Nine Uses For An Ex-Boyfriend (39 page)

Still, she was going to give it the old college try. ‘But that’s not fa—’

‘Eight o’clock tomorrow night at the York & Albany on Parkway. That’s my final offer,’ Wilson said. Then he had the nerve to hang up.

Hope knew that she could simply not turn up and then cobble together a story for Dorothy and Mr Gonzales that Wilson had refused to photograph the Balls Pond Primary
School’s
Winter Pageant during one of the busiest times of the year for absolutely no money. But then again, Wilson might want to do it, though ‘want’ was probably too strong a word. Maybe he needed pictures of grubby-faced children in home-made costumes pretending that they were trying out for
Britain’s Got Talent
. Stranger things had happened.

But the next evening, as Hope rushed to the gym to burn as many calories as she could in one hour, then rushed home to shower and change, she knew that the only reason she was going to meet Wilson was because she wanted to. In twenty-four hours’ time, she’d be getting ready to see the relationship counsellor to embark on a new and improved chapter in the
Book of Jack and Hope
, so this was her last night of freedom. Well, not freedom. It wasn’t as if Jack was the proverbial ball and chain, but there would be hard work involved. Hope was a bit vague on the details of what this hard work might involve, but she imagined a lot of intense talking about their future, and maybe they’d have to play some trust-building games, though she didn’t fancy the idea of falling backwards and hoping that Jack would catch her.

But tonight Hope didn’t have to work at all. She was going out to drink and flirt with a man who’d made no secret of the fact that he found her attractive and that if the circumstances were different, he’d probably want to have sex with her. More than once, and not just because there was nothing on telly and he’d completed all the levels on
Call of Duty: Black Ops
. She wasn’t hedging her bets. This wasn’t about making sure that Wilson was there as back-up in case Jack didn’t make it through even the first counselling session – it was just a little bit of light-hearted fun and she did
need
to ask Wilson about the Winter Pageant photographs.

As she was getting ready to leave, though, she succumbed to a last-minute fit of nerves or pangs of conscience; she couldn’t tell the difference.
Going for a quick drink with Wilson
to
talk about photographs for the Winter Pageant
, she texted Jack.
Is that OK? Hope xxx

Jack texted her back ten minutes later:
Cool. I’m working late on looks for the next cover shoot with Max & Celia. Honest! Jack x
He’d even attached a picture of Max,
Skirt
’s Editor at Large, and Celia, one of the fashion team, pointing at a clock and grinning. Hope knew that Jack was only trying to lighten things up, but she didn’t see anything remotely funny about the way he hadn’t been where he said he’d been for months and months. And she didn’t appreciate the way his colleagues were in on the joke either. It was only because she liked Celia and they’d bonded about being redheads at several
Skirt
parties that Hope wasn’t instantly suspicious that she and Jack were getting up to no good in the fashion cupboard. As it was, she was only a little bit suspicious, and that made it easy to decide that yes, she was going to go and meet Wilson for a drink and, God damn it, she was going to enjoy herself.

Hope even thrilled to the slight edge of nerves that made her jiggle from foot to foot as she looked through her wardrobe. Since Jeremy’s visit, not a single piece of chocolate or deep-fried anything had passed between her lips, and on the days when she couldn’t get to the gym, Hope tried to walk to and from work. She was too chicken to get on the scales, but her spare tyre seemed to be shrinking back down to a more manageable pot belly, and she could still get into her favourite winter dress – a black, empire-cut wool dress that ended mid-thigh – and thank God for black opaque tights, which hid a multitude of wobbly sins, and her black leather knee-high boots, which were unbearable to walk in until her toes went numb.

Inevitably the comb-out had only lasted a scant forty-eight hours, so Hope gathered her wild curls into a loose plait, then sat down to do her make-up with proper brushes, and blended eyeshadow and applied lip-liner and lipstick. The finished effect was spoiled somewhat by hat, gloves,
scarf
and the old faux-leopard fur coat that had been ratty when Hope first bought it eight years ago with her first student-loan cheque, and now looked as if it had a bad case of mange.

She had just enough time to hobble down to the Holloway Road to catch the bus to Camden, the slight edge of nerves now upgraded to a full-on wibble.

THE YORK & ALBANY WAS
situated in a beautiful John Nash building opposite Regent’s Park, and was a one-stop shop for fancypants organic living, featuring a hotel, two restaurants, a gourmet-food shop and the bar that Wilson had summoned her to. Even at the best of times, Hope hated meeting people in bars, because her mother always said that girls who went into licensed establishments on their own ran the risk of everyone thinking that they were prostitutes.

Hope was sure that the clientele of the York & Albany would think no such thing, ratty fur coat notwithstanding. They were too cool to do more than flick an eyelid in her general direction. The room was dominated by a huge, steel-topped bar with a dazzling array of bottles lined up behind it. She decided against one of the plush velvet bar stools in favour of a sofa tucked away in the corner so she could rubberneck the diners going in and out of the Angela Hartnett-helmed restaurant.

She’d barely had time to look at the menu when Wilson walked in. His concession to winter dressing was a bright-red cashmere scarf tucked into a leather jacket, which he began to unwind before catching sight of Hope.

‘You made it, then?’ he said, as he sat down beside her. She could feel the cold air still clinging to him, and shivered. ‘Wasn’t sure if you would.’

It was a new experience to go out with someone who
thought
she was an unknown quantity. Jack knew everything about her, which was usually comforting, but lately it made Hope wonder if she was boring and predictable. At least to Wilson, she still had novelty value. ‘There was nothing on telly,’ she explained with a grin, then held up the menu. ‘I was thinking we should be really decadent and have champagne cocktails.’

