Greatest Love Story of All Time (11 page)

Hugh raised an eyebrow. ‘I couldn’t give a fuck about your birthday, Fran. That said, happy birthday. But I could give a fuck about your interest in politics. Who’s going to win this election?’

‘Cameron.’

‘I see. And if he does, who are the rising stars of his party?’

Fuck. ‘Well, Nick Bennett is one to watch. He’s been playing an increasingly important role in policy over the last few months.’

Hugh wrote something in his notebook. ‘You think so?’

Shit. Did I?

‘Yes.’

‘And contacts. You can’t just blaze into Westminster with the duty number for the press office, Fran.’

‘I know. I’ve got contacts.’

Hugh had glanced vaguely at his BlackBerry, which was making loud popping noises. ‘OK, so suppose I said we have a feature on tomorrow’s bulletin about the rising stars of politics.’

I waited.

‘Fuck that. How about I’m
telling
you, right here, right now, that we have a feature on tomorrow’s bulletin about the rising stars of politics? I want some of them in the studio. And you say Nick Bennett. Get him in for us. Go.’

What a bastard. ‘OK,’ I said, turning on my heel. ‘Give me a few minutes.’

Hugh had roared with laughter. ‘Good fucking bluff, Fran,’ he called. ‘That’s half the fucking job.’

I’d looked at my watch. Michael had been due to collect me from reception half an hour ago. I paused briefly to picture him sitting there on the sofa with his chin deep in one of his scratchy Scottish wool scarves. I wondered what he’d bought me for my birthday and imagined his eyes creasing into a smile as I opened it. A ring?
Everyone
was convinced he’d propose tonight. Even Mum.

I’d buzzed through to Reception and asked them to tell him I’d be out in five minutes. Then I’d picked
up my mobile and scrolled down to Nick’s number. I glanced back at Hugh’s office, where for no good reason he was sticking pins into a Plasticine dog. That would be me if I fucked this up.

Nick had answered almost immediately. ‘Fran, I really can’t talk. I’m at home. Laura is here.’

‘Yes. I know, but it’s business. Nick, I need your help. We’d like a rising star from the Tories to be in the studio tomorrow night. I proposed you as one of them. Can you do it?’

I’d heard the cogs of his ego machine beginning to turn. ‘It’d be great exposure,’ I added, wincing. Damn him.

‘OK. I’ll need to involve our press people but I don’t see why not. As you say, I’ve been very prominent of late.’

‘Oh, my God. Thank you, Nick – thank you so much. I – I really – Look, thank you. I’ll organize a car to come to Portcullis House at about five o’clock. Is that OK?’

‘Yes. Please confirm the car details via the press office. Don’t ring me again.’

In typical Nick style, he ended the call without recourse to traditional pleasantries such as ‘Goodbye.’

‘Nick Bennett will be here at five thirty p.m. tomorrow,’ I said, walking back into Hugh’s office.

He’d sat up. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes.’

Hugh had chuckled. ‘Fran, you could do with smartening up a bit – those bloody floral jumpsuit things you wear are fucking horrible – but I won’t lie, I like you. And you’re quite right about not letting me down. So I’m going to give you a chance. You can have a month’s trial in the election team, starting on the fifth of January. But if you fuck up, you’re out. That fucking simple. What do you say? Don’t you fucking
dare,
’ he added, as I forgot myself briefly and ran towards him with open arms.

‘Wow! Good for you,’ Michael had said, when I exploded into Reception. But he’d looked uncomfortable.

He’d probably foreseen what had come next: a call from a none-too sober Mum, saying, ‘Frances, I’m rather shocked that you’ve organized this television jaunt with Nick. You of all people should be aware that the better known he becomes, the greater the strain on our relationship.’

Was that it? Had Michael got fed up with the constant drama of going out with the daughter of a politician’s mistress?
Surely
not. While I was happy to change almost anything if it meant getting him back, I couldn’t do anything about Mum’s relationship.

By the time Stefania returned to ensure I wasn’t stalking Nellie, I had got to the bottom of the brandy bottle and was playing Starship very loudly. She stood
surveying the scene while, from my cosy spot on the floor, I howled that nothing was going to stop us now.

She stood surveying the scene. ‘Right,’ she said, and walked out with my phone. I increased my singing volume, gearing up for the key change, just as she came back in and turned off the music. ‘Oi! Stefania! What the hell are you doing?’ I asked, sitting up. Whoops. Floor was better. I lay down and giggled a bit.

