Talk to Me (6 page)

Scowling, I pulled myself out of my seat as we drew into Waterloo. It wasn’t that I harboured any feelings for the bastard. It was the deceit. Would I have ever known if I hadn’t caught him? Never once had it occurred to me that there might be a Tracey waiting for him at home at the end of every term. I was, inadvertently, the other woman. Me! That was the ultimate irony. Fidelity ranked number one on my list of relationship prerequisites and another reason that made anything with Daniel impossible. He was Emily’s now.

I weaved my way along the platform heading up to the mainline station feeling depressed and cross with myself. Time to change things. I would go out for that drink with Ned. I ought to give him a chance, after all, three minutes was hardly any time at all and look at Piers and Lucy now.

When I left the flat at six the next morning, I felt decidedly groggy. I hadn’t slept well. I’d had one of those bizarre dreams that feels as if it’s lasted all night. My subconscious had run riot and conjured up one unlikely scenario after another, taking place in an airport, a junior school and a garden shed respectively. Throughout I’d been married to Mike, phoning Daniel with whom I was having an affair that Mike knew all about and had Anthony – crossword man from the speed-date – camped out in the garden shed waiting for me to run off with him to go and live on a canal boat moored beside a flour mill. I blamed Kate for stirring things up.

When she texted me at Junction 29 on the M1, I’d just refuelled the car and myself. The Starbucks coffee had worked its magic and I almost felt human. The text finished the job nicely.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. Lots o love K x’

Kate and I didn’t do touchy feely very often, but I shouldn’t have snapped at her. Now that she was living in Australia, I missed her desperately. In only another two weeks she’d be flying back again. I could never stay miffed with her for long and at the moment it was even harder. Besides she could always bully me into forgiving her.

Coming off the motorway just outside Derby, I got horribly lost which made me late for my meeting, but I texted Kate back anyway before I went in.

‘Forgiven, forgiven, forgiven. Love O x’

With the message sent, I switched off my phone. It had been beaten into me by one boss that it was totally unprofessional to have a mobile ring during a client meeting.

The meeting with three burly site managers who smelt of mud and sweat went on and on. I wasn’t offered anything to eat apart from some manky Nice biscuits. Tasty when you’re eight but disappointing when you need lunch.

On the journey home I was also regretting not stopping to go to the loo, but there had only been a men’s Portaloo on the building site and at that point I wasn’t that desperate. By four o’clock my misery was compounded by the traffic lady on Radio 5. I was ready to kill her. Did she really have to be so perky about a major hold up on the M1? I didn’t need to be told there was a ten-mile tailback. Any fool could see the red brake lights stretching out as far as the eye could see.

Should I send her a rude text message? Less chirpiness, please. Some of us are stuck in said traffic with a bladder the size of a basketball. Then I remembered my phone was still switched off.

Rummaging in my bag, with half an eye on the stationary traffic, I pulled it out and switched it on. It lay silent and still for a second before vibrating into life with great indignation. Three texts and six messages later, the phone shuddered to a halt.

Message one was mild. ‘Olivia, it’s me. I’ve had an email,’ wailed Emily. ‘Can you call me, please?’

Message two a little more agitated. ‘Olivia, call as soon as you get this.’

Message three was a curt. ‘Call me now.’

By the sixth message she’d reached full frontal expletives. ‘For God’s sake, where are you? What’s the point of having a fucking phone if you don’t fucking switch it on?’

What the hell was going on? I was about to phone her back when I caught sight of the driver behind. He shook his head so slightly that I might have imagined it, except he was driving a dirty great police car. I dropped the phone back on the passenger seat, my fingers twitching longingly but there was nothing I could do.

My battery died an hour later. Two minutes after that, on went the blue light and Mr Policeman shot off. Typical.

By the time I’d crawled off the M1 and through the London rush hour traffic, I was exhausted. A showdown with Emily was the last thing I needed. Grabbing my briefcase and rubbing the knots in my shoulder, I hurried towards the flat, nearly tripping over Charlie.

