Conditional Love (37 page)

The crying might have been quiet but the damage to my boss’s face screamed ‘war zone’. Her eyes were so puffed up that it looked like she had had an allergic reaction to her own tears. She had a wet nose and black tracks down to her chin. On top of that she was blowing cigarette smoke into a toilet roll tube stuffed with paper.

‘Come in and shut the door then,’ she sniffed.

My instincts told me to run, but my P45 made me get in there and do as I was told. I locked the door from the inside and pressed myself against it.

I offered her a caring smile. Bad move. Her shoulders started to shake again.

‘My life has turned to a bag of shit,’ she squeezed out between sobs. I swallowed hard and hoped she wasn’t referring to a recent bowel movement.

She lifted a dripping chin up to me.

‘I know you all think I’m a bitch, don’t you?’

Think, Sophie, think!

‘Don’t you?’

‘No, no, of course we don’t. Not all of us, anyway.’ I patted her stockinged knee.

For a moment I was confused. Her tights were still up, but a wisp of fuchsia pink nylon dangled round her ankles. Then I remembered that I was probably the only woman on the planet for whom hold-ups didn’t work. It was those lacy elastic bands at the top; they either rolled down persistently to my knees with a ping, or went baggy and fell off altogether. So even though tights were the unsexiest garment known to man, especially Marc, I was stuck with them.

It dawned on me after three seconds that I was looking at my boss on the loo.

‘Jesus, Donna, pull your drawers up!’

Holding the loo roll and cigarette for her, I looked away while she wriggled back into her undies.

‘Look what I’m reduced to,’ she croaked, taking the stub back off me. She took a long drag until it withered down to its gingery end and blew the smoke through her home-made loo roll filter. ‘Smoking in the toilets like a fugitive.’ She lifted a cheek and dropped the nub down the toilet.

‘I mean, what’s actually so bad about smoking?’ She frowned up at me with a face as craggy as an Ethiopian riverbed.

I gave her a ‘beats me’ look and shrugged my shoulders. This was not the time to state the obvious. Anyway, her current emotional state hadn’t been brought about by smoking, I was sure. And I couldn’t believe it was because she’d only recently noticed how unpopular she was at
The Herald,
and not only in her own department. Anyone who came into contact with her tried not to do so voluntarily. There had to be something else.

‘Is there a problem at home, Donna?’ I had never envisaged myself in the role of counsellor to my boss, of all people, but sometimes life threw you a curve ball and as I didn’t yet know how to sort out my own problems, I might as well catch hers.

She clamped her lips together for a long time and stared at me. I could see she was weighing up whether to confide in me or not. None of us knew anything about her personal life. It was the thing I liked most about her. By contrast there was nothing I didn’t know about Maureen’s husband’s hernia or Jason’s top score on
Grand Theft Auto
.

She put a hand up to her hair and patted it. It moved as one. I swore I had never seen her with a single strand out of place. The tears were still leaking out of her swollen eyes. I handed her some more paper.

‘My father called me a tuppenny whore tonight.’

I regarded her outfit: sequinned black dress, knee length, rather a lot of décolletage on display for a woman of her years, but she certainly didn’t deserve that.

‘Tell him to keep his beak out,’ I said. ‘You look lovely!’

She shook her head and dabbed her eyes. I glanced at my watch surreptitiously. We were due to go in for dinner in ten minutes and I didn’t fancy her chances at repairing her face.

‘Daddy has Alzheimer’s. He lives with us. I’m at my wits’ end and my husband is threatening to move out. And I’m so tired. I barely get any sleep. Last night Daddy left the house, walked three miles to the station in his pyjamas and tried to catch a train to London. The police brought him back. Most of the time he doesn’t know who
he
is, let alone who
I
am.’

She stared at me with vacant eyes. ‘So now you know. That’s why I am how I am. The only way I can hold it together is by being tough at work. The slightest thing can set me off. It’s so difficult to cope with; he was always such a good dad. He is still my father but most of the time he’s not there, he’s off somewhere else inside his own head.’

I crouched down and took hold of her hands. I was out of my depth here. I wanted to help, say something to make her feel better, to let her know she was doing a great job. What did I know about father–daughter relationships? Words from my own dad filtered back to me from nowhere.

‘Look, I’m probably the worst person to be doling out advice. I’ve only had a dad myself for a few months. But I can promise you one thing. Wherever he is and whoever he might think you are, he will always carry you in his heart. That’s what good dads do.’

