We Just Clicked: Fall in love with the most hilarious and heart-warming rom-com of the year!

by Anna Bell

  I make a muffled noise through the duct tape to remind her that I’m still here.

  ‘Yes, the bump’s fine, thank you… Over the worst of it now, I haven’t been sick for a couple of weeks… Yes, December… Yes, Tim is over the moon about being a dad… Yes, Mum said she’d told you at Zumba. OK then, shall I get her to call you when she’s free?… uh-huh, uh-huh… right, yes, hopefully see you soon.’

  She hangs up the phone and pops it back on the table, as if it was totally normal to have a chat with my mum whilst I lie here constrained by clingfilm.

  ‘Your mum says, can you call her when you’re less tied up?’

  I blink twice in recognition and Marissa picks up her camera once more. She takes a couple more shots and looks at them, wrinkling her brow at the results.

  ‘It looks a little dark.’ She takes the camera off the tripod again and turns it round to face me and I totally agree.

  ‘I’ll go and get the standing lamp from your bedroom.’

  She leaves me alone and I look up at the ceiling and see there’s a cobweb hanging right above my head. I’m scanning it for signs of life – or death in the case of any flies trapped in it – that would signal the existence of a spider. What if there was one right above my head, ready to drop down from its web, and there would be nothing I could do about it? I shiver. There’s absolutely no way I could go on I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here! I’ll have to remember that when they try and lure me onto the show when I’m a huge Instagram star. I might be willing to do crazy things like this whilst I’m a mere wannabe but hopefully the crazy and the ridiculous will stop by the time I become a megastar.

  I hear the key in the door and I go to move, but Marissa’s done a pretty good job with the duct tape and I’m stuck.

  ‘Don’t come in!’ I shout. I’m shocked that I can make myself heard through the duct tape; so much for all those Hollywood movies. It doesn’t stop Becca though, and I hear her scream before I see her peering over me.

  She puts her hand to her chest and takes an over-the-top deep breath.

  ‘What the hell are you doing? You scared the life out of me.’

  Becca leans over and rips off the tape, which fortunately wasn’t stuck anymore or else I might have had an impromptu waxing session. Her arms are now folded and her nostrils are flaring. And from this angle with her angular bob and straight fringe she looks pretty fierce.

  ‘We were just taking photos,’ I stutter.

  ‘Don’t tell me this is one of your Instagram photoshoots.’

  Marissa walks into the room and Becca points a finger at her. ‘You’re not going all Sweeney Todd for one of your recipes, are you?’

  ‘No, no. I gave up on the food porn ages ago. Now my feed’s more yummy mummy-to-be.’

  Becca looks accusingly at me. ‘Right, so this is for you then. Bloody Instagram.’

  ‘But this is different, it’s for a possible contract – you know, as in paid. It’s for Halloween.’

  ‘Halloween is months away,’ she says, putting her hands on her hips.

  ‘I know but the agency have to pitch it to their client and I guess these things take time to develop,’ I say, trailing off.

  ‘Well, a little warning would have been nice.’

  ‘You usually go to the gym on Thursdays. But seeing as you’re here we could have a proper girls’ night in.’

  ‘Groan,’ says Marissa. ‘I’ve got a ticking time bomb in my belly and I’ve seen what happened to my sister; in a few months’ time it’ll be like a military operation to even leave the house, let alone see you guys on my own or have the energy to go out-out. Let’s go for drinks! It is Thirsty Thursday.’

  Marissa has a name for every day of the week to make it sound like it’s a socially acceptable night of the week to go out drinking: Tipsy Tuesday, Wicked Wednesday, Thirsty Thursday, Sunday Funday.

  ‘Tempting as that sounds,’ says Becca, ‘I’ve got a date tonight. I just came back for a shower.’

  ‘A date?’ says Marissa, arching an eyebrow.

  ‘Uh-huh, with Gareth.’

  ‘Again? Good for you.’

  Becca tucks her hair behind her ears and it only highlights how crimson her cheeks have turned.

  ‘Looks like you’ll have to make do with Kirsty and Phil and a takeaway,’ I say.