As usual he was lurking outside the front of the junk shop below the flat. It was a funny little place, crammed full of second-hand furniture and the sort of things that might have been antiques had they not been just a bit too tatty, chipped or broken. Although my flat was directly above the shop, the space below far exceeded the square footage of my lounge, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. It spread out along the street from room to room, none of which could be differentiated by any particular theme or style of products. On my occasional forays in there, I’d never seen a single other customer.

Charlie was probably waiting to follow his owner to the home they shared further down the road. He was a friendly little thing, pure black apart from two white paws, always purring a welcome whenever I came home.

I stopped to stroke him, as he wound his way round and round my legs, his tail tickling the back of my knee. I could have done with cheering up, and if it weren’t for Emily I would have smuggled him in for a cuddle, but she said she was allergic to cats.

Although we were on the first floor above the shop, our front door was at street level, which meant you stepped into a long hallway that then led to a flight of stairs. Unfortunately the stairs rose straight into the lounge. There was no way of sneaking in without being seen.

Brazening it out was the only way. ‘Hi, Em, are you home?’ I yelled. With any luck she might not be in.

‘Didn’t you get my message?’ she said, appearing at the top of the steps, hands on hips in warrior stance.

‘Which one?’ I asked sarcastically, taking the stairs slowly. ‘I couldn’t phone you. The motorway was hell and I had a policeman up my bum nearly all the way back. Then my battery ran out.’ I might as well have been talking to myself.

‘God, what am I going to do?’ she wailed.

Reaching the top, I put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Whoa, slow down, Emily. What’s happened?’

Her mouth crumpled and she looked as if she was about to burst into tears. ‘Disaster. Damn speed-date business. I only bloody ticked the wrong frigging box. That saddo … you know, the one with the glasses, has emailed me.’

I sighed, slipping off my jacket, the tension easing out of my shoulders. No one had died then.

‘Which one?’ I cast my mind back.

‘The one with the knackered glasses.’

A few had worn glasses. I still couldn’t think which one. The guy with the red hair? The insurance one? And then I remembered.

‘You mean the glasses with the tape?’ I said, his image suddenly clicking into view as I perched on the edge of the armchair looking up at Emily. The metal frames had been held together with silver insulating tape.

‘Yes, him,’ she said vehemently, striding over to the magazine-laden coffee table. ‘He emailed me this morning. I can’t believe I ticked the wrong box. He’s weird!’

‘He seemed harmless enough. Have you replied to him?’

‘Duh, no!’ She slapped her forehead to make her point. ‘Look at this.’ Tipping a magazine off the table she pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and thrust it at me.

-----Original Message-----

From: Peter Cooper [mailto:[email protected]]

To: ‘Emily’

Subject: Dinner

Dear Emily

I knew when your email address was passed on to me that you must have felt that special connection between us. I was surprised at first. I have to admit your hair is not quite what I envisioned in my perfect mate. I normally prefer girls with shorter styles, but as you appear to have character enough to recognise my worth, I can overlook something that can, after all, be changed.

Let’s meet for dinner. Email me back with your preferred dates this week and a suggested venue. If it’s appropriate I will book a table for two. I look forward to hearing from you.

Peter

‘Blimey, he’s sure of himself.’ I handed the sheet of paper back to her. ‘Are you positive it was the little Tom Cruise lookalike? He was a bit wimpy. This guy sounds full on.’ Although the male chauvinism rang true.

‘Olivia, you’re not listening to me. I didn’t tick his box. He’s labouring under a delusion. Cheek, he doesn’t like my hair.’ She tossed her head. ‘I didn’t like anything about him. I was only humouring him.’

‘Really?’ I asked, wandering past her down to the kitchen. I needed a drink. Remembering Peter now, I was surprised. Knowing Emily and how rude she could be, how could he have possibly thought she might be interested? Had the kitten voice misled him?

‘What on earth did you talk to him about that night?’ I called from the kitchen back to the lounge. ‘Something must have struck a chord.’

Emily’s feet padded down the hall. ‘Knitting,’ she said, spitting the word out with disgust as she came into the room.

‘Right,’ I said, before asking with a puzzled frown, ‘Why?’

She rolled her eyes as if it was obvious. ‘His home knitted tank top was so vile, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say … then I had a brainwave. Last month’s
Marie Claire
had an article about knitting being back in vogue.’