Donna plucked at the hem of her dress and started to nod her head. The gratitude on her face when she smiled up at me nearly finished me off.

I cleared my throat. ‘Aren’t you presenting an award?’

She nodded.

‘Better sort your face out then,’ I said, standing up.

‘Thanks for that.’

I left her in front of the mirror tipping out more cosmetics than I even owned and went back to face the music.

forty-one

The bar was eerily deserted except for four people slumped disconsolately over three violins and a cello. I followed the hum of people enjoying themselves through open double doors into the dining room and wished I was one of them. I was one of them, of course, I just wasn’t enjoying myself.

Wavering at the doorway, I contemplated spinning around and getting a taxi home. I might even be in time to take Emma and Jess to the train station. No, this whole Lilac Lane fiasco needed to be sorted out. I just hoped I managed to conduct myself in a professional manner at the dinner table.

The organisers hadn’t looked far for their theme: red heart-shaped helium balloons bobbed above arrangements of red roses on each table. The lighting was romantic too: hundreds of tiny spotlights twinkled from the ceiling like a clear night sky.

I weaved my way through the crowds until I came to our table. I hadn’t decided how I was going to play this yet, but at least Nick was still here. I took my seat between him and Phil Strong. The atmosphere was decidedly strained.

In stark contrast to the rest of the room, everyone was sitting in silence. Maureen was fingering her pearls as if they were rosary beads – in fact, they were rosary beads; the elderly lawyer, whose name I’d forgotten, was snoring; Jason sat bleary-eyed behind a row of three empty pint glasses, staring at his lap; Frannie was alternating between eyeing up a petrified Nick like a cougar and filing her nails; and Phil Strong was looking at his BlackBerry.

In the absence of our great leader, I could see that it was my job to break the ice. There were four bottles of untouched wine on the table. I picked up a bottle of white, sloshed some into everyone’s glass and gulped half of mine down in one.

‘Might as well get pissed,’ I laughed.

Six heads swivelled in my direction and stared.

OK, try again.

Somehow I needed to show Nick that I was on his side, that the three-house development on Lilac Lane was simply a figment of my ex-boyfriend’s imagination. My expectations for tonight had plummeted to ground zero, but if I could at least salvage my dignity, I would count the evening as a success.

‘Phil,’ I said, fixing my neighbour with an icy glare. ‘Sophie Stone. We’ve met before. In Woodby.’

Nick looked up from folding his napkin into a pirate’s hat. He mumbled something under his breath but I didn’t catch it.

‘Of course, I thought I recognised the name!’ said Phil, slapping his forehead.

I did the decent thing and shook his hand as briefly as I could.

‘This is Nick Cromwell, the architect.’ I sat back, allowing Phil to pump Nick’s hand. Nick stared at him as if he was the devil incarnate.

‘Are you up for an award, mate?’ asked Phil.

‘No.’ How Nick managed to imbue one syllable with such contempt, I would never know.

‘Phil is, aren’t you?’ said Donna, slipping into her seat just as the broccoli and stilton soup was served. She bestowed a kiss on his cheek and murmured an apology for keeping him waiting. She looked quite startling. Black eyeliner, red lips and a very pale face. No sign of puffy eyes or red nose. Whatever magic potions she had in her make-up bag, I wanted some.

As her eyes skimmed over the rest of the group – me included – I gave her a tiny wink. She totally blanked me. How was that for gratitude? So much for our girlie chat.

‘Oh,’ said Nick coldly.

‘Yes,’ said Phil, failing to pull off ‘humble’ as he slipped his BlackBerry into his pocket. ‘We’ve been nominated for our waterside development. A casino, restaurant and –’

‘Two hundred rabbit hutches,’ I said.

‘Apartments, Sophie,’ corrected Phil with a glint in his eye.

‘Well, Nick has designed a cutting-edge house for me. In Lilac Lane.’ I paused. Back at ya’ with the glinty eye. Donna was coughing to attract my attention, but I ignored her. Two could play at that lark. ‘So watch this space at next year’s awards.’

‘But –’ butted Phil.

‘Jason!’ barked Donna.

Jason leapt out of his seat like he’d felt the sharp end of a cattle prod up his backside and his iPad clattered to the floor. So he wasn’t drunk! He was probably playing
Candy Crush
under the table; I couldn’t say I blamed him.

