Do You Want to Know a Secret? (17 page)

Another advantage is, given that Daddy isn’t around on a regular basis, I do get to rule my household along authoritarian lines, like a little Fascist country in the thirties. As long they’re under my roof, at least, my kids
have
no supreme court of second appeal: what Mummy says goes
.

I’m just about to scroll down, totally engrossed, when the buzzer goes.

Shit. I’m not expecting anyone, am I? No, definitely not. A courier delivering something, most likely.

‘Hello, Harper PR?’ I say, about as chirpily as I can manage, into the intercom.

Ooh, bad idea. Even talking perkily is hurting my brain.

‘Just dropping off something for Miss Vicky Harper, if she’s there,’ says a man’s voice.

‘Be right there.’

Poor delivery guy, whoever he is, I only hope the smell of stale alcohol fumes from me doesn’t knock him over. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t think he’s delivering to a gin palace. I slip my shoes back on, head out the glass door that divides my office from Les Girls and open the main door that leads on to the corridor outside

Oh, sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, I do not believe this.

Standing right there, holding the biggest basket you ever saw, covered in cellophane and stuffed with Choca-Mocha kisses, is Daniel Best. On the worst, worst day he could possibly have called. I’m totally stunned, my jaw drops a bit, and all I can think is to stammer something
about:
how did he know where my office was? And he does that cute wide, dimply grin thing that he does. ‘Sorry, I thought this was your place of work, I didn’t think it was, like, classified information or anything. So, emm, can I come in? Carrying quite a load here.’

I usher him in, mortified a) at the state of the office. (Not that there’s anything really wrong with it, OK, yes, there’s a lot of pink going on, the company signature colour, but apart from that, it’s on the small side and, well, comparing it to Best’s is a bit like comparing a patch of greenery out the back garden to Wembley Arena.) This however is
nothing
compared with point b) the state that
I’m
in.

‘Well, you did say you liked chocolate,’ he says, dumping the basket on Nicole’s desk and then sitting down on it himself, crossing one long leg over another in that lazy, ‘I have all the time in the world’ way that he has. You should just see him: Heathcliff in Gap chinos and a kind of rumpled denim shirt, the sort of work-look you have to be a true multi-millionaire to really carry off. In fact, I’d say Bill Gates could go round the place in shiny tracksuits and no one would ever dream of batting an eye.

‘No, Daniel, I don’t just
like
chocolate,’ I say, grinning back at him. ‘I LOVE chocolate. This is amazing, thank you so much, you couldn’t have given this to a better home.’

‘Now this isn’t just any old selection of freebies, I’ll have you know.’

‘You’re telling me, it’s more like . . . a buffet of chocolate. Days like this I’m only too glad my assistants aren’t here to share in this bounteous wonder. We have a strict division of spoils policy here, and what can I say? When it comes to chocolate, I’m greedy.’

I’m aware that I’m rabbiting on a bit, but then nervousness always has that effect on me and all I can think is . . . why am I so jittery around this guy?

And more importantly, why is he here?

‘We have that policy at Best’s too,’ he nods, still grinning. ‘All freebies to be divided equally. But for some reason, I always seem to end up getting women’s fragrances and make-up. No kidding, there are drag queens out there who’d envy the array of cosmetics in my office.’

We both laugh and then he gets up, as if to go.

‘Anyway, I just thought this would help you celebrate,’ he says, a bit teasingly.

I look up at him wondering, could he mean . . . does he mean . . .?

‘Yes, you got the contract,’ he says. ‘My God, there should have been a drum roll there for dramatic effect. Sophie Boyd loved your ideas for the launch and for the campaign. She loved them so much that she pretty much wants you involved every step of the way.’

I can’t help myself, I let a deafening squeal out of me, and without thinking, I instinctively hug him. He hugs me back and we’re both laughing and then I remember that I must smell like a brewery so I pull back immediately and turn bright scarlet, mortified.

‘Well, I should make a note to deliver good news in person more often,’ he says.

‘I am so THRILLED!!’ I shriek, with my hand over my mouth to cover the fumey smell off me. ‘I thought that I’d . . . well, gone a bit overboard in there . . . I thought that . . . they all thought that I might have overstepped the mark a bit . . .’

‘Why would they think that?’

‘Because your people are all fabulous and all their ideas were winners . . .’

