Meet Clara Andrews: A totally vacuous girl with a hangover... (3 page)

After embarrassingly confirming that no, I don’t have a boyfriend, we eat the rest of our food in uncomfortable silence. Well uncomfortable on my behalf anyway, Oliver seems blissfully happily tucking into his meaty burger, totally oblivious of the humongous elephant in the room. I finish my sandwich and fight the urge to wrestle a spring onion out of a back tooth. Watching Oliver practically wipe his plate clean, I wonder why I let this man bother me so much. I mean, he is only a guy, a very handsome, American, asshole of a guy but still.

‘All finished?’ The waitress is back and whips away our used plates with a flourish, quickly replacing them with a very tempting dessert menu.

‘Can I get you anything more to drink while you look over the dessert menu?’

‘Can I get another sparkling water please?’

She turns her attention to Oliver.

‘Actually, can I get a Guinness?’

She makes a quick squiggle in a tiny notepad and marches off with our plates piled high.

‘A Guinness?’ I ask in confusion.

‘Well, when in Rome.’ He gives me wink and snatches the dessert menu of the table.

‘Erm, you know that Guinness is Irish, don’t you?’ I suppress a smile and dig to the bottom of my bag for my phone. He shrugs, nonplussed and leans back in his seat, stretching his arms over his head.

‘I think I’m going to take the chocolate fudge brownie. If you’re gonna do it wrong, do it right.’ He flicks the laminated menu across the table at me. I push it immediately back to him.

‘I’m actually quite full to be honest and it’s only just gone 12!’ I say with a frown.

‘Oh don’t be such a party pooper!’

I catch his eye and smile as the waitress appears back at our table with our drinks.

‘Have you guys decided?’

‘Yes, we have! Can we get the chocolate fudge brownie please? Two spoons.’

Before I have chance to protest, the waitress speeds off, menus tucked under her arm. Two spoons? Why has he asked for two spoons? Two spoons make it look like a date. We’re not on a date! Oh God! This is weird and feels kind of inappropriate. When Marc said to take him for brunch, I’m pretty sure he meant a quick sandwich and a lot of work talk. I can’t even imagine going back and telling him we have shared a chocolate brownie and washed it down with a pint of Guinness.

I don’t even know what is going to happen today. I’ve not heard anything from Marc since our phone call before. I need to speak to him and find out what is going on. I chuck my phone into my handbag and stand up.

‘I’m just going to nip outside and make a phone call. I won’t be a minute.’

Oliver smiles and takes a big gulp of Guinness. I hope he doesn’t want another one. I can’t take him back pissed. I work my way through the restaurant and out into the beer garden. Taking a seat on the nearest bench, I grab my phone and speed dial Marc. It rings for what feels like an eternity before clicking through to his voicemail. I hang up, biting my lip in frustration and take out my compact mirror. I touch up my lipstick and reach for my concealer as my phone rings.

‘Hi, Clara,’ Rebecca’s sing song tones come down the line.

‘Hi, Rebecca. How are things going over there?’

‘A little better, things have calmed down now. Mr. Morgan’s work permit has been submitted successfully, so there’s no need to worry.’

‘Excellent. We have nearly finished up here, so should we head back over to the office?’

‘That’s actually why I am calling. Marc is tying up some loose ends with the Ethereal order, but it might take a little while longer. He has asked that you take a half day and inform Mr. Morgan that we will postpone the introduction meeting until Monday morning.’ 

Half day? It’s not very often that Marc throws the term half day around.

‘OK,’ I respond slowly. Half delighted at the prospect of an early finish, half concerned as to what Marc’s motive is in letting us go.

‘I have rescheduled the meeting for 10.30 Monday. You should receive an email confirming all the details.’

‘That’s great, Rebecca. See you Monday.’ I end the call and toss my phone into my handbag before heading back into the restaurant.

As I approach our table, I notice a huge plate of chocolaty goodness and two huge bloody dessert spoons. I drop down into my seat and down my drink.

‘Well, good news. Marc has had some drama with a big order that is going to take up the majority of today, but he has insisted that we talk a half day and reconvene Monday morning.’

‘Excellent. You can join me in a Guinness then.’ He winks and passes me one of the spoons.

