow about it.

‘And look, he actually bit me yesterday!’ Theresa holds up her arm; there are visible red indents on her wrist. Most people in the hot tub are parents; they stop talking and stare at her bite marks.

‘Ouch! Have you tried giving him regular snacks?’ Jess suggests. ‘Maybe he’s getting hangry.’

‘Or give him a pillow to punch when he’s feeling frustrated,’ Keith chips in.

‘Or try yelping loudly next time he bites you, then roll on the floor and play dead.’ I nod sagely.

‘But you don’t have children, Chloe, do you?’ Theresa looks puzzled.

‘No. But my Labrador, Dora, had biting problems when she was a puppy.’ I wave my hand. ‘It’s the same principle.’

A few people exchange doubtful glances and then everyone starts talking animatedly about childcare. I sigh as the usual lifestyle chasm opens up between us. Whenever I try to join in with the frequent family-rearing discussions I’m always met with condescension. As if the parents are soldiers on the frontline of some bloody war and I’m just a deserter who stayed at home under the pretext of growing potatoes.

A cork pops behind me and raucous laughter erupts from the other hot tub, making me regret my decision to join this group. I am interested in children. I enjoy hanging out with my mates’ kids and I even have a goddaughter, Maisie, who I love to bits. She calls me ‘odd mother’ because, well, I like to make her laugh. But there’s still so much Ant and I want to do before we commit to raising an actual human being. And Ant can’t even keep his cactus plant alive.

‘Chloe, we have a code red emergency.’ A voice hisses urgently in my ear and I swivel around, happy to be diverted from the heated debate on off-road prams.

‘What’s up?’

Verity, from the fashion team, crouches behind me in a coral bikini. Her caramel-streaked hair is pulled up in a high ponytail and her flawless face has a dewy glow.

‘It’s Simone. She’s just been dumped and she’s locked herself in our bathroom. She might do something stupid. I left my tweezers in there.’ Verity bites her bottom lip; her perfect white teeth gleam.

‘What do you think she’s going to do – pluck herself to death?’

‘You never know with her.’ Verity widens her china-blue eyes; her wet lashes stick out in spikes.

‘OK.’ I climb out of the tub and steam rises from my skin.

‘Where are you girls going?’ Giles hooks an elbow over the back of the hot tub, shooting a sidelong glance at Verity’s yoga-toned body as she straightens up.

‘No sweat, G, we’ve got it covered.’ Verity puts a hand on her hip and sticks her chest out, smiling at the group in the tub. Most of the men purse their lips as they studiously avert their gaze from her perky nipples, whereas the women gape at her with open fascination.

‘Come on, Chlo.’ Verity swishes her wet ponytail and struts off across the terrace, apparently immune to the cold.

‘Look at Verity’s thigh gap!’ Jess howls as I hurry after her. ‘I can’t even walk ten metres without my thighs chafing.’

‘Ugh, Chloe, you need to swerve that boring baby chat,’ Verity says as we walk through to the kitchen.

‘Well, I did hear some great tips on how to manage stretch marks.’

‘Ew, I am so not popping sprogs. I wouldn’t do that to my body.’ Verity presses a hand to her six-pack. ‘These days you can just grow them in a Petri dish, can’t you? Like, designer babies.’

‘Yeah, but you still have to get pregnant.’

‘Humph, well I’ll just hire a surrogate who needs the cash.’ Verity gasps as I slide open the kitchen drawer and take out a butter knife.

‘You don’t think Simone will get violent?’

‘No, it’s to pick the lock. Just a little trick I learnt from Ant. Come on.’ I slip the butter knife in my robe pocket.

We walk through the cabin lounge and up the wooden stairs to the bedrooms. Verity and Simone are sharing a twin room which has a cream carpet, slatted wooden blinds and dark green bedcovers. Each bed is covered in a tangled mess of clothes – way more than you could possibly need for a forest minibreak. I point at a pair of strappy high heels.

‘When are you planning on wearing them?’

‘We might bump into someone who’s having a massive country mansion party or whatever. Like they do on Made in Chelsea.’ She kneels by the door of the bathroom and raps on it with her knuckles.

‘Simmy, I’m here with Chloe. Are you alive?’

We hear a wet snuffling noise and a thump.

‘Babes, he’s obvs a total flake. You’ve got to move on, yeah?’ She turns to me. ‘They were shagging but then he went totally off-radar.’