‘Do you want a glass?’ I interrupted, waving a bottle of wine at her.

‘Do you need to ask?’ She carried on, ‘I just regurgitated everything the article said about Fair Isle patterns. He lapped it up. I was taking the piss. Surely he didn’t believe me. I told him he was dead trendy and retro.’

‘You didn’t?’ I exclaimed, turning to face her.

‘For God’s sake, Olivia, he was awful. He was never hand-picked by your cousin. As if any of us would look twice at him.’

‘Emily,’ I remonstrated, pulling the cork out with a satisfying plop.

She was right but at least I’d tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Those three minutes were hard work. When my penguin buzzed, all I knew was that he worked with computers.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ She wouldn’t have felt a grain of remorse.

‘So what shall I do?’

I was dying to say, ‘Tell him he’s got you all wrong’ but I decided against it. ‘He sounds intense but harmless. You should be flattered you made such an impression.’

‘Hardly, his comments about my hair weren’t great. Talk about weeeirrd.’

‘Emily, it’s just an email.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s not as if we signed a contract. Just ignore it, although it seems a bit rude. Why not send him a nice chatty reply? Nice to meet him but you don’t feel ready for a relationship at the moment.’

Emily looked blank. Gentle let-downs weren’t her style.

‘It’s very irritating,’ she said grumpily. ‘I wanted to meet the film guy again. I hope there hasn’t been a mix-up.’

I glanced at her sharply. She knew my feelings on fidelity.

‘Not as a date,’ she blustered. ‘He has great contacts. You know for work. By the way, your mum phoned. You need to phone her back before eight o’clock.’

‘I’d better call her now then,’ I said looking at my watch, grabbing my wine glass and scurrying up the hall.

‘Have you spoken to your sister recently?’ Mum was a great one for caller ID. It did away with any of that boring old ‘being polite’ preamble.

I tucked my glass of wine conveniently between my knees.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I said sarcastically. ‘I’m fine. How are you?’

‘Sorry, dear. I was waiting for you to call. When did you last speak to Kate?’

‘I saw her last night. Why?’

There was a pause before Mum spoke. ‘Did she seem all right to you?’

‘Fine. Possibly even more bossy than usual.’

‘I’m not sure she’s quite herself at the moment.’ Mum sounded distracted, as if she was thinking of something else. ‘I did try to talk to her, but she bit my head off. Can you give her a call? Make sure she’s OK.’

‘Sure, Mum. It could be that she’s just missing Greg.’

‘I don’t think so, darling. I don’t think it’s all that serious. She never mentions him and I’ve never heard her call him.’

Mum had no idea about Facebook, MSN or Twitter and was no doubt oblivious to Kate using any or all of them to contact Greg. No point trying to even explain, she had enough trouble with texting.

‘Now, Olivia, darling, I need to talk to you about …’

The rest of the conversation was taken up by who was doing what at the Old Bodgers’ match. It was agreed that I would do teas – as I did every year – which involved making copious amounts of sandwiches and buttering a scone mountain while Mum would be in charge of the evening barbecue. Apparently Dad was getting very excited about the forthcoming match and thanks to some sneaky recruiting had found some brilliant Aussie bowler. He was already counting his wickets.

The reception at Organic PR is manned by Piranha One and Piranha Two. I don’t bother learning their names any more as they are replaced by updated identikit models every couple of months. Whatever that job ad promises, it must be a pack of lies because they never last long. The necessary qualifications must include a rigid expression – or they’re paid in Botox treatments – a distant superior manner and the ability to wither plants at ten paces with one icy look.

Yet all of them have this unnerving ability to morph into a human being the minute they spot an important client or a board director. Forget asking them to order a courier – which I believe is part of a receptionist’s duties. From the twitch of their immaculate lips – so much Botox they don’t curl any more – you’d think that you’d asked them whether their Prada handbags came from Next.

As Emily and I crossed the hall to the lifts, carrying hot drinks we’d picked up from Starbucks next door, Piranha One lifted her head and said in clear cutting tones, ‘Emily! Could you explain to your boyfriend that we are not here to pass on personal messages to staff? And remind him that our email is working perfectly.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I think you heard,’ and with that she turned back to her wordsearch hidden below the desk.