  Marissa doesn’t look pleased. Once she’s got a night out in her sights she won’t let it go. We’ll be out in heels and sequins whether we like it or not.

  ‘We could always go for drinks next weekend,’ she replies.

  Becca and I exchange glances; we both know we’re doomed.

  ‘I’m free on the Friday night,’ says Becca, flipping through the post. She pulls a letter out and starts opening it.

  ‘I said I’d go out for drinks with Cleo after work,’ I say.

  ‘Ooh I really liked her when we met at your birthday. Why don’t Becca and I come and meet you guys? We can get the train to Reading, can’t we, Becca? Then it really will be a big night. We can go to one of those cocktail bars and get dressed up all swanky.’

  Now it’s my turn to groan. The best part of only going for an after-work drink is that I get to leave early because Cleo thinks that Basingstoke is really far from Reading. I’ve never corrected her that in reality it’s only twenty minutes on very frequent trains because my ‘long and arduous commute’ is an excellent excuse to use when I want to sneak away from work socialising. Unfortunately, Marissa knows when the last trains are and also a cheap cab company that’ll drive us home at goodness-knowswhat time.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Becca, wrinkling up her nose. ‘I’m old now, I don’t know if I can be arsed.’

  ‘You’re only two years older than us,’ says Marissa. ‘And, hello, I’m pregnant if anyone is playing the I’m-not-going-out card, it’s me and I’m not. So you have no excuse.’

  ‘Fine,’ she says, sighing. She turns her attention back to the letter in her hand. She pulls a face and puts it down on the kitchen island. ‘Gas bill.’

  I pull the same face. Looks like I won’t be drinking that many cocktails whilst we’re out next week.

  ‘I better go shower,’ says Becca, ‘and this place better be less CSI when I come out.’

  She disappears off and Marissa turns back to me.

  ‘So, she’s going out with Gareth again?’

  ‘Uh-huh. I think this must be her third date.’

  ‘Oh right, so it’s going well?’

  ‘I guess so. She hasn’t really talked to me about it; I think she feels a bit awkward.’

  Marissa nods. ‘Hmm, I imagine she would. So, should we take more photos?’

  ‘Absolutely. Phil and Kirsty wait for no man,’ I say, relieved that Marissa knows when to change the subject.

  ‘But you’ve got to phone your mum back first.’

  I nod as she goes to reapply the tape.

  ‘It didn’t sound important – it was something about baking banana bread and some chocolate cake,’ she says, shrugging and picking up her camera again.

  I wince. ‘Oh God, she’s baked two cakes?’ That’s never a good sign. The more she’s hit by grief, the more she bakes.

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘Oh bugger. Do you mind if we take a raincheck on Kirsty and Phil? I better go and make sure she’s OK.’

  ‘Of course, go, go.’

  ‘I might need a little help,’ I say, trying and failing to wriggle my arms.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ She bends down and helps me out.

  ‘Do you think we’ll have got the right shot?’

  Marissa’s carefully unwrapping me, trying not splatter fake blood all over the flat.

  ‘I’m sure with a little photoshop magic we will have.’

  In an ideal world we’d take a few dozen more. As much as I love to escape to Instagram to distract me from the real world, sometimes it’s too hard to ignore, like now, when my mum needs me. All I can hope is that we’ll have a photo that will be good enough to help ele
vate me to the next level of influencer – preferably just in time for me to pay the gas bill.

  Chapter 2

  I pull my cardigan further round me whilst I wait for my computer to boot up. It’s not even warm outside today but for some reason our office has cranked up the air conditioning to Baltic proportions. I dig around in my office drawer and feel triumphant as I pull out a woolly scarf that I haven’t needed since last summer.

  ‘Almost time for the fingerless gloves,’ says Cleo, her teeth chattering.

  I laugh. I love sitting next to Cleo; she makes my job so much more bearable.

  After Ben died I wanted to be closer to my parents, so I quit the job in advertising that I hated, moved back to my hometown and started temping at an insurance company in nearby Reading. It was only supposed to be temporary whilst I made the leap into marketing or PR, but like most best-laid plans it hasn’t worked out that way and I’ve been here almost two years now.