‘Actually, I saw he was playing our “schexy time” playlist on Spotify yesterday,’ Simone protests through the door.

‘He is thinking about you then,’ Verity croons comfortingly. ‘Maybe he just needs a bit of time out and he’ll come grovelling back.’

‘Yeah, but he won’t answer my calls and he’s blocked me on WhatsApp.’ Simone’s voice wobbles. ‘No one wants me. I’m fat and ugly. What’s the fucking point?’

We hear some more thudding and I put my palms against the bathroom door, speaking clearly.

‘Sim, I know how shit you must feel but you will get over him, I promise. How long were you together?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘That’s it? So, you didn’t even know he existed a month ago! Come on, Sim, you can do better than this knob-head.’

‘But I don’t want to be on my own,’ Simone whimpers. There’s a clatter of what sounds like glass smashing and Verity jumps.

‘Quick – get us in there.’

I bend over the door handle and insert the butter knife between the door and jamb, applying pressure to the tip of the lock’s latch until it gives. Verity and I heave our body weight against the door and stumble into the bathroom.

Simone is slumped on the slate floor tiles by the bath in jogging bottoms and a bikini top. Her short brown hair is damp and sticks to her blotchy cheeks. She’s staring disconsolately at the glass of wine she’s just smashed in the bath. Red wine stains the porcelain like blood.

‘Oops.’ She looks up at us with watery brown eyes.

I grab a hand towel and start collecting the larger shards of glass.

‘Up you get.’ Verity sits Simone on the wicker chair in the corner. ‘Don’t be such a freakazoid.’

‘It was an accident.’ Simone sniffs. ‘S’all right for you, Vee, all the boys love you. Even now you’re living with Gavin.’

‘Yeah, I know. But even basic girls find their bae eventually.’ Verity perches on the edge of the bath and crosses her long legs. ‘You just have to go through the shit ones first. Right, Chloe?’

‘Hell yeah. Dave – the guy I met when I graduated – was a total arsehole.’ I put the glass in the bin and run the showerhead over the bath.

‘Was he the jealous one who told you what clothes to wear?’ Simone asks.

‘Yes, I wasn’t allowed anything too short except in the bedroom otherwise he’d get well moody.’ I sit next to Verity on the bath. ‘I was a doormat. I let him ban me from seeing friends he considered a “bad influence” and he’d watch porn over my shoulder while we were having sex.’

‘Bastard!’ Simone and Verity say in unison.

‘Yup. Thank God my sister, Emma, helped me build up the courage to leave him. Dave went mental, but we stood our ground. After that, I was single for years and I loved it,’ I say pointedly to Simone. ‘Then I went off travelling on my own and started writing my blog, Chloe Wanders.’

‘I’d never have the guts to do that,’ Simone says.

‘You never know till you try.’ I smile at her. I still remember the heady mix of euphoria and fear I had when I got on the plane. ‘I know it’s nice to have a partner to share stuff with, but life can be just as exciting when you’re not holding someone else’s hand.’

‘I’m too chicken,’ Sim says morosely, looking into her lap. ‘I’d just think everyone was laughing at what a sad boyfriend-less loner I was.’

‘Aw, Sim.’ I shake my head. ‘There’s no shame in not having a boyfriend; it’s not a measure of how cool or attractive you are. You should only choose to be with someone because they complement your life. Don’t settle for anything less.’

‘Exactly.’ Verity nods. ‘Your man should treat you like a princess, else you kick him to the kerb. Like Chloe’s Ant. He came halfway across the world to declare his love when you were doing your Eat, Pray, Love stuff in Mexico, didn’t he?’ Verity gestures at me impatiently.

I laugh. ‘Well, something like that.’

I thought I’d accidentally swallowed a mezcal worm and was hallucinating when I first spotted Ant’s familiar shaved head at the salsa bar. He turned and grinned at me, wiggling his hips in a poor attempt at Latino dance. I ran into his arms and, when he pressed his face into my hair, I knew something had changed between us. It was as if I suddenly understood the words to a tune I’d been humming all my life.

‘It’s just like a film.’ Simone sighs. ‘Walking off into the sunset together.’

‘There were some epic sunsets on the Caribbean coast,’ I admit.