I think about it for a second before accepting it and scooping up a huge mound of the delicious looking cake. God, it’s yummy! I hope I’m not getting it all over my face. I suddenly wonder if this is pushing the boundaries of a healthy working relationship. I mean, should I really be getting butterflies in my stomach whilst sharing a chocolate cake with a Guinness swigging American designer?

I catch the eye of our waitress and signal for the bill, taking another few scoops of cake for good measure. I watch Oliver down the rest of his stout and finish off the last of the dessert, wondering what to do with my afternoon off.

‘Any plans for the weekend?’ I ask, trying to act nonchalant.

‘I do, as a matter of fact. I have a hell of a lot of sleep to catch up on. Oh and not forgetting my hot date on Sunday with Melissa.’

Hot date? I feel an overwhelming coldness and try not to look bothered.

‘Oh,’ I try my best to plaster a smile onto my face, but I’m not convinced it quite meets my eyes. What is wrong with me? I seriously need to get a grip and fast.

‘Yeah, Melissa. Melissa the fifty something realtor. She is helping me find a place.’

Realtor? Isn’t that American terminology for estate agent? In spite of myself I feel a swell of relief. He laughs wickedly and snatches the bill that has magically appeared on our table. I dig out my business credit card and make a grab for it.

‘This ones on me, Clara.’ He produces a battered, leather wallet and drops down some notes.

‘Absolutely not! This is on Suave as a welcome to the company.’ I insist.

‘Nope, I’ll get this one and you can treat me to dinner sometime and repay the favour.’

Blushing a ridiculous shade of purple, I decide it best not to argue.

‘Thank you very much. It has been a pleasure and I am very much looking forward to working with you at Suave.’ I flash him what I hope is my most professional smile and lean under the table for my handbag.

We thank the waitress and leave the restaurant, walking back in the direction of Suave headquarters. As we approach the car park, I notice Oliver dig a set of keys out of his back pocket and unlock a top of the range Audi A5. Very nice. He opens the door and throws his bag onto the passenger seat. I catch his eye for a second too long and force myself to look away.

‘Well, Clara Andrews, I shall see you Monday morning.’

‘See you Monday, Oliver Morgan.’

Friday afternoon is pretty uneventful to say the least. After my brunch with Oliver, I head straight to Sainsbury’s to do my weekly food shop. As I push the trolley up and down the aisles, I wonder when I became so old and boring. For a split second, I consider calling Lianna and arranging a last minute trip to Cosmo for a night of cocktails and fun, but the lure of a Taste the Difference ready meal and a few classes of Rioja wins me over.

I continue working my way through the rows of yummy food, stopping occasionally to throw the odd thing into my trolley. Red wine, Kettle Chips, a selection of ready meals and the odd bag of Florette. How original. I make my way to the checkout and wait in line, stacking my items in neat piles. My attention is drawn to a couple at the checkout to my left. I can’t help but think what a beautiful family they make. Both are olive skinned and dressed immaculately, even with a burgeoning baby bump. I feel a twinge of jealousy.

At the ripe old age of twenty seven, I have never had a long term relationship. Not that I haven’t had the opportunity, I have had more dates than I can care to remember. I just always seem to find something missing. Either they are nice, but a bit too nice, or rich but a flashy bastard. Something always seems to stop me from making that final commitment. I pay for my shopping and head back to the car.

All the way home, I keep imagining myself with a baby bump. Hair tied up in a perfect chignon, pulling up next to a white picket fence and being greeting by my beautiful husband. The immaculate picture of the American Dream. Before I can stop it, Oliver pops into my head, helping me from the car with arms full of groceries. I feel my heart jump and physically shake my head to erase the image. Get a grip Clara.

By 8.30 that evening I have polished off a crab linguine for one and sunk a good half bottle of white Rioja. Feeling rather satisfied and content, I decide to run a bubble bath and lose myself in a book.  Filling the bath dangerously high and chucking in a couple of bath bombs, I perch on the edge of the tub and watch them fizzing away. I head back into the bedroom and gather some essentials. Throwing a face mask, book and vanilla Yankee candle onto a towel, I pad back into the bathroom.