‘Your mozzer is on her way,’ Stefania said stiffly. ‘You are out of ze control.’ She sat on the sofa and put on the TV, petting Duke Ellington. Glad of sane and sober company, he climbed into her lap and sat staring down at me haughtily. I passed out.

When I woke up, Mum was tapping me on the head gingerly. ‘Frances? Are you alive, dear?’

‘Mum!’ I tried to sit up but my head hurt. The clock said 8.16 p.m. What kind of drunken tramp had a hangover at a quarter past eight on a Saturday night?

‘Mum. I saw Nick and Laura sodding Bennett on the news earlier, joining the election team. Did you?’ She nodded. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Well, darling, I’ve had better times,’ she said. ‘But let’s not worry about me, let’s worry about you. Stefania called me and told me that she found you singing power ballads in your knickers. Is this true?’

‘Pretty much,’ I admitted. ‘I think Michael’s seeing someone called Nellie Daniels. You and I are as fucked as each other now, right?’

She patted down her hair as she sat on the sofa above me. ‘It’s not meant to be like that, though, Frances,’ she said. ‘I’m meant to look after you, not the other way round.’

There was a silence. I knew Mum had never
wanted
to stop being my mum. But we both knew she was right. Our roles had been reversed a very long time ago.

‘Mum, I think we should open a bottle of wine,’ I said, getting up.

She looked guilty. ‘That’s a great idea,’ she whispered, just in case Stefania could hear.

Stefania couldn’t hear, but she heard later on when Starship went back on and Mum and I started duetting. Her furious face, as she showed Mum out of my flat and into a waiting taxi, was something I wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

‘Oops … Stefania’s cross,’ I said to Duke Ellington. His enormous haughty yellow eyes stared, unblinking, into my face, and then he stalked delicately off to my bedroom.

Dave texted just as I passed out drunk for the second time in one day: If you’re not back at work on Monday I’m calling the police. Come back, kid, we’ll look after you.

‘But how … how do you
know
?’ Leonie asked, when I told her about Nellie Daniels.

I told her the tale.

‘Oh, Fran, you’re being ridiculous. How the hell do you know he’s seeing her?’

‘Come off it, Leonie. Why else would he be dropping her home before visiting his sister? That’s what men do in new relationships. They stick like bloody glue to your side. You never get a moment’s peace because they’re always walking you home, walking you to the bus stop, walking you to the fucking toilet. That’s what he was like with me. And now he’s doing it with her!’ I yelled into the phone.

‘You’re being insane,’ she said briskly. ‘You have no proof whatsoever. Until you know for sure that he’s seeing her I absolutely
forbid
you to stalk her, you mad journalist. OK?’

‘Fine,’ I muttered. Leonie was no use: I needed to take this up with Jenny Slater.

‘Franny! Wow! How lovely to hear from you!’ Jenny trilled, sweet and lovely as ever.

‘Hey!’ I blustered. ‘How’s it going? Girl or boy?’

It was a girl: Lily. She was six pounds six ounces, tiny, an angel with soft blonde hair who, apparently, had only cried twice in her two-day life. But, happy as I was for Jenny, I wanted to know only one thing. And it had nothing to do with epidurals.

Unfortunately, I got my chance quite soon. As Jenny lowered her voice and started telling me how badly she needed her milk to come through, she was interrupted by the arrival of some visitors. And before I had a chance to ask who it was, I knew. I could hear Michael’s soft voice as clear as day. His and that of a girl I’d never heard before. I heard her say a cheery, Sloanish ‘Hi, babe’ and felt my stomach drop out.

‘Who’s that?’ I whispered.

‘It’s Michael and … a friend,’ Jenny faltered.

I ended the call. It was time to stalk this bitch.

‘NELLIE DANIELS’, I typed into Google, in furious capitals. I ran my hand through my knotty, greasy hair, drew a breath and pressed SEARCH.

There were quite a few links all relating to a company called Spikey PR. It was a medium-sized agency off Brompton Road, dealing mostly with contemporary fashion houses and a few restaurants. Nellie Daniels was a senior account executive and her photograph was flawless. It was black-and-white but that did nothing to detract from her high cheekbones, long eyelashes and miles and miles of fucking luxurious hair. My heart sank even deeper.
Game over
, I thought.

