Do You Want to Know a Secret? (22 page)

Laura and I look at each other, shrug, then do as we’re told.

‘OK,’ says Barbara, who’s actually sounding remarkably sober. ‘Just concentrate on your breathing, in and out, in and out, tune out all other sounds . . .’

It’s particularly hard as my will to talk is just too overwhelming, but after a few moments of doing just that, concentrating only on breathing, it actually does start to work. In, out, in, out, in and out . . . A few breaths later and I find myself giving an involuntary yawn. As does Laura, I notice.

After all our chat and messing, eventually a long silence falls and now all you can hear is a clock on the fireplace ticking and the distant, muffled sound of Emily on the phone to one of her friends upstairs. It’s lateish now, and the light’s nearly gone, but the candles make the room seem serene and tranquil. Or maybe it’s just the two . . . no, three glasses of wine I’ve just had. Oh well.

‘Just so you know, I’ve been up since six a.m. and there’s a good chance I might fall asleep,’ mumbles Laura. I know exactly what she means. There’s something about the quiet and the baby’s peaceful gurgling in the corner that’s making me a bit drowsy, too.

‘Now, to help us, I want us all to say our worst fear out loud and then focus on the polar opposite,’ Barbara eventually says, sounding exactly like a children’s TV presenter talking to five-year-olds. The exact same soothing, dulcet tone.

‘Easy,’ says Laura. ‘That one of the neighbours will look through the window right now and think I’ve turned lesbian.’

‘You’re not concentrating.’

‘Why do we have to do this? I feel like a right gobshite,’ I say, now that the mood’s . . . slightly shattered. ‘Can’t we just keep drinking, like normal people do on a Saturday night?’

‘Because, you said it yourself earlier, Vick. The trouble
with
most people is that they haven’t the first clue what they really want. And the one thing we have going for us is that we each are really clear on what we’re asking for. So we’re each going to say our greatest fear out loud, face it head on, then let it go and concentrate on attracting the exact opposite and not worry about how it’s going to come in. The book says something about not worrying about how your dreams will come to you – the universe will, sort of, re-arrange itself to make it all happen.’

OK, I’m getting a bit giddy now, not at what Barbara’s saying, just at the way she’s become such an expert on the law of attraction in such a sort space of time. I look over at Laura, whose head is nearest mine, and figure she must be thinking the same, because I can see her, eyes closed, but doing her slightly lop-sided smile.

‘So come on, who’s first up?’ says Barbara, still in group-leader mode.

‘OK then, my greatest fear is that I’ll end up selling an organ to pay for next September’s school fees,’ says Laura, and I start tittering.

‘Stop messing.’

‘Miss? Miss? Is it my go yet?’ I say, waving my hand in the air.

‘You’re only allowed to contribute if you’re going to take this seriously,’ says Barbara, but out of the corner of
my
eye, I can see her dying to have a good laugh as well.

‘My greatest fear is that I’m only a step away from being one of those scary old ladies who live alone and scream at kids who ring on their doorbells and then run away.’

OK, now I can see Barbara starting to shake, and this suddenly reminds me of school, when she and I would sit beside each other and I could nearly sense when she was about to go, so I’d keep whispering funny things at her, needling at her weak point until she’d eventually crack up laughing.

‘Oh no, hang on, I just thought of a better one,’ I say. ‘OK, my greatest fear is that I’ll end up in the moratorium section of the lonely hearts’ column.’

Right, now even Barbara is snorting, and it’s too much, the whole mood is shattered as the two of us just roll around the floor, in fits of laughter, while Laura looks on, with her funny, sideways smile.

Not even the sound of a blazing row erupting from the back garden stops the giggles. Laura gets up and calmly goes to the window to see what’s going on. It’s George Junior and Jake bickering over something, God knows what, but the key words of the row are ‘gerbil’, ‘thief’, and ‘stupid arsehole’. The good news is, though, instead of getting all stressed about it, like she normally would, Laura just waves her finger at them and says, ‘Now, now, now boys. You are brothers
and
just remember that blood is thicker than diet cola.’

Then even she joins in the laughing, and I’m not kidding, just the sight of that alone does me more good than anything else this evening.