‘She is so bloody rude,’ Emily seethed. ‘How much longer has she got?’

‘Another six weeks of that one. Time’s nearly up for Piranha Two. What was she on about? I thought Daniel always phoned your mobile?’

‘Haven’t a clue. Probably got me muddled up with Emily Parr in Accounts.’

I’d just sat down at my desk, prised the lid off my hot chocolate and fired up my computer when a grumpy-faced Emily appeared in front of me.

‘Olivia, I’ve had another bloody email.’ Scowling she stomped back to her desk.

I followed. Peering over her shoulder I read …

-----Original Message-----

From: Peter Cooper [mailto:[email protected]]

To: ‘Emily’

Subject: Tardiness

Dear Emily

I emailed you yesterday and I haven’t heard back from you. I was worried you never got my email. Your receptionist tells me, however, that this is unlikely and that your system is very reliable. (She’s rather abrupt for one in her position.)

However I wasn’t confident she knew what she was doing so I popped in to ensure that she had checked properly. A proper little madam but that’s so many women for you. Knowing you as I do, I’m sure there’s a good explanation as to why you haven’t answered my first email. That stupid female on the front desk was covering up her own incompetence
 …

Oo er and yikes.

‘He popped in!’ My voice went up. ‘No wonder the Piranhas were ruder than normal.’

‘Bloody cheek. How dare he?’ exploded Emily. ‘Who does he think he is? Checking up on me? He can piss off.’

‘Emily, calm down. There’s obviously been a mix-up. Poor chap. Thought Santa had done a personal delivery when he heard you’d ticked his box.’

‘I didn’t tick his sodding box! I’ve a good mind to ring your cousin. Get him to explain the cock-up to this Peter.’ She was pacing furiously up and down in front of my desk, oblivious to the curious looks she was getting.

‘As far as he’s concerned you did tick the box,’ I said gently.

‘Well, I didn’t,’ she roared at me. ‘I’m going to email him. How the hell did he find out where I worked?’

Er hello, a quick Google on the web and Facebook and he could have found Emily and where she worked in seconds. Peter didn’t need to be Einstein to work out her email address.

‘Emily, just let him down gently,’ I pleaded. ‘Imagine how he feels.’ In this mood there was no knowing what response she would fire off.

‘I was hardly going to email, “Piss off you loony and don’t darken my inbox again”, was I?’

Actually, I wouldn’t put it past her. She wasn’t renowned for her subtlety. ‘Just do the standard-nice-girl fob-off, “you’re-far-too-good-for-me-and-I-just-want-to-be-fair-to-you.”’

She looked at me quizzically.

I heaved a big sigh. ‘Do you want me to do it?’ It was the only way to stop her upsetting him or so I thought.

‘Would you? You’re so much better at that sort of thing.’

I rolled my eyes. She was the one that wrote press releases about magical lipsticks staying put for forty-eight hours, when everyone knew they’d never pass the ‘one swig of a Bacardi Breezer’ test.

We went over to her desk and plonking myself in her chair, I started typing.

‘Should it be, “Hi Peter” or “Dear Peter”?’

‘Try “Oy Weirdo”. Works for me.’

‘Ever considered a career in the diplomatic corps?’ My sarcasm was wasted.

Emily looked blank. ‘I couldn’t give a toss. We just need to get rid of him.’

I blinked at the casual ‘we’ but let it go. It was easier for me to get on and compose a gentle but firm rejection email explaining that ‘I’ wasn’t ready for a relationship just at the moment.

Emily tutted and tossed her head throughout. Every time I asked her opinion she pursed her mouth. Half an hour later, after much negotiation, I had an email that we were satisfied with. Emily pressed the magic ‘send’ button.

‘Happy now?’ she asked.

God, she could be a pain. If we weren’t sharing a flat, I would have stuffed the keyboard down her throat. Instead I went back to my cold hot chocolate and a curt voicemail message. My usually mild-mannered boss, Max, was pissed off. Where was I? Thanks to Emily I was five minutes late for a client meeting.

