Do You Want to Know a Secret? (25 page)

Bless her, I think she’s trying to cheer me up.

I can’t be entirely honest with Barbara, because she’s so anti-Daniel Best and every time I as much as mention his name she instructs me to hold a mental picture in my head of him shagging models in the States, like billionaires are supposed to – at least in her vivid imagination. Although, personally, I think she’s seen way too many TV programmes about Hugh Hefner and all his bunny girls in the Playboy mansion, and they’re making her unfairly biased against wealthy unmarried men. Anyway, in Daniel’s temporary absence, I’ve decided I do actually, really, seriously fancy Ex-Files, sorry, I mean Peter, on the principle that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. In addition, I’m exhibiting all the classic signs of Woman with a Crush: a) I’m waxed everywhere, therefore am fully match-fit and ready for action, if you get my drift; b) I went out and bought all new underwear; c) every time my
phone
rings I secretly want it to be him, and am always a bit sorry when it’s not; and d) as well as reading my own horoscope every day, I now read his as well. Oh, and he’s Pisces by the way, which scores a very promising eight out of ten for compatibility with my sign, Aquarius, according to the iVillage website anyway, which is bloody well good enough for me.

The
really
good news is that the PR dinner is coming up. So, I was very brave and grown-up and I asked him straight out,
and he said yes
, and best of all, Barbara is all set to double-date with his friend, fab wing-woman that she is. It’ll be the first night-time excursion for Ex-Files, sorry I mean Peter, and me, so I’m expecting, ahem, a result of a physical nature, if you get my drift. Otherwise it’ll be a total waste of a Brazilian wax, and I did NOT put myself through that agony and torture for nothing. The thing I’m most looking forward to, though, is having Barbara on hand, right by my side for the whole entire night, to monitor the whole situation. Oh, and prevent me from downing one too many margaritas, never, ever, a good plan. So it’s all looking good, and the added bonus of having a chaperone on hand is helping my nerves considerably and making me feel a bit like a debutante in high society between the wars, circa 1937.

On a less positive note, however, I have to report that, as of about a week ago, Eager Eddie started calling and texting again. Now, in my defence and just so I can’t be
accused
of leading him on, I only answered one call, and the minute I heard the Scottish accent, my heart sank. I thought we had pretty much agreed to leave things be and that was the end of that, but it turns out his rationale is, ‘You said you wanted to take things slowly, so that’s why I gave it a few weeks before calling again. You needed time, so that’s what I gave you.’

Jaysus.

It so happened that I was in the office when he rang, so I had the ready-made excuse of phones ringing and the door buzzing to get off the phone as politely as possible. Then, that night, he calls again. So this time, I recognize the number and don’t answer, so he leaves a message. Asking me out. To, wait for it, Glasgow. And this is the best part, to go and support his brother who’s playing in the World Pipe Band Championships on Glasgow Green. Where he’s playing the bagpipes. In public.

Now, nothing against bagpipe players, but I’d be a bit more of a Snow Patrol woman myself.

Needless to say Barbara howled laughing at this, and now whenever Eager Eddie’s name comes up (which it usually does, but in sentences along the lines of ‘can you believe that eejit still hasn’t got the message, if I went on like that with a fella, he’d call me Glenn Close and have me arrested for being a bunny-boiling stalker . . . etc., etc.’), she launches straight into the chorus of ‘Mull of
Kintyre’
. She even has a joke she made up specially. Q: why do bagpipers march while they play? A: to get away from the sound.

Ha, ha, very funny.

When she eventually stops laughing at my misfortunes, she does, however, remind me that, irritating as his persistent calls and texts are, I should just smile serenely at each one and tell myself that this is prima facie evidence that the law of attraction is actually working. And she’s right. I may not be getting quite the result I want, but I have to remember that a only few short months ago, I used to wonder if my complete lack of success with guys was some Darwinian way of weeding me out so I wouldn’t be able to propagate the species. At this moment in time, however, the sands are beginning to shift and that’s good enough for me. Right then. End of my moaning. Onwards and upwards. Ex-Files . . . sorry, I mean Peter . . . here I come, baby.