‘Hey, yours were the ones she went for. Credit where credit’s due.’

‘You’ve no idea how much this means . . . you know, product development is a part of the business that I really want to grow . . .’ I’m gibbering now. Can’t help it.

‘Well, here’s your chance.’

Oh my God. He’s just handed me the most incredible opportunity on a plate. This’ll be like being on an amazing learning curve
and
getting paid for it. Bloody hell, I should be paying him.

‘Daniel, I promise I will not let you down. This is
going
to be the biggest, hottest thing since . . . since . . .’

‘Hey, you haven’t heard the catch yet,’ he twinkles.

‘There’s a catch?’

‘I told Sophie that if we’re shooting a
Casablanca
bar scene, then I want to be an extra. In a white tux or else a really sharp suit. But nothing that screams flight attendant. Just a little fantasy of mine.’

‘Hey, Richard Branson did a walk-on part in
Friends
, so why not you?’ I say, beaming. Although right now, if he told me he was going to appear in the ad naked, I’d probably tell him it was a stroke of genius. In fact, if he asked
me
to appear in the ad naked, I’d probably do it.

Then my mobile starts ringing.

‘Right then, I’d better get going, you’re busy and I’ve taken up enough of your time,’ he says, making for the door.

‘No, no you’re fine,’ I say, just as my landline goes.

‘So, busy weekend ahead?’ he kind of looks at me, sideways.

‘Emm . . .’

‘It’s just that, if you were free, myself and a gang of friends are going to an outdoor screening of a Buster Keaton movie tomorrow, with a live pianist. I just though a fellow movie buff like yourself might have some fun.’

‘Oh, that sounds fabulous,’ I manage to say, all the while thinking, is he asking me out?

Could he be? No, he said ‘a gang of friends’, plural, so it’s only a casual thing . . .
isn’t
it?

Then my mobile goes again, as a text comes through.

‘I’d absolutely love to,’ I begin and then remember, shit . . . I can’t.

I’m meeting Eager Eddie tomorrow night, for dinner.

‘Only . . .?’ he says, picking up my tone.

‘I’ve something on tomorrow. I really am sorry, Daniel, the movie sounds like great fun.’

My mobile rings yet again and this time he takes it as his cue to go.

‘Not to worry,’ he smiles. ‘Look, I’m in the States for the next few weeks, but I’ll get Amanda at our office to get in touch with you, so we can get moving on this project right away. And just so you know, there’ll be a separate clause in the contract signed in blood about my starring extra role. Just so you don’t get any nasty surprises.’

I laugh as he opens the door. ‘Enjoy your movie tomorrow, and thanks again for the chocolate mountain.’

‘“You’re welcome kid,”’ he says, doing his Humphrey Bogart impression, then winking, and he’s gone.

Still a bit shell-shocked, I slump down at my desk, trying to take it all in.

Oh, I do not believe this. Dateless for months and then two offers for the same night?

I have to take a moment to digest the irony.

I pick up my mobile: one missed call and two texts, all Eager Eddie.

The anti-stress spritz is still sitting on my desk so I open it and squirt it all over me.

No, it
definitely
doesn’t work.

Chapter Eleven

IT’S ONLY HALF
seven the following night, Saturday, and by now Eager Eddie is really,
seriously
living up to his nickname. Honest to God, with his particular brand of doggedness, he’s wasted in an accountant’s office; the guy should be working on
Prime Time
as an investigative reporter. By ten o’clock last night, I counted eleven texts and five calls. (I answered approximately half of them and then just got too tired and gave up.) Then, today, on the actual DOD (day of the date . . . his phrase, not mine) he upped his game and has been either calling or texting at least once an hour, to remind me of venue/time/chef’s special for tonight/parking tips.

He’s booked Eden in Temple Bar, which is this well-known romantic restaurant, a bit like the Rainbow Room in New York. The kind of place that’s always jam-packed on Valentine’s night with guys who play
rugby
proposing to blonde women with caramel-coloured fake tan and pretty, perfect teeth. And yes, of course I know I should be grateful, and I also know that compared with the dating drought of a few months ago, this is party time, but, oh dear God, he’s
really
starting to drive me scatty.