By lunchtime I’d eaten my home-made sarnie. In fact it had gone before eleven. I needed something else; something nutritious and filling like a pack of Marks & Spencer’s Percy Pigs.

I set out down Oxford Street with good intentions, but the minute I got to Marks my stomach took charge, making outrageous demands and before I knew it my basket had mysteriously been filled with essentials like feta stuffed olives, pastrami bagel chips, and chocolate-covered peanuts.

If I hadn’t been so absorbed in my Percy Pigs I might have been paying more attention as I shouldered my way through the damp crowds, dodging umbrella spokes on the way back to the office. Someone rushing by shoved me sharply and glancing up I caught a fleeting impression of glasses mended with electrical tape. Whipping my head around, I tried to get a second look but whoever it was had vanished in the flow of people undulating around me. Bloody Emily and her emails. Now I had Peter on the brain … and a wet neck, as I barged into an umbrella knocking a torrent of water down my collar.

I planned to sneak into the office hiding the telltale bag under my coat to avoid the universal chorus of ‘I wish you’d said that you were going’. I needn’t have worried – my entrance went completely unnoticed. An excited crowd was gathered around Emily’s desk. Had some major coup in the beauty world happened while I was out?

‘What’s all the excitement?’ I asked, as Helene, a junior on Emily’s team, bustled by importantly.

‘Miranda Baker has just said she’d do it,’ she gushed. ‘It’s a real coup.’

The mind boggled. Just what was it that Miranda had agreed to do? The ex-star of one of those teen soaps, she was one of those irritating minor celebrities who popped up everywhere and pretty much did everything.

‘Do what?’ I asked.

‘Miranda has agreed to wear our dress at the premiere of the new James Bond film,’ burbled Helene. ‘We’re so chuffed. It’s amazing.’

I glanced quickly at her. What dress? What premiere?

I hadn’t heard anything about this before. I glanced over at Emily’s blonde head, pennies dropping at speed.

‘For the Luscious Lips launch by any chance?’ I asked.

‘That’s right. It was Emily’s idea. Isn’t it amazing? We’re having an amazing dress made especially for Miranda.’ Helene’s eyes shone with enthusiasm.

I couldn’t resist saying, ‘That’s amazing.’

She didn’t bat an eyelid, instead she leaned forward confidingly and said, ‘Do you know … the dress is going to be white with big lip prints all of over it.’

‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘Each one will be in the new season’s colours.’

‘Yes!’ squealed Helene, squeezing her hands together.

‘Amazing,’ I said cuttingly this time.

‘Emily is so clever.’ Helene was almost skipping with excitement.

Wasn’t she just? Although it wasn’t that long ago, on a car journey along the M4 no less, that Emily had thought the very same idea clichéd. I looked over at her, surrounded by an adoring crowd. She looked up and caught my eye.

Some people might have had the grace to look sheepish. Not Emily. She just looked at me defiantly. Shocked, more by the insolence of her expression than anything else, I turned away and went back to my desk.

I realised that it wasn’t that much of a surprise, Emily presenting the idea as hers. She did tend to cut corners, and if she could get away with something she would. I remember her once walking out of Topshop with a dress accidentally tucked under her arm, which she didn’t realise she’d done until we were half way down Oxford Street. Funny that, and I might have believed it was an oversight if she hadn’t spent ages cooing over the dress, pouting when I reminded her she still had her half of the electricity bill to pay. Funny too, I said, that the security tag hadn’t gone off, to which she’d responded that there’d been men working on the electrics at the door.

No, honesty and Emily didn’t sit that well together.

Ignoring everyone else I busied myself at my desk, pressing the send and receive button on my email several times, hoping somewhere out there in the ether there was a message that needed an urgent response or something to keep me very busy for the afternoon. Nothing appeared in my inbox.

Emily found me as I emerged from a cubicle in the ladies later that afternoon. She was leaning against one of the sinks. I nodded, letting her do all the talking.

She threw her hands above her head dramatically.

‘All right, Olivia, it’s a fair cop,’ she said defensively, the old chestnuts glibly tripping off her tongue. ‘Blow the whistle, if you want, but you do know that there’s no such thing as a new idea.’