Chapter Thirteen

SHIT, SHIT, SHIT
, I’m going to be late, and Barbara will KILL me, and it’s not even my fault. Well, not really. That is, not entirely. You see, I’ve been at the Best agency all morning, working side-by-side with Sophie, Amanda and the rest of the team on what will be the first cosmetics commercial to air. (Original Eyes, all very smoky and sultry. Trust me, in black and white, it’ll look just stunning.) And, as often happens in brainstorming meetings, time just ran away with us. So now I’m standing on the street in the lashing rain, newspaper over my hair that I got specially blow-dried first thing this morning (for a particularly good reason, tell you later), trying to hail down a taxi like a demented lunatic.

On the plus side, I think, squinting through the rain and trying to make out whether the cab about to knock me down has its light on or off (curse my impressionist vision), we did do a great morning’s work. AND, more
importantly
, my worries about the Best gang being annoyed at my not just sticking to the press-coverage end of things was completely groundless. Sophie couldn’t have been sweeter to me, no graded scary looks thrown in my direction at all, and Posh Spice look-alike actually congratulated me on the seven deadly sins theme. Then there was a heated debate about whether a ten commandments theme might work better, but in the end we’ve opted for a combination of both. Commercial one will be themed around ‘envy’ and is roughly titled ‘Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Best Friend’s Eyes’.

Then, the stroke of genius, which I’d love to claim credit for, but it was actually Amanda who came up with it. The voiceover tag-line will say (in suitably husky, femme fatale tones), ‘Free, wickedly sinful gift with every purchase. For all you envious babes out there.’

I just love, love,
love
working with Amanda: she listens, she’s up for absolutely anything ideas-wise and she’s always full of chat about Daniel. (Still away apparently, but is holding fast to his demand to appear in one of the ads as an extra, watch this space.)

Anyway, miraculously, I grab a cab and head for the Unicorn, probably the coolest restaurant in town, where I’ve arranged to meet Barbara and, wait for it, THE Serena Stroheim, as she keeps referring to her. I arrive a
couple
of minutes late and Barbara’s standing outside under a canopy, doing her trick of finishing a cigarette in two drags, which she only ever does at times of extreme stress.

This can officially be classified as a Very Bad Sign.

‘Jesus, I thought you’d never get here,’ is her snarled greeting as I pay the taxi driver and hop under the dry canopy beside her.

‘Sorry, meeting at Best’s ran over, not my fault. Honest.’

‘You were at Best’s?’

‘Yeah, all morning, but the divine Daniel wasn’t there, he’s in the States . . .’

‘OK, I need you to stop right there. I was only feigning interest about where you were out of politeness. And I’m just too bloody stressed to be polite right now.’

This might sound a bit rude, but I’ve known Barbara long enough to know that when under severe pressure, she reacts by getting unbelievable narky. I learned the hard way years ago never to even go near her just before of one of her theatre opening nights: there’s a fair chance she might hurl a pointy object at you. So, instead I decide to go down the Kofi Annan softly, softly route.

‘Never mind, hon, sure I’m here now, so will we go in? You’re looking a million dollars, by the way.’ Which is only the truth: she’s in a tight-fitting short grey woollen dress, with a matching cashmere cardigan in the
same
beautifully soft shade of the palest grey. It sets off the long red curls to perfection, and I nearly fall over when I see that she’s actually wearing tights and
heels
. I think it’s the first time in about five years I’ve seen her not stomping around in either a) Reeboks or b) a particularly horrendous pair of bovver boots she’s had ever since she left drama school.

‘It’s all Laura’s, every stitch,’ she says, stubbing out her fag as we head inside. ‘It’s her good going-to-court outfit. She made me call over to her this morning to get kitted-out. The deal is, I get one stain on any of this ludicrous politician’s inauguration get-up, then I have to babysit for one entire week, God help me.’

‘Well worth the gamble, you look sensational.’

‘Oh piss off, I feel like a stupid, bloody, over-made-up tart. Laura forced me into this get-up, then said: “OK, now let’s accessorize.” I said, “With what? A lamp post and a pimp?”’

‘No need to take the nerves out on me, my name’s not Serena Stroheim.’

‘Could you please stop saying her name? I’m close enough to throwing up as it is. All over the outfit.’