LAURA
. OK, so I admit, I was saving the ‘best girl in the group’ award till last. You just won’t believe this, and I can barely believe it myself, but prepare to relinquish your breath. About a week ago, Laura got a phone call from the features editor at
Tattle
magazine to say that not only did they all roll around laughing at her short story but that she’s actually been selected as a finalist in their competition! Cue massive whooping, punching
fists
in the air and screaming jubilantly at each other, and that’s just me and the girls in the office. Even though I secretly had a feeling she’d do well, it’s still lovely when you get confirmation like this from the universe that, yes, occasionally, good things
do
happen to good people. Barbara almost had a heart attack when she heard the news, and even Laura herself is playing it down, but secretly pleased, I think. I always know whenever she does that lop-sided smile thing.

She maintains her kids reacted as if she’d been chosen to go on
Who Wants to be a Millionaire?
and she had about a half-hour of blissful peace while they all ran upstairs to write their lists of what they wanted with their share of the cash she was
going
to win. In vain she tried to point out that if she won, the prize wasn’t by any means life-alteringly huge, and in any case would be used towards taking them on a summer of cultural excursions around the city. The National Gallery, the Museum of Natural History, the latest exhibition of da Vinci Codex sketches, that type of thing. Under pressure, though, she did admit that their lists were just too funny.

Emily’s was: ‘1. Yacht. 2. Two weeks in EuroDisney. 3. Lexus jeep for Mom. 4. Remainder to be put in secure bank vault so when I’m sixteen, can get boob job.’

So as not to ruin their fun, though, she did break her hard and fast rule of only healthy organic food at
mealtimes
and let them order a family bucket of KFC chicken nuggets, fries, coke, the works. Ordinarily, Laura has a strict ban on allowing any of her offspring to eat anything that comes off on the end of a coronary heart-scraper, as she puts it, but that night and for one night only, they were allowed forbidden food to mark this rare and special occasion.

She said that celebration alone was miles better than any magnum of champagne.

Chapter Sixteen

LAURA’S BIG DAY
and we’re all here for her.
Tattle
magazine are very generously (believe me, I know how much these promos cost), hosting a morning coffee reception in the fabulously posh Merrion Hotel, in a function room they’ve hired especially to announce the competition results. Kick-off is at 11 a.m., perfect timing for Laura, as the kids are at school, and because it’s a
very
special occasion, she’s splashing out and dispatching baby Julia to a local crèche. This is unheard of. Ordinarily, I’m always trying to encourage her to leave the baby just for a few hours in the mornings to give herself a bit of head space, but she point-blank refuses, on the grounds that: a) the fees are so extortionately expensive, she’s always saying you’d swear you were forking out to put a child through Harvard medical school; and b) her children would get ‘insufficient stimulation’, they learn far, far more at home, under her
watchful
gaze. Which, given that she’s so brainy, and was playing championship chess from the age of six, is probably true.

Anyhoo, just this once, she caves in, and, under great duress, reluctantly drops baby Julia off. I then take full advantage of this and drag her off to my hairdresser’s first thing, to get a blow-dry and a manicure, my treat. Just to let her know, whatever today’s result, how proud I am of her. By the time we’re done, she’s looking fabulous in a very Laura-like way: neat, scrubbed, immaculately and elegantly turned out in the same, grey ‘going to court’ good outfit she lent Barbara for our ill-fated lunch a while back.

We jump in a cab to the Merrion Hotel and miracle of miracles, the perennially late Barbara is actually there before us, smoking a fag outside and finishing it in two drags, a Very Bad Sign with her. She’s in white jeans and one of those white netting tops that look a bit like see-through curtains, and she looks so tense and stressed that, honestly, your heart would go out to her.

‘No news about the show yet, then I take it?’ Laura asks her, as we all hug and kiss.

‘Oh yes, I got the part and Serena’s whisking me off to Broadway to guest star in my own one-woman show,’ Barbara snaps, stubbing out her fag. ‘I just decided I wouldn’t bother telling either of you, that’s all.’

‘No need to take your nerves out on us,’ I calmly intervene.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m every bit as anxious as she is about the result, maybe even more so, but am trying desperately, desperately to think positive and attract the outcome we want.

Mainly because the alternative is just so unthinkable.

‘Sorry,’ Barbara mutters as we head inside and make our way to the function room. ‘It’s just the not knowing that’s driving me nuts. Plus Angie says her audition went brilliantly, and is already acting like she’s cast, which is driving me slowly up the wall. Last night, just to get away from her, I went out and had pity sex with Nathaniel. Yet again.’