  Colin is next to arrive at our bank of desks. He walks over to his seat opposite Cleo, looking over his shoulder as he does so for any sign of Mrs Harris. Relieved that she’s not in the vicinity he manages to nod a hello to us, which is progress. Last week, after Flamingogate, he wouldn’t even acknowledge anyone, choosing only to look at the table.

  ‘Poor Colin,’ whispers Cleo.

  Someone drops a ream of paper from a box over the other side of the room and we both watch as he flinches.

  The poor soul. He’d only gone to touch Mrs Harris’s bread flamingo out of admiration, he hadn’t intended to break its leg and therefore in her eyes hinder her chances in the Great Office Bake Off competition. Whilst we all love our work colleague Mrs Harris we are all secretly terrified of her, and woe betide anyone who gets on her wrong side.

  My computer clearly has that Friday feeling and is slow booting up. I know how it feels. I look at my to-do list, wishing my tasks were a bit more interesting, but temping in the contracts department of an insurance company isn’t really the job of my dreams.

  My computer still hasn’t started, so I slip my hand into my bag and I pull out my phone as quietly and unobtrusively as I can. But nothing gets past Cleo.

  ‘Hello, my name is Izzy and I’m an Instagram-aholic,’ she says.

  ‘Very funny.’ I put my phone face down on the table. ‘I wasn’t looking at Instagram, actually. I’m waiting for an email. A very important email.’

  ‘Uh-huh. About what?’

  ‘Important things.’

  ‘Important Instagram things?’

  I grit my teeth.

  ‘I’m not addicted,’ I say, pushing the phone further away from me.

  ‘Sure you’re not,’ she says, smirking.

  ‘I’m not, honestly.’

  ‘Do I need to remind you of the day that your network went down and you couldn’t get online? You nearly went mad.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say mad…’

  ‘You went to The Swan to use their WiFi.’

  ‘It’s a nice pub,’ I say, finding it hard to keep a straight face.

  ‘Um, it’s a nice pub if you’re touting for business.’

  ‘It’s not that bad in there.’

  ‘You got propositioned twice by people wanting your services.’

  ‘Well, they’re not that used to having women in there.’

  ‘And you went to McDonald’s, multiple times.’

  ‘They do surprisingly good coffee.’

  ‘Uh-huh, and have surprisingly good WiFi.’

  I fold my arms defensively. My computer is finally showing signs of life. ‘So the fact that you’ve not been to either establishment since that day…’

  ‘Still doesn’t mean to say I’m addicted!’

  Cleo’s eyebrow is arching – she’s not convinced and neither am I.

  ‘I’m just checking my email, that’s all,’ I protest.

  She smiles and turns back to her keyboard with a smug look on her face as if she’s older and wiser, when in fact she’s only 23 – eight years younger than me. Trust me to sit next to the only millennial who isn’t surgically attached to her phone.

  I look a little longingly at my overturned phone knowing that I’m going to have to prove her wrong by ignoring it for at least a couple of hours. Despite the fact I’m dying to hear back from the agency about the Halloween campaign. My whole life could change with that one little email! The one that would mean I’d really be an Instagram influencer.

  I’m still waiting for my log-in screen to load and I look out across the open-plan floor to see Mrs Harris walking across it clutching a Tupperware box as if her life depended on it. Everyone is giving her a wide berth, and I don’t blame them after what happened with Colin.

  ‘Here comes trouble,’ I whisper to Cleo, who looks over her computer screen.

  ‘It’s not Bake Off day again, is it? Surely the competition’s nearly finished.’

  ‘They’ve got another six months left,’ whispers Colin.

  ‘Six months!’ Cleo and I shriek.

  ‘It’s once every two weeks over nine months,’ he says despondently.‘Which means I’ve got at least another six months of being in exile.’

  ‘Bloody hell, it feels like they’re competing every other day,’ sighs Cleo.

  ‘Doesn’t it?’

  Every six months or so the HR department at McKinley Insurance dream up some crazy scheme to make work more fun. We’ve had bingo mornings, fancy dress Friday and each of the seven floors competed to have the best Christmas decorations. But this competition takes the biscuit, or cake, or bread – depending on the week. Nothing has united the whole office more than the Great Office Bake Off although nothing has divided it as much, either, thanks to how seriously everyone is taking it.