Wilson raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? Are we celebrating something?’

Tonight was absolutely not a celebration of anything. It was simply a drink between two sort-of friends, but Hope was determined to keep the mood light. ‘I just want to get you in a really good mood before I hit you up for a colossal favour,’ she said.

‘Can you afford champagne on a teacher’s salary?’ Wilson asked, and he didn’t even sound as if he was being rude, just doubtful that her credit was that good.

‘That’s why God invented overdrafts,’ Hope said, and Wilson laughed. It was the first time she’d heard him really properly laugh, apart from at Latitude when they’d seen someone offering phone-charging services for ten quid a pop, which he’d found absolutely hysterical. For about half a minute he stopped looking stern and had a glint in his eye and a mischievous cast to his features.

‘I’ll let you buy me one glass of champagne, the cheapest one,’ he said magnanimously. ‘Then I’m switching to whisky and I’m buying. End of.’

Hope, and her bank balance, were in no position to argue. She’d imagined that she’d get the big issue of the Winter Pageant photos out of the way immediately, but an hour and one champagne cocktail, two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and half a Rustic pizza later, she still hadn’t managed to spit it out.

For the first time in their short but fraught relationship, the conversation was flowing as easily as the alcohol. Wilson told her about his latest job, which involved photographing
sewage
stations for a magazine, until Hope begged him to stop because she hurt from laughing at his impersonation of Alfie getting out of the car and catching his first whiff of raw sewage.

‘Thought I’d become a photographer and it would be all glamour and shooting models in their undies and I end up driving to Didcot to photograph a sewage plant.’ Wilson shook his head. ‘Never told me about that at college. I bet your week hasn’t been as exciting as mine.’

That should have been Hope’s cue to ask about the photos, but then Wilson would say no and the evening might come to an abrupt end, so she found herself telling him about Blue Class’s plans for an
X Factor
-style judging panel to decide who’d perform their Lady Gaga medley.

‘So I told them that everyone would be performing, irrespective of their ability to bust a move.’ Hope rolled her eyes. ‘That’s what they call it. “But Miss, Stuart can’t bust a single move, and he’s going to ruin it for everyone, Miss.”’

‘Are they terrified you’re going to snatch back their stickers if they miss a step or fall behind the beat?’ Wilson asked.

By now, there was a huge expanse of sofa on either side of them and they were sitting at a slight angle to each other so they could make eye contact without getting a crick in the neck, their knees bumping and Wilson’s arm slung over the back of the sofa so his fingers could brush against Hope’s shoulder. They were the slightest and most incidental of touches, but each time it happened, Hope had to catch her breath and squeeze her thighs tight together to stop that pulse of longing, which was wrong – because Hope loved Jack and she was only just starting to like Wilson.

‘I think it’s safe to say that I’m on the way to being half cut, so it’s probably the right time to ask me to lend you a million quid,’ Wilson flicked the end of her plait. ‘Such an extraordinary colour,’ he said softly, as if he was talking to himself. ‘Have you ever thought of being a hair model?’

Things had been heading to a vaguely inappropriate place with the knee-bumping and the shoulder-brushing, but as soon as the words left Wilson’s mouth, Hope slapped his hand away from her hair and started to giggle.

It was the kind of thing that she imagined photographers said all the time to get into girls’ pants. Except Wilson had said ‘hair model’ as if it was really pushing the limits of all credibility to imply that Hope had the potential to be a proper model.

‘Does that line ever work?’ she asked, twisting away from him so she could flop back on the sofa cushions.

‘It wasn’t a line,’ Wilson protested. ‘Your hair’s almost the exact same shade as a … a … what is it?’ He clicked his fingers. ‘That’s it! A red setter.’

He sounded so proud of himself for comparing Hope to a dog that instead of being mortally offended, she shrieked with mirth. ‘A red setter?’ she repeated between giggles. ‘God, I should sue you for slander.’

‘Red setters are a beautiful colour. Seriously, I’d love to backlight you and then take some shots. What? What? Why are you laughing? I’m not trying to be funny.’

Hope flapped a hand at him. ‘Nice hair, shame about the face,’ she snorted. ‘Way to kick a girl when she’s down.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Wilson said as he tilted his head so he could give Hope one those intense looks that he’d probably copyrighted. ‘Actually, I suppose you are quite pretty even though your face is very asymmetrical.’

‘Oh God, please stop,’ Hope begged him, clutching her aching sides. ‘Everything you say is worse than the last thing you said.’

Wilson settled back down with an aggrieved sigh. ‘I’m never, ever going to pay you another compliment.’

‘Oh, you must. It really cheered me up,’ Hope told him, running the pads of her thumbs under her eyes to wipe away what was left of her mascara. And now that she’d stopped laughing and got Wilson to stop with the accidental
touches
and stroking, she really should get down to business. ‘So, this favour, well, compared to lending me a huge sum of money, it’s actually a really teensy favour,’ she began. ‘And I won’t be mad if you say no. In fact, feel free to say no.’

‘Believe me, if I want to say no, then I won’t have any problem with saying no.’ Wilson smiled when Hope scowled at him. ‘Come on, love, spit it out.’

‘It’s this stupid pageant. Mr Gonzales, the head, and Dorothy, who’s head of the infant school and a grade-one pain in my arse, seem to think you have nothing better to do with your time than take photos of the whole shebang and do it for absolutely no charge.’ Hope tipped her head back in annoyance and felt Wilson’s hand warm against the back of her neck again. ‘So, anyway, I can honestly say that I’ve asked you now. It was really cheeky of them.’