I said nothing.

Looking into my face, she said in a low urgent voice, ‘Look, I know it was your idea but I honestly didn’t think it was a goer.’

Huh, a likely tale.

‘When I got to the meeting with Fiona, it just came out.’

‘Really?’ My tone was dry.

‘Yes and she liked it. Really liked it. I couldn’t believe it, she never likes my ideas.’

I washed my hands very thoroughly with soap, not looking at her. ‘That’s because it wasn’t your idea.’

‘Technically, yes.’ Emily was now trying to catch my eye in the mirror. ‘But at that point I could hardly say it was yours. Have you any idea what it’s like working for her? You’re lucky. Max lets you get away with anything.’

If she was expecting me to sympathise as usual, she’d misjudged things. This time I was seriously pissed off. I narrowed my eyes and turned to face her.

‘Fine, Emily,’ I said, firmly making eye contact for the first time. ‘But why didn’t you tell me? I’m hardly going to march over to Fiona and say, “Actually it was my idea”.’ Did she really think so little of me? ‘Blimey, it’s not as if you haven’t had ample opportunity. We do live together. From the sound of things you’ve been negotiating with Miranda for a few days.’

With that said, I flounced out of the loo, stomping back to my desk. After all the help I’d given her that morning with Peter’s email! Well, she could bloody well sort her own mad emails out from now on.

Unfortunately that’s just what she did.

I was so fed up with Emily that I phoned Kate for a moan, but she wasn’t particularly sympathetic, in fact she was bloody miserable which reminded me of Mum’s conversation the previous evening.

‘What are you doing tonight?’ I asked.

‘Meeting up with Caroline for a drink, except she’s just phoned. Typical, I’m already on the train to London and she’s held up. I’m going to have hours to kill. What are you doing?’

‘I’ve got an idea. Give me five minutes and I’ll call you back.’ I knew just the thing. Isabelle on the floor above was always offering me complimentary visits to one of her client’s places.

‘You have such a brilliant job,’ Kate said, letting out a long heart-felt sigh as she tucked her towel tighter around her chest, and wiped her hair off her face.

‘Mmm.’ It was all I could do to answer her. Lying full-length in the delicious heat, the warmth was penetrating my muscles unfurling the knots of tension in them. I hadn’t realised how much Emily had wound me up.

‘I could get used to this.’ Kate’s voice sounded wistful

That sounded like a good cue to me. I sat up. Too quickly! I felt light-headed for a second in the hot air.

‘You missing Greg?’ I asked sympathetically.

‘What?’ asked Kate, looking confused for a moment.

‘Gorgeous Greg, the surf-stud?’ I teased. ‘He of the six-pack.’

‘Six? You mean eight. Everything’s more macho in Australia, Sheila.’

Clearly that wasn’t the problem, so what was it? Was Mum imagining things? There was only one other thing I thought it might be.

‘Poor old Bill. I bet he’s only got a six-pack,’ I said.

‘Where did that come from?’ she asked rather sharply, looking at me. ‘What about Bill?’

Bingo. As I suspected.

‘It’s not every day you get picked to play rugby for England. He’s been in every newspaper this week,’ I answered. ‘I just wondered if you might have had a change of heart.’ I used my towel to dab at the water dripping down my neck.

‘As if that impresses me,’ she snapped, looking up for a second and sticking her nose in the air.

I looked at her and opened my mouth in astonishment. ‘Gosh, it impresses the hell out of me. He’s done so well to be selected and how great would it be to say you’re going out with an England rugby player?’

‘There was never any chance of that,’ she said more gently, shaking her head, clumps of hair plastering her damp cheeks. A small part of me relished her looking dishevelled.

She sighed. ‘Much as Bill hoped, nothing was ever going to happen.’

‘Why not?’ I asked, turning my palms up to the ceiling. ‘What was wrong with him?’ I never did get it. Bill reminded me of Hugh Grant in his bumbling, gentle way. The same floppy hair and bemused expression although that’s where the similarity ended. At six foot five he was much taller and twice the width. Bill didn’t play in the back row for nothing. For some strange reason he adored Kate and never bothered to hide it, to her total embarrassment.