Then around lunchtime today, he started the ‘no, I’ve a better idea, don’t drive, why don’t I collect you?’ series of texts, all of which I strongly discouraged for two reasons, neither of which exactly bode well for the night ahead. a) Some inner nagging voice is telling me that if this guy knows where I live, there’s a good chance he’ll start camping out on my doorstep, and b) in the event that I might need to make a quick getaway, it’s always handy to have the car on standby.

Barbara calls around before I head out this evening for a pep talk, or as she says, to play ‘geek’ chorus to the series of unfolding events.

‘Your trouble is you don’t know what you want, and I’ve absolutely no sympathy for you,’ she says, sitting on a patio chair in my kitchen and chain smoking. ‘OK, so maybe Eager Eddie is a bit on the over-keen side, but I thought that was what you were trying to attract into your life? Someone to lavish you with attention? Doesn’t it make a pleasant change from all the guys who swear blind they’ll call you and then don’t?’

Before I even get a chance to answer her, my
phone
beep beeps as yet another text comes through.

‘I know without even looking that it’s him,’ I say, picking up my phone from a bag of tiling adhesive which Useless Builder has thoughtfully dumped in the middle of the kitchen floor. And, whaddya know, I’m right.

HEY VICKY, WILL YOU KEEP TOMORROW AFTERNOON FREE, MY NIECE IS HAVING HER NINTH BIRTHDAY PARTY, BOUNCY CASTLE, THE WORKS, MIGHT BE GOOD TIME FOR YOU TO MEET MY FAMILY. I’VE TOLD THEM ALL ABOUT YOU. SEE YOU LATER, CAN’T WAIT EDDIE XXXX

I flash the text under Barbara’s nose with a ‘you see what I mean?’ look. She doesn’t even need to say anything, just finishes her cigarette in two drags.

‘I have a feeling this guy hasn’t dated in a long, long time,’ I eventually say, neutrally.

‘Well, now you see what a turn-off it is for guys,’ she shrugs. ‘You know, when women start behaving like wanna-brides. Oh, you know the type, the ones all the gossip mags call Muriels, you know like your one in
Muriel’s Wedding
.’

‘Yeah,’ I say dully, making no attempt whatsoever to get moving, even though I’m meant to be meeting Eager Eddie in about half an hour. As he reminded me
about
twelve times today. Another beep beep as yet another text comes through.

No, make that thirteen times. This time I don’t even bother reading the text, I just leave the phone sitting there.

‘Vicky, what is up with you?’ asks Barbara. ‘Look at you, you’re acting like you’re going for root canal that’s going to be performed by a trainee dentist aged about eleven, instead of a fun night out with a guy who, yes, OK, admittedly might just be a little over-eager, but otherwise there’s
nothing wrong with him
. And I should know, I went to a lot of bloody trouble to screen him for you.’

‘I know you did,’ I smile at her ruefully, ‘and I know you’re right. Just wish I could get Daniel Best out of my head, that’s all.’

‘Oh please, not this again! As your man-ager I am officially telling you that by daydreaming about him, all you’re doing is getting back into your dirty old habits. Putting all your eggs into one basket and all the while, letting other perfectly good opportunities pass you by. And we all know where that road ends, with you fixating on someone totally unsuitable, bashing square pegs into round holes, and ultimately ending up calling a fella Mr Ah Sure He’ll Do. No, Vicky, under my careful tutelage, you are going to become a skilled multi-dater with carefully screened men, and I
guarantee
you, within one year, you’ll be happily partnered up.’

‘Yeah, yeah, you’re right,’ I say, trying to motivate myself and not doing a very good job of it. Right now, I’d even give Useless Builder a run for his money in the lethargy stakes.

‘Vicky, dating is a numbers game, simple as that. You have to pump up the volume but with guys that are suitable, eligible, acceptable. I want you to be with someone that’s good enough for you, one that really deserves you.’

‘I know you do, hon.’ I flash her a grateful smile. Bless her; she really has gone to an awful lot of trouble on my behalf.

‘Plus, you hardly need me to remind you that you’re on a strict two-date minimum, and you’re not getting out of it.’

‘Yup, got it.’

‘So no more going on about Daniel Best.’

‘I wasn’t going on about him, was I?’
Was
I?

‘You were thinking about him, I know by the look of you.’

I don’t answer, mainly because she’s right. God, I’m inclined to forget just how
good
Barbara is. That’s the trouble with having friends who’ve known you for decades: they just see through you like you’re a soggy bit of transparent cling-film.