Greatest Love Story of All Time (39 page)

And then I got up and left. I cut through the clink of cutlery and glasses and the low hum of conversation and walked out at four o’clock, on 20 March 2010, to the rue du Montparnasse. I took a deep breath, pulled my bag over my shoulder, and started walking.

I think you were right. It wouldn’t have worked. Your mother would have destroyed our relationship eventually.

Sender: Michael Mob 07009 704462

Message centre: +447999100100

Sent: 20 Mar 2010 19:00:05

‘
Un café très, très grand
,’ I said to the bored teenager trundling through economy coach D with a drinks trolley.

My phone started ringing and I looked at it warily. I didn’t want to hear any more of Michael’s bullshit. He’d sent me five messages already, each containing more denial than the one before. But instead it was Alex. I answered.

‘Hi, Alex.’

‘Fran?’

‘Yes. I’m on the train home.’

A silence.

‘I … I know,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘I … Fran, I owe you an enormous apology.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. The train started to move. ‘Michael is who he is. It’s not your fault I didn’t realize that.’ I was exhausted. I didn’t want to talk to Alex or,
indeed, anyone else. I pulled my new, pointless négligée out of my bag and put it between my head and the window.

Alex wasn’t having any of it. ‘No, Fran, it was awful of me not to tell you about Michael and your mum. I’ve been torturing myself over it. I thought you knew.’

‘Why on earth would I have gone to Paris if I’d known?’

Alex sighed. ‘That Monday morning when I came to your desk and said I needed to talk to you about something. I was going to tell you then. I had the speech planned. But you stopped me – you said you already knew. What were you talking about? What did you “know” if it wasn’t about Michael selling your mum to the
Mirror
?’

I tucked my phone between shoulder and ear and smiled sadly at my newly manicured hands. ‘I thought he’d got engaged,’ I said. ‘I thought he was shacked up with a girl called Nellie Daniels. Didn’t Leonie
tell
you all of this?’

‘No,’ Alex said. ‘We agreed at the start we wouldn’t talk about Michael and you. Leonie was insistent. And I …’

I laughed briefly. ‘You do everything she says.’

He went silent.

‘Alex, I’m only joking. So … that Monday morning you were trying to tell me what Michael had done and I stopped you. Oh, God, I remember … you said you’d seen him the day before. While Leonie and I
were eating burgers. Fuck … So I could have avoided all of this if I’d just listened? Great. Another triumph. Amazing work, Fran.’

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Alex said. There was kindness in his voice. It was in great danger of choking me. ‘You were just trying to protect yourself. After the amount of shit you’d been through I’m not surprised.’

I didn’t trust myself to talk. Alex sounded genuinely stricken. And kind. And warm. I didn’t understand it. Where had the weasel gone?

He cleared his throat. ‘And, Fran, I’m afraid there’s something else I need to talk to you about.’ The train was passing through ugly, neglected railwayside buildings and darkness was falling. I could begin to see my reflection in the window; tired, sad, small. ‘Go on,’ I said hesitantly. This didn’t sound good.

‘I’ve been wanting to say this for a long time,’ Alex began, and then stopped.

‘Go on,’ I repeated, now nervous.

‘Fran … you’ve been led to believe that I’ve had all sorts of opinions about you that just aren’t true. Apparently you were told that I was very disparaging about you and your work on the ents and culture news desk. And that I thought you were a bit silly and frilly. I cannot emphasize strongly enough how completely untrue that is. What you’ve done on that news desk is amazing! I’d bloody
love
to know the stuff you know about popular culture and arts and stuff!’ He
added, ‘And I only had good things to say about you. From the very start.’

I sat back, surprised. This in no way tallied with what Michael had told me.

Which meant, I realized slowly, that …

‘Michael made it all up,’ Alex said firmly. ‘All of it. Sorry, Fran, I don’t want to point fingers but I can’t have you thinking those things about me. It’s not for me to put words in someone else’s mouth, but I do rather wonder if he used me as a way of expressing his
own
prejudices.’

I felt disbelieving. Then angry. Then sad. Defeated. It had to be true. ‘Wow,’ I said, after a pause. ‘What a … what a bastard. How could I have been so stupid, Alex?’

‘You’re not,’ he said. ‘We all make mistakes in who we fall for.’

‘So you really didn’t try to get me sacked,’ I said slowly.