When Ant and I first kissed, I felt my entire body glow. When we had sex, I felt the imprint of him inside me, under my skin. Neither of us had ever experienced such intense feelings before; every morning we woke up together we’d giggle in disbelief and touch each other’s faces to check we weren’t dreaming.

‘But you’ll have your own sunset moment one day, Sim,’ I promise her. ‘You’re only twenty-five – don’t waste your life crying over men that aren’t worth it. Love will come along when you’re not desperately seeking it.’

‘Yeah, but maybe seek it a little bit. You don’t want to wait as long as Chloe and end up some crazy old cat lady.’ Verity stands up and inspects herself in the mirror, pouting appreciatively. ‘We’re still young and beautiful.’ She casts a critical glance at Sim. ‘Or young, at least. Reel them in while you can, Sim.’

‘Verity, it’s not all about looks …’ I protest.

‘Said no man ever.’ Verity yawns. ‘Come on, let’s bounce. Have you got your selfie stick, Sim?’

‘Yes!’ Simone gets up and tugs off her joggers. ‘We can put some hawwwt tub shots on Insta; then he’ll be sorry he ever ghosted me.’

I frown as we head back downstairs, not convinced Sim’s quite got the message. In the kitchen, Verity grabs another two bottles of wine from the fridge. ‘Let’s get smashed.’

We jog across the terrace to the hot tub on the left. Verity and Sim plunge straight into the foaming water, squealing and splashing water at the sales guys. I straddle the tub carefully, not wanting to repeat my disastrous lunge.

Rudy, one of the geeky tech guys, openly stares at my body, letting out a low wolf whistle. Verity, who is eye-level with my crotch, narrows her eyes at him in irritation. Suddenly she reaches out and tugs my bikini bottoms down an inch.

‘Omigod, Chlo, I didn’t realise you were a natural redhead,’ she observes loudly.

Everyone in the tub cracks up and I accidentally round-kick Rudy in the face in my haste to plunge my errant ginger pubes under the water.

It turns out hot tubs aren’t a great place to binge drink into the wee hours. The next day, most people are suffering from dehydration and nausea.

We spend the morning doing outdoor activities with our forest ranger, foraging for edible wild food and lighting campfires with flint and steel in the forest clearing.

‘There are many health benefits to pine-needle tea.’ The ranger throws more pine needles into the mess tin of boiling water. ‘It can help with high blood pressure.’

I kneel next to him, scribbling in my notebook; I’m writing up a blog post on our trip. My colleagues are leaning against trees and sitting on wooden stumps, observing proceedings with varying degrees of interest.

‘Here, try this.’ The ranger pours some pine-needle tea through a sieve into a cup and I take a sip. It’s fragrant and soothing; a balm to my throbbing temples.

‘It’s also rich in Vitamin A, which improves the quality of your skin and hair.’ The ranger smiles at me.

‘Give me some of that.’ Verity grabs the cup from me. She’s wearing a garish pink velvet Hollister tracksuit. ‘I literally haven’t slept.’

The ranger hands out more cups of tea as my colleagues stagger over.

‘I think that hot tub boiled my internal organs.’ Rudy groans, his skinny frame folding as he clutches his stomach, his pale skin almost alabaster.

‘That gonna be your excuse now, is it, Rudy?’ One of the boys claps his hands to his cheeks and looks towards his crotch in mock-alarm. ‘Honey, the hot tub shrunk my penis.’

‘Right then, troops.’ Giles steps into the middle of the clearing, in a tweed flat cap, shiny new Barbour jacket and inappropriate loafers. ‘Before we have our company review back at the cabin, we have the option of den-building. Who’ll join me?’

He’s in a particularly perky mood and beams around the group, oblivious to our hangovers. He’s one of those squash-playing, clean-living types who think that three consecutive pints is debauched.

‘I can’t, G, I’m totally whacked,’ Verity pouts. ‘I need to go back and have a nap.’

‘Right, no problem.’ Giles flicks her a grin and slaps his arms against his sides. ‘Anyone else?’

There’s silence and the forest ranger frowns at our blatant lack of enthusiasm. ‘We’ll be building a basic tipi structure and covering it with ferns and moss.’

A few of the men nod assent and step forward and I join them. I mean, if there’s a zombie apocalypse then I’ll need to know how to build a survival shelter, right?