‘Watch this space for me too,’ said Frannie haughtily, in a way that told us she was fed up with being ignored. ‘My Ryan and I are making a foray into property this year.’

Oh right. I did wonder what she was doing here.

‘It’s a shame Ryan can’t be here,’ I said, meaning it. I’d not met him, but he had to be nicer than his wife, if you like your men spray tanned. Which I didn’t. I glanced at Nick. He looked pale, and overly-interested in the menu. Or maybe he was sulking. Whatever, he wasn’t picking up on my behaviour towards Phil. I would have to be less subtle.

Never mind, there was plenty of time. And if he still didn’t cotton on, I was sure before the end of the evening we would have a chance to talk.

Frannie chucked a glacial smile in my direction. ‘Strictly forbidden. He’s got training in the morning.’

Oh, takes a lot of skill to keep the subs’ bench warm, does it? I wanted to ask. I bit back my words and instead hunted round for the butter, which some poor slave had painstakingly fashioned into heart-shaped lumps, and speared a piece for my bread roll.

Frannie lifted her glass to her sour lips with a jangle. Honestly, the woman was like a walking advertisement for Pandora. There were so many charms on her bracelets that her bicep trembled when she raised her hand.

‘Did the TV thing not work out for him then?’ I asked innocently.

‘He’s decided not to go down that route.’ She pulled a face as if to imply that TV was a dirty word. I noticed an extra flush to her cheeks though, underneath a thick layer of shimmering bronzer.

‘I’m thinking award-winning, purpose-built hair and beauty palace. Like a spa, but without all the exercise and swimming pools. Luxury. That’s what this area is crying out for,’ she said, eyeballing me as if daring me to challenge her concept.

Odd. What I thought the area needed was affordable housing, more jobs and less crime. But what did I know?

Somebody agreed with me though, because as if an invisible alarm clock had gone off, Maureen’s lawyer suddenly sat up, opened his eyes and threw his bread roll which bounced off Frannie’s Botox.

‘For such a vacuous young woman, you have a lot to say,’ he proclaimed.

Frannie, understandably upset, gasped and stood up, presumably in indignation. In the time it took Jason and me to exchange sniggering looks, there was an eye-watering thud of bone on wood and a vacant chair where the lawyer had been sitting.

‘Saints alive!’ screamed Maureen. ‘Edward’s collapsed!’

That was his name, Edward.

We all dashed to Edward’s side of the table. He was slumped on his knees with his head wedged between the chair and the leg of the table.

‘Someone call an ambulance!’ yelled Donna.

Phil had his BlackBerry out in a flash. The guests at other tables started popping their heads up and down like meerkats and a couple of waiters stood and gawped.

‘It’s on its way,’ said Phil, inclining his head and pressing his lips together like he’d restored world peace.

‘Well, that’s that then, nothing more that we can do,’ said Frannie, picking up her cigarettes. ‘Just popping to the ladies.’

Did she know the loo roll trick too, I wondered.

Phil made a show of having an empty glass and wandered off to the bar.

Nick took hold of Edward’s shoulders and Maureen tugged the chair out of the way. Between them they laid him out flat on the swirly carpet. Jason was taking pictures of the poor man on his iPad, probably to stick straight onto Instagram.

‘Give us some room, please,’ I shouted, elbowing Jason out of the way. ‘The man needs air.’

I’d always wanted to say that. I quite fancied myself as a nurse, as long as I didn’t have to deal with any bodily fluids.

A man in uniform and a badge which said ‘Hotel Manager’ on it pushed his way through the crowds. He had his arm in a sling. ‘I’m the duty first aider.’ He knelt down by Edward’s limp body.

‘He’s not breathing,’ said Nick, frowning at the manager’s arm. ‘He needs emergency CPR.’ He quickly removed his jacket and pushed his shirt sleeves up.

‘It’s to the tune of the Bee Gees’ “Staying Alive”,’ said Maureen, brightening up. She started singing the chorus and wagging her finger in time with the beat.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the manager, looking put out. ‘Are you qualified to carry out this procedure?’

‘More qualified than you at the moment,’ Nick muttered. He began pumping up and down on Edward’s chest with his hands. I watched the muscles ripple in his forearms and a line of perspiration appear on his lip. He was so masterful, so confident. I set aside my feelings of anger and hurt temporarily; I couldn’t tear my eyes away.