Sinking down into the bubbles, I feel every muscle in my body relax. I love being in the bath. I lay there for a minute, enjoying the hot water soothing me from head to toe. Before I fall asleep, I grab my face mask and apply a thick layer onto my t-zone, cheeks and chin. Once happy that I have covered all the troublesome areas, I pick up my book and take a sip of wine. This is the life, I think to myself. All that’s missing is a hunky hubby waiting for me in the other room and maybe a fluffy dog. I’ve always wanted a dog.

Just as I am sinking back into the tub and opening my book, I am disturbed by the high pitched pinging of my mobile. I bet its Marc. I haven’t even spoken more than a few words to Marc in the past few days. I know he is busy at the minute sending out the spring/summer lines, but a night of gossip and wine is way overdue. I dry my hands on a towel and reach down for my phone. It’s a number I don’t recognise, not Marc then. I double tap the flashing icon and the message springs open.

Nice meeting you Wednesday. If you are still up for that drink, give me a shout. George x

I stare at my phone in quiet confusion. They must have the wrong number, I conclude. I debate replying and informing them, but decide it best not to rub salt in the wound. Before putting my phone back down, I go to my playlist and hit play. After enjoying a couple of John Legend tracks, I go back to my book. I must be two chapters in when the playlist comes to the end and automatically connects to the radio. Before I have chance to dry my hands and jab at the off button, Happy by Pharrell screams out of the speakers.

I have a flashback to Wednesday night and let out a little giggle. As horrible as the hangover was, we did have a really good night. I suddenly remember Cosmo and Velvet Bar before ending up in the Bubble Club after a few too many tequilas. I remember laughter and dancing and eww, a dodgy kebab. I smile to myself and open the photo album on my phone. Why do selfies seem a good idea whilst paralytic, when in reality you look like a violated duck? I flick through the pictures, deleting the vast majority which are far from flattering. Me, Lianna, me and Lianna, Lianna and Marc, Marc and Gina – bleurgh. Marc is such a tart.

I’m working my way through the rest, hitting delete repeatedly until I come to a blurry photo of me and Lianna at the bar. It would actually be a good picture if it wasn’t so blurred. We are leaning over the bar with our arms around the bar tender. He looks strangely familiar. I squint at his name badge and can just about make it out. George? Or is it Greg? He looks more of a George, I decide before closing the album and pressing off on the radio function. I reach for my shower gel and I’m just about to start lathering up when a thought hits me. I make a grab for my phone and open the messages folder, my heart pounding. I re-read the message in disbelief,

Nice meeting you Wednesday. If you are still up for that drink, give me a shout. George x

No! It can’t be! I would remember giving someone my phone number, surely? My mind flits back to the tequila slammers, maybe not. I must read the message ten times over before locking the screen and throwing it down onto my towel. Maybe it said Greg after all.

After a night of tossing and turning, Saturday morning comes way too soon. Why does it bother me so much that a single twenty seven year old would dare to leave her number with a potential suitor, I really don’t know.

I’m still feeling uneasy as I fry my bacon for breakfast a couple of hours later. Buttering my toast I tell myself to forget about it. I mean, I’m not going to text him back or anything so why am I letting it bother me so much? I suddenly feel much better. I’ll just ignore the message and pretend I never received it.

Taking my bacon sandwich and coffee, I prop myself up at the kitchen island and load up the Daily Mail on my laptop. Dipping my sandwich into a mound of brown sauce, I click onto the showbiz section. I am watching a tutorial on how to achieve a smokey eye when the land line rings. Licking the remnants of brown sauce from my fingers, I make a run for the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi Clara, it’s me.’

‘Oh, hi Marc,’ I respond happily, glad to finally hear from him.

‘Sorry I’ve not been in touch much his week. It’s been mayhem with getting the spring/summer lines out, not to mention all the crap with Oliver’s work permit. I don’t suppose you fancy a takeout later? I’ll bring the wine?’

I feel my stomach drop at the mention of Oliver’s name and twirl my hair around my fingers excitedly.

‘Well, I was kind of looking forward to a pedicure followed by a night of consuming my weight in Ben ‘n’ Jerry’s on my lonesome, but seeing as it is you.’

‘I’ll be with you at seven.’