The ranger leads our small group into the forest and points out a fallen tree that will form the base of our den, then sends us off in search of branches.

‘This is the life, eh? Away from all the noise and traffic.’ Keith looks up as a bird trills in a tree, his red anorak stretching over his portly stomach. ‘I’d quite happily live in a treehouse out here, enjoying the peace.’

‘Yeah, it’s great getting a bit of headspace,’ I agree.

‘You want to get yourself a man shed at the bottom of the garden, Keith,’ one of the men wheezes, scrabbling at the moss underneath a trunk. ‘Perfect excuse to get away from “her indoors”.’

‘Haha, I’m with you on that, gents.’ Giles looks up from fiddling with a compass. He’s assumed the role of finding a north-facing entrance to our den but doesn’t appear to be too savvy with navigation. ‘I’ve got a little pad in Knightsbridge which is a wife-free zone.’

Keith looks disapproving. ‘I didn’t mean I want to escape my wife.’

But none of the men are listening; they move away deeper into the forest, grunting loudly as they break up wood.

I dump my bundle of sticks by the fallen tree. ‘God, I was considering moving in with my boyfriend but it sounds like familiarity definitely does breed contempt.’

‘Oh, don’t listen to any of that nonsense.’ Keith rubs his lower back. ‘You youngsters are too independent these days. There’s nothing more rewarding than making a home together.’

I imagine Ant and me decorating a brand-new flat, choosing paint colours and furniture from IKEA. We could get a place by the beach, with a spare room for Ant’s music equipment and a garden for Dora.

‘I remember when Margaret and I bought our first cottage – we didn’t have any furniture so we slept on camp beds and sat on boxes to watch TV.’ Keith stares into the middle distance. ‘But it was all ours, you know – every brick.’

‘That does sound fun.’ I smile as we tie our branches into a frame.

Maybe it is time I had a serious chat with Ant about buying a house. We’re definitely compatible. When we were travelling, we often shared a hammock or tent. I can always sense when he needs space because he gets monosyllabic and twitchy. I just go and do my own thing for a few hours and he’s usually fine by the time I return.

‘It would be amazing not to waste money on overpriced rent,’ I say. ‘I could just about manage half a mortgage.’

Keith winks. ‘Salary reviews are coming up in April – might help with how much you can borrow.’

‘Ooh, yes.’ Feeling inspired, I sidle over to Giles, who is inexplicably knocking the trunk of an oak tree. He has to understand what an asset I am to Top Banana. When I joined two years ago, PR was new to me so I agreed to start at the bottom, but I’ve picked it up quickly and my clients are always happy. Plus I’m a good writer and my blog, Chloe Wanders, has a big online following. It was one of the main reasons Giles hired me.

‘Hey, Giles, I’m writing up a blog post on how nature boosts creativity,’ I say, noticing that he takes a wary step back as I approach; he still has a red bump on his brow from our last encounter.

‘Ah, sounds interesting.’

‘I thought we could share it with our clients and maybe consider inviting a few of them out here to work on new marketing briefs.’

‘Possibly.’ Giles brushes a stray feather from his mustard chinos.

‘It’d be a great chance to bond with them outside the office,’ I enthuse. ‘We could be known as the digital agency that takes online inspiration offline.’

Giles ducks as a bug whizzes past his head. ‘The problem is, not everyone enjoys the rural life, Chloe. It can be a bit … rustic.’

‘Oh, but there are so many hidden surprises. I mean, look at those stinging nettles, for example – you can eat them raw, you know!’ I gesture towards the undergrowth and Giles purses his lips in disbelief.

‘Seriously, you just have to use a certain technique.’ I pluck the top few nettle leaves from the plant, pinching the stem with my fingernails. So far, so good.

Giles is watching in alarm and I give him a confident smile as I roll the leaves into a ball with my fingers. This used to be my favourite trick when I was younger; the idea is to break the fine hairs that contain the sting, and then just pop them into your mouth and … ouch!

I slap a hand over my mouth as the nettle stings my tongue, frantically chewing it between my teeth to turn it into pulp before it stings me again … fuck! My bottom lip is on fire.

‘Erm, Chloe, should I get the ranger?’ Giles is baring his whitened teeth and I swallow and stick my tongue out to air it.

‘No, that’s supposed to happen. Mmm, delicious!’ I nod at him reassuringly then run to get my bottl. . .