  Poor Colin. I look back over at him and he’s plugged in his headphones and his eyes are glued to his computer screen. I’m sure I can see him quivering as Mrs Harris finally reaches our bank of desks.

  ‘Oh, lordy, I did not think I was going to get this here in one piece,’ she says, resting the box on the end of the table.

  Cleo and I edge out of our seats to take a quick look at what’s inside, before she whips two tea towels over the top.

  ‘Oh no, no one is getting a look at this baby until eleven o’clock. I don’t want a repeat of bread week,’ she says so loudly that the rest of the office falls silent.

  ‘No one wants a repeat of bread week,’ I say, feeling for Colin who’s gone all pale. He gives me a sheepish look before he grabs his folder and speed marches away.

  ‘So, what’s the theme this week, Mrs H?’ I ask.

  She pauses and purses her lips as if considering the abbreviation I’d accidentally used. Mrs Harris is the only person in the office that doesn’t use their first name and instead insists that we address her formally like we’ve slipped back in time. No one else would get away with doing that but she’s so formidable that even our boss, Howard, daren’t call her by her first name.

  ‘It’s French week,’ she says and I breathe a sigh of relief that I’ve got away with the slip of the tongue. ‘So naturally I made a croquembouche cake.’

  ‘Naturally,’ I say, not having a clue what it is but knowing that it’s bound to be delicious. All of Mrs Harris’s creations are. It’s the reason that I’ve put on a stone since I started working here.

  ‘Now, I’m going to go and get my coffee. You girls will protect it from everyone else, won’t you? I don’t want that young whippersnapper from Risk Management coming down here. He’s always trying to tempt the ladies with his spicy balls.’

  ‘His what?’ I splutter.

  ‘She means his spicy nut balls,’ says Cleo, examining her nails. ‘I’ve had them before, they’re so overrated.’

  ‘I should have known you’d have tried them,’ replies Mrs Harris before she sighs loudly again. ‘I’ve got to go all the way back up the stairs again to get my coffee and with my dodgy ankle, it takes so long.’

  I look at the three steps she’s referring
to that lead up to where the drinks machine is.

  ‘And Colin just got up – he could have at least asked me if I’d wanted a drink. You’d think he’d want to get back in my good books.’

  ‘Do you want me to get you one?’ I ask, draining my cup. ‘I could do with another one anyway.’

  ‘Ah, Izzy, are you sure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I pick up the mug that Mrs Harris thoughtfully slides towards me. I look at Cleo and she hands me her mug, and I head towards our tea station.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ Mrs Harris calls after me, ‘skimmed milk mocha, two sugars.’

  I nod as if she doesn’t ask for the same thing every time.

  I walk into the little kitchenette area and place the cups down. I pop the tea bags into our mugs and fill them up with hot water, giving them time to brew, only to find that the coffee machine has run out of mocha. Getting coffee for Mrs Harris is like a NASA mission: failure is not an option, or at least it isn’t if I want some of her latest Bake Off creation.

  I leave our tea brewing and take Mrs Harris’s mug down the stairs, grateful for dress-down Friday and the fact that I’m not dicing with death on the shiny stairs like I usually am in heels. I turn the corner to the floor below and I stop as a large selfie stick flies towards me and I have to tilt my head back not to get hit in the face.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I tut.

  ‘One sec,’ says the man holding the stick before he breaks into the biggest pout I’ve seen since Zoolander.

  I fold my arms tightly over my chest and sigh loudly, but he doesn’t seem to care that he and his vanity are blocking my way.

  With nothing else to do I stare at him and his classical good looks. He almost looks like he’s walked out of an Instagram photo, filter and all. His skin is perfect and he’s got a strong jaw line, smouldering eyes and full lips. Or at least I think they’re full, it’s hard to tell with the trout pout.

  Dressed in a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up at the elbows, and a pair of khaki trousers that come to rest at his bare ankles, with expensive-looking loafers on his feet, he looks like he’s got lost on his way to a City bankers’ retreat.