‘No,’ he said, very firmly. ‘In fact, I found out the other day that the reason your tape was in the bin was that Dave put it there. He was worried someone would find it and you’d get sacked. Obviously it went a bit tits up! But …’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘So really I owe
you
an apology.’ This was not a situation I’d ever imagined being in. I felt extremely embarrassed. God only knew how rude I’d been to Alex over the last two years, presuming he loathed me.

‘No, it’s the other way round. I shouldn’t have let you shut me up when I tried to tell you about Michael. I should have insisted that we talked about it.’

‘Don’t be silly. I told you I knew about it – what were you going to do? Hold a biro to my throat to clarify what exactly I “knew”? It was a misunderstanding, Alex. I … Look, I’m glad you called me. Things are making a lot more sense now.’

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

A painful lump lodged in my throat. ‘Not really. But I
will
be OK. He’s wasted two years of my life. He’s not getting any more.’

‘Good girl. You’re brilliant, Fran. You have a lot of fans. You’ll be just fine.’

‘Thanks. Um, I’d better go. We’re probably about to lose signal. Thanks again, Alex.’

‘Let’s have lunch!’ he cried excitedly. ‘Monday!’

I smiled. ‘OK. Monday. And thanks again.’

The train gathered speed.

As we headed into the now-dark countryside and I settled down to sleep, my phone delivered a message from Dave. The sight of his name in my inbox made my spirits lift a little. I heard. I’m so sorry Franny. But I know you’ll be OK. Michael was wrong for you. He couldn’t have made you happy.

No,
I thought.
No, he really couldn’t.
It came to me, as I stared at Dave’s message – Dave, around whom I’d always felt so safe and normal – that I had been … 
scared
of Michael. Scared of his brain. Scared of what
he thought. Scared of not being good enough. And as we cut silently through France, I saw that that was exactly where he’d wanted me.

You’re right. Thank you, DB, I replied.

Come back to London Fannybaws. We’re all waiting for you.

I smiled, knowing I was going to be OK.

The train shot on into the night.

‘Oh, my God! Dave! It’s
brilliant
!’I breathed.

He smiled lopsidedly and got two bottles of alcohol-free beer out of the mini-fridge in the corner. ‘That’s down to you, not me,’ he replied.

‘Rubbish! Dave, it’s brilliant because of how beautifully you’ve filmed it. You great big talented Glaswegian!’ Dave grinned as he cracked open a Bitburger and handed it to me. He’d had his hair cut – in preparation for this long hot summer we were being promised – and he really looked quite normal. Nice, in fact. A lot less homeless.

It was 14 May, and Dave and I had shot the final scenes of my documentary three days before. We’d been waiting for these all-important final scenes so we could finish editing and now – at last! – it was done. Polished, complete and ready for Hugh. I glugged the Bitburger and high-fived Dave, dizzy with tiredness, relief and achievement. ‘We’re wrapped, David Brennan!’ I said. ‘Team Documentary disbanded and awaiting debrief!’

He nodded. ‘Yep. And you’ve done bloody brilliantly, Fran. I’m proud of you.’

‘Shut it, Dad,’ I muttered, as scarlet invaded my face.

I was truly spent. On my return from the ill-fated Paris trip in March I’d started my documentary and simultaneously been drafted in to help Alex’s election team pretty much full-time. ‘Help them whenever you aren’t tied up with your film, Fran. I don’t want to see you so much as going for a shit. YOU HAVE NO SPARE TIME, UNDERSTOOD?’ Hugh had barked.

I had understood. In the weeks that had followed I’d completely lost track of time. London at three a.m. had whizzed past my taxi window night after night; Gin Thursday had ground to a halt (or was flourishing without me, I didn’t even know) and my relationship with the outside world was reduced to a mumbled conversation with Mum once a week from the ITN toilet, a one-way stream of smutty text messages from Leonie and a regular supply of healthy stews deposited through my cat flap by Stefania. Duke Ellington had long since taken to ignoring me completely and had instead cultivated a close relationship with the automatic feeder. He ate when the timer popped open and then departed silently for Stefania’s shed.

Stefania. I’d not had time to snoop around after her but something extremely scandalous was definitely going on still. Apart from the fact that she had taken to wearing makeup, I’d arrived back from work at two thirty a.m. a couple of weeks ago and heard the deep bass notes of a man’s voice murmuring in her shed. And this morning when I’d left at six to get to our
breakfast briefing she had been arriving home on the walk of shame with a smile of not-particularly-secret joy on her face.