A smiley, bouncy waitress – with fingernails so long it’s a wonder she hasn’t lost the use of her hands – takes my soaked jacket from me and shows us to our table. We’ve arrived before our distinguished guest, thankfully, or else poor Barbara would probably have an anxiety
stroke
. It’s a lovely, secluded table, too, tucked into a nice discreet corner of the restaurant, ideal for our purposes.

‘May I get you something to drink?’ beams fingernail girl.

‘Still mineral water for me, please,’ I say.

‘And a paper bag for me to breathe into,’ says Barbara.

Thankfully, the waitress assumes she’s messing (although truth to tell she probably wasn’t), and as she moves off, I fish around in the bottom of my bag for some rescue remedy. Bingo, I find my homeopathic ‘dire emergency’ bottle and hand it over to Barbara, who takes about five times more than the amount you’re technically supposed to have.

‘How can you be so, like,
chilled
and calm?’ she gulps at me. ‘Right now, I feel . . . I feel . . . like some kind of a prisoner of war. I feel . . . like you’ve traded me for tights and chocolate. In fact, come to think of it, I feel . . . oh shit, I feel I want to leave, Vicky, I want to get out of here RIGHT NOW. Would you be annoyed with me if I ran away? Would it mean the end of our friendship?’

I don’t even have time to answer, as fingernail waitress is straight back, and by the gob-smacked look of recognition on her face at who she’s leading to our table, I immediately guess that she must be an out-of-work actor. Has to be. Anyway, she’s followed by the almighty Ms Stroheim herself, who politely introduces
herself
with a firm handshake and apologizes for being a bit late.

Now, I had of course Googled her in preparation for today, and kind of knew what to expect, but am still a bit taken aback at just how
young
she looks, and how energetically she comes across. She’s maybe mid-sixties, tiny, with spiky grey hair and sharp grey eyes to match; she speaks in an East Coast American accent and kind of reminds me of Annie Leibovitz, in a funny way.

We all stand, then awkwardly sit back down again, then launch into a bit of chit-chat along the mundane lines of: ‘So how are you enjoying the city?’ and, ‘Did you have trouble finding the restaurant?’ Although it would probably be more correct to say that Serena and I chit-chat about inconsequential shite while Barbara, most unusually for her, goes completely mute. It’s just the weirdest thing, I’ve never seen her so terror-struck before, ever. I’m not kidding; she’s about as tightly coiled-up as a Walnut Whip. So anyway, in the absence of back-up, I make an executive decision to take the reins and off I go, steaming ahead into full-pitch mode. My reasoning is, business first, lunch after. I even produce a colouredy folder, which I had specially done for Serena, stuffed full of information, a list of sponsors that I’m targeting, photos of our venue, some advertisers that have already expressed interest in taking out ads in our programme; you name it, it’s all in there.

‘I gotta tell you, I greatly admire what you’re doing,’ the woman herself says, blithely flicking through her folder. ‘And all for such a wonderful cause, too.’ She speaks slowly, distinctly, and this slows my pace down a bit, too.

‘Thank you so much. We’re very honoured that someone of your stature is even considering this project.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

I look over at Barbara, who remains mute, so, just to be on the safe side, I thank her profusely enough for both of us.

Another pause, so I decide to fill it.

‘And, as of early this morning,’ I add, shooting a wait-till-you-hear-this-latest glance over at Barbara, ‘we have full permission from the Parks Department to use the Iveagh Gardens for the show, plus, the dance studios in town have kindly agreed to let us use their largest studio for rehearsals, absolutely free of change.’

‘Well, isn’t that absolutely how it should be?’ Serena asks flatly, peering at me from over the glasses, and suddenly I realize why Barbara’s so panic-stricken. This is a woman used to intimidating people, and for a split second I even find myself wondering if the specs are only for show. I decide it’s best to say nothing, just nod and smile respectfully and let her get on with reading her colouredy folder.

Another silence, made all the more uncomfortable
by:
a) Barbara sitting there like human wallpaper, and b) the fact that the lunchtime gang are all here, the restaurant is buzzing and noisy and we’re very obviously the only table where no one is speaking. And in Ireland, believe me, that just
doesn’t happen
. Especially not with three women sitting together; normally, in this country at least, you’d practically have to invest in a talking stick and then bicker over it for airtime. A rank outsider looking at our table would think one of us had just been told she’d got two weeks to live.