‘Who?’

‘That barman guy. And by the way,
now
is a very good time to wipe that look off your face. I only did it to take my mind off things. Then it struck me, no wonder my nerves are jangling, I haven’t had sex in weeks.’

‘Why’s that,’ Laura asks drily, ‘did you pull something?’

‘Ha bloody ha.’

‘And is that what you wore last night?’

‘Yeah, why, what’s wrong with it?’

‘Dearest, you look like a coffee filter.’

Then my mobile rings, and I’m not kidding, both Barbara and I nearly leap six feet just in case it’s The Call . . . just in case . . . just in case . . .

It’s not. It’s Amanda from Best’s confirming a big meeting that’s arranged for later in the week to discuss the storyboard for the first Original Sin commercial. Sophie, apparently, is insisting on my being there. I hang up the phone and notice that Barbara is actually clutching at her heart, hyperventilating. And I’m nearly getting as jumpy as she is. Jaysus, how much longer can this go on for?

‘Eleven in the morning,’ she says. ‘Do you think it’s too early to order a stiff brandy?’

I don’t answer her, but I know exactly how she feels.

The function room is packed to the gills and buzzing when we get there. I’m not kidding, everyone is so chic and glamorous, I’m doubly glad I dragged Laura and myself off to have hair and nails done this morning. I actually know one of the features editors at
Tattle
, Caroline Owens, and am delighted to see her making a bee-line over to where we’re standing by the door. She shakes us all warmly by the hand and actually lights up when I proudly introduce Laura as a finalist.

‘Oh, you must be Laura Lennox-Coyningham?’ she says. ‘I absolutely adored your story!’ And I know by her enthusiasm that she really, genuinely means it. Mag-hags are great people to know, but sincerity isn’t exactly their strong suit.

‘I have two pre-teens and I can tell you it really struck a chord with me. The bit about your daughter wanting
a
spray tan and a belly top because all her friends are now going around dressed like the Pussy Cat Dolls had me howling.’

‘All true, I’m sorry to say,’ says Laura, doing her lop-sided smile thing.

‘Do you know, I read your story and thought: thank God I’m not alone. My ten-year-old wants her navel pierced for her next birthday, and I honestly don’t know what to say to her. For God’s sake, the child is
ten
. To me, she’s still my little baby and I want to dress her in orphan Annie clothes, you know, all long smocks and Victorian boots.’

Laura nods sympathetically. ‘You’re preaching to the converted,’ she smiles. ‘And to think, at that age I wasn’t even allowed to wear denim jeans. Do you know, for a special treat, I bought my daughter one of those pretty, long, white smock dresses from Zara, which was adorable on her, but the little madam fought with me and said she wanted to go out with a pillowcase wrapped around her waist instead.’

‘Because it’s “hot”, I’ll bet,’ Caroline grimaces. ‘Sweet love of God, if I hear that word once more, I’ll scream.’

‘Oh, you really must introduce a swear box system,’ Laura says encouragingly, ‘It’s a terrific deterrent and phrases count, too, you know. Particularly: “You’ve ruined my life.”’

‘Or, here’s another one,’ Caroline chips in, smiling
wryly
. ‘How about: “I never asked to be born anyway?” That gets a lot of airtime in my house. Hmm. Good suggestion, I might very well give it a try.’

I think it’s a conversation that only another mother could really understand.

Pretty soon, we’re all being ushered into our seats, and I’m delighted to say Laura, Barbara and I are all put in the very front row. This I interpret as a Very Good Sign. You know, kind of like at the Academy Awards, if you’re a nominee and you’re allocated a seat beside the toilets, chances are things aren’t looking too good. Barbara is fidgeting away beside me, starting to drive me a bit nuts, if I’m being brutally honest.

‘Are you switching off your phone?’ she hisses at me, through gritted teeth.

‘Course I am, why?’

‘Suppose The Call comes during this? What’ll Serena think if she can’t get hold of either of us?’

‘Then she’ll leave a message, like normal, sane people do and we’ll call her back when we’re done and dusted here. Honey, you need to calm down. I’m every bit as antsy as you are, but short of sending my mother out to do one of her magic, failsafe novenas, there’s not much we can do but wait. Anyway, this morning’s all about Laura, remember?’