He hangs up and I click the phone into its holster by the stairs. I head back into the kitchen and put my empty plate into the dishwasher before settling down on the couch to finish my coffee. I’m actually quite excited to see Marc later. It must be over two weeks since I have seen him out of working hours. Well, apart from Wednesday nights ‘team building’ tequila session. I shudder at the thought of tequila. I am suddenly reminded about the text message and push it to the back of my mind. Along with all thoughts of tequila.

After an hour or so of the Eastenders omnibus, I decided I should probably do something productive with my day and push myself to my feet. Dragging the laundry basket down the stairs, I begin sorting piles of black and white fabric. Once I have stuffed them into the washing machine with a big dollop of fabric softener, I carry the basket back to the bedroom and flop down on the bed. Maybe I’ll just rest my eyes for a few minutes. I mean, if you can’t nap on a weekend, when can you?

What time is it? Peeling my face off my pillow, I try to focus my eyes.  The alarm clock on my bedside flashes 5.40pm. How have I slept for this long? Stretching out my arms and legs, I let out a yawn and roll onto my back. I hop off the bed and change into my onesie, pulling my hair into a messy bun on top of my head. After unloading the washing machine onto the clothes maiden, I pour out some Kettle Chips and olives into bowls before digging out some take out menus and pouring myself a glass of wine. God, I heart lazy weekends. Sleeping really is my favourite thing to do. I must be sat down all of five minutes when there’s a knock at the door. I put down my glass and skip down the hall.

‘Hello! How are you?’ I sing, pulling him in for a hug.

‘What’s with the onesie? I hope you haven’t been in that all day,’ he wrinkles his nose in disgust. What is it with men and not understanding the onesie?

‘Here, take these,’ He hands over 3 bottles of Rioja and shakes off his Superdry jacket, throwing it down on the couch.

‘Good day?’ I ask, pouring him a glass of wine and dumping the rest in the fridge to cool.

‘Meh, you?’ He takes the glass and has a big gulp.

‘I actually haven’t done anything! I did a load of washing and then had an epic five hour nap.’

‘You seriously sleep more than a sloth,’ he throws a cushion at me and picks up the menus.

‘What are we having? Chinese? Indian?’

‘I actually thought we could get some pizza? There’s that new Italian in the precinct...’ I trail off at the look of repulsion plastered on Marc’s face.

‘Indian then?’

‘Indian,’ he confirms, opening the menu.

I grab a notepad off the table and drop it onto his lap.

‘How was it with Oliver yesterday anyway? The girls over at HR said he was a complete sleaze. I hope he didn’t give you too much trouble?’

‘No, no trouble. Don’t get me wrong, he has an ego the size of Texas, but I like to think I can handle myself,’ I respond, trying to hide my smile.

‘Why are you smiling like that?’

Obviously, I didn’t try hard enough.

‘Smiling like what? Am I not allowed to smile?’ I laugh.

‘Not like that no! Seriously Clara, don’t even go there. The guy is an asshole. I mean it,’ he scowls at me for a second too long before going back to his menu.

I decide to drop the Oliver talk as a grumpy Marc is no fun.

‘Have you decided what you’re having? Should we get starters?’ I ask, crossing my legs and getting comfortable.

‘Obviously. I’m going for the chicken tikka starter and a chicken balti.’ He passes me the menu and kicks off his shoes.

I should have known, to say Marc is a creature of habit would be putting it mild to say the least. He has never gone for anything else, despite insisting on studying the menu each and every time. I pick up the phone and head into the kitchen to place the order. I love our local curry house, but the fact that they know my name as soon as I say hi does make me question my takeout habit.

Order successfully placed, I head back into the living room, grabbing a bottle of wine from the rack as I go. I fill up our glasses and curl up on the sofa.

‘So, Gina?’ I ask mischievously.

‘What about her?’ He responds, not looking me in the eye.

‘I thought you two were an item after Wednesday night?’ I make a face and take a sip of wine.

‘God no. You can talk anyway,’ he retorts with a chuckle.

‘What are you on about?’

‘Errr, barman?’

I feel my cheeks flush and try to disguise my embarrassment with a laugh.

‘What barman?’

‘Oh ok, like that is it. Selective memory loss?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ and I honestly don’t. All I know is that I have a picture of a cute barman on my phone and an open ended text message. Maybe I am being too uptight, I mean what’s the worst can happen? If Marc can sleep his way around the entire country, I’m pretty sure one quick text message can’t hurt, can it?