‘FRANCES!’ she had shouted, although I was only three feet away from her. She grabbed and hugged me. ‘Ve are missing you, me and Duke Ellington!’

I extricated myself from her bony grip and grinned, clutching my flask of coffee for support. ‘It’s mutual,’ I replied. ‘And you are so unbelievably lovely for leaving me those dinners. I’ve been taking them to work in Tupperware boxes every day. Everyone thinks I’ve lost it, rocking up with bloody okra curries, but I swear that stuff is what’s keeping me on it!’ My taxi beeped outside the gate. ‘I have to go. But don’t think you’re off the hook. At the end of today it’s all over and you, madam, are due a very severe grilling.’

She smirked and mimed zipping up her mouth. ‘Stefania vill discuss not matters viz you before she is ready,’ she said craftily.

‘Just like Fran had to go on eight dates LONG before she was ready? No chance. Expect an interrogation!’ I shouted, jumping into the calm haven of my taxi. As we passed through an already busy London, I pondered for the millionth time who her lover was. I still had a horrible suspicion it was Dave. He’d mentioned her often of late, and more times than I cared to remember during the filming of my documentary, I’d caught him gazing into the distance. I was rather glad that I’d been too busy to give the matter much
thought. Because I simply didn’t like it. Dave wasn’t meant to be with Stefania. Stefania wasn’t meant to be with Dave. I couldn’t really make more sense of it than that.

I put down my bottle of Bitburger and pulled an embarrassingly warm bottle of champagne out of my handbag, which I gave to Danny, the editor. ‘Thanks so much,’ I said. ‘Between you and Dave you made it really special.’

He guffawed. ‘Cheers. But you guys gave me some wicked material to work with! You make a well good team!’ My blush returned and I looked sideways at Dave.

He smiled briefly, then answered the internal phone. ‘It’s Stella,’ he said, peering at the caller display.

Under normal circumstances, Hugh would have signed off the documentary before we left the edit but he was so flat out on the general election that he’d deputized to Stella. We were waiting for her now.

‘She’s late. Half an hour. Let’s take a break,’ he said, as he replaced the receiver. Danny grinned and went off to smoke.

‘It’s lovely outside,’ Dave said to me. ‘Wanna go up to the roof for a wee stroll? There’s been a shoot up there, the door’s open.’

‘Yes! Ace!’

We went.

Dave chinked my bottle as the lift slid quietly upwards. I grinned at him. ‘I know we’ve been filming
together but I feel like we haven’t talked in weeks,’ I said.

Dave swigged his Bitburger. ‘Aye, it’s been a funny old time. But don’t you worry about me. I’ve been fine,’ he said, with a wink.

I punched his arm. ‘What have you been up to? What was that wink for?’

‘Ah, nothing much. I’ve been working a lot too. They’ve had me down in Westminster every second that I’ve not been filming the doc with you.’

‘And what else have you been doing?’

‘Moochin’ around,’ he said vaguely.

We got out of the lift and walked into the sun. London sprawled away in all directions, its customary honking and revving muted by the roar of air-conditioning vents. A tiny but significant early-summer heat haze shimmered over the sea of satellite dishes.

Dave leaned on the south-facing wall, and beckoned me over when I didn’t join him. ‘C’mon, Fannybaws! Bloody well relax for half an hour!’

I trotted over obediently, only to be enveloped in an enormous hug on arrival. ‘Well done, kid,’ he said, into the top of my head. ‘You did so well. You’re going to blow Hugh’s arse away when he sees it.’ I lost myself in his stripy T-shirt for a few seconds.

‘Thanks. I needed a hug,’ I said, as I emerged. ‘Fuck knows how I haven’t lost my mind.’

‘Well, you didn’t,’ Dave said, ruffling my hair. ‘And
that’s even more to your credit. Live election shows and quirky documentaries are two pretty difficult things to juggle, Fannybaws. Particularly when you have shit to deal with elsewhere. There aren’t many people in this place who could’ve pulled that off. For a mentalist of your calibre it was an outstanding performance.’

‘Nonsense. I’m just a baby in comparison to most of the people here.’

Dave reached for my hand. ‘Not true. Look at me, Fran.’

I obeyed. He was smiling. ‘You really aced this, love. You should be so proud of yourself. And even if you’re not, I am!’

I grinned up at him. The afternoon sun was hitting him square on his right-hand side, picking out little auburn bits in his stubble. ‘Dave! No way! You’ve got a ginger beard!’ I got my mirror out of my bag.