‘Are you Michael’s girlfriend?’ I asked her picture. She stared back, porcelain and expressionless. A Rolex was clearly visible on her slim wrist and she wore an immaculate fitted shirt that was definitely not from Topshop. A wave of monstrous jealousy broke over me. I’d never win in a fight with anyone who looked like this. She probably had twice-weekly manicures, a sister called Tamara and a flat off the King’s Road. Since when had she been Michael’s type?

I thought about us both; Nellie who looked like Angelina Jolie, who probably wore silk knickers and had exquisite taste in wine, and me: after several hours’ makeup application I might just scrape a comparison with Billie Piper on a bad day, with my faded BHS pants and secret love of Irn-Bru WKD. Viewed in those terms, it’d be a clear choice.

I scanned her client list. She looked after a restaurant on Westbourne Grove, a Savile Row tailor, a couple of jewellery designers, a Kensington restaurant and … And Dean LaRonda. For a minute I couldn’t remember, but I knew it was a bad sign. My heart thumped as I sifted quickly through my mind for a connection. And there it was. Jenny had told me that a friend of Dmitri’s did the PR for Dean LaRonda; she hadn’t mentioned that the same friend was now boffing Michael.
This
was who he’d been choosing jumpers with; this was who he’d been walking home on Friday!
Shit
. It was her! This smooth-skinned monster was going out with Michael!
My
Michael! She was the
reason I’d been dumped! I got under the duvet and hugged my knees, shaking.

I knew I had to see her. I had to meet her.
I had to know more.

I thumped my pillow in fear and frustration. Duke Ellington got up disdainfully and squinted at me as if I were a savage. I swear I saw him shaking his head as he stepped out of the cat flap. ‘Whatever, Duke Ellington,’ I called.

The cat flap closed daintily behind him.

And that was how it started. That was the moment at which I decided to go in search of Nellie.

DRAFTS

To	Subject	Saved	Time
michael@ michaelslater.com	Nellie	19/01/2010	03:12:04
michael@ michaelslater.com	I might have a terminal illness	18/01/2010	20:58:44
michael@ michaelslater.com	WHO THE FUCK IS NELLIE	18/01/2010	18:10:00
michael@ michaelslater.com	I miss you so much	18/01/2010	16:05:59
michael@ michaelslater.com	DYING	18/01/2010	12:43:55
michael@ michaelslater.com	You left a sock	18/01/2010	12:36:09
michael@ michaelslater.com	I have met someone else	18/01/2010	12:34:35
michael@ michaelslater.com	CALL ME YOU CUNT	18/01/2010	12:32:27

The day after I decided to go in search of Nellie, I walked stiffly into ITN, a cold wind roaring angrily around my head. I prepared myself for sympathetic comments about the state of my vagina.

‘Hi, Fran, how are you doing?’ said Stella Sanderson to my crotch.

Thanks, Leonie
, I thought, as I fumbled with the coffee urn. Hugh came in shortly after and ignored me completely. He seemed convinced that I was dying of syphilis.

A tall, skinny man, wearing tight jeans and brogues, was sitting at my desk. As I approached him uneasily
from behind I noted several warning signs: a Fashion hairstyle, a Fashion cravat and a Fashion cardigan. ‘Er, hello there, I’m Fran,’ I mumbled, waiting for him to spring up and clear away his stuff.

‘Fran,’ he said, turning slowly.

Oh, fuck. Oh, FUCKING FUCK. Oh, fuck up the bottom.

It was Alex, Michael’s best friend. Oxford-educated Alex who’d smoked cigars when he’d come round to dinner and who had once told Michael he was ‘surprised’ by Michael’s choosing me. I’d done my best to ignore him ever since. I’d thought he worked at the fucking Millbank office!

‘Oh, my God … Alex!’ I said, feeling the blood pumping into my cheeks.

He looked me up and down slowly. ‘Hi. Welcome back. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get you up to speed when you’re ready.’

‘Er, well, this is my desk.’

Alex smiled languidly. ‘OK, Fran. You can have the desk if you want. No problem.’ He shifted his neat piles to the hotdesk next to mine. ‘How have you been?’ he asked. ‘Are you OK? I mean, are you OK?’

There was no hope of a bogus vagina story here. This was hideous: it was almost as if Michael was sitting in front of me. ‘Why are you here, Alex?’ I said, as confidently as I could.