The Time of Our Lives (10 page)

‘David,’ I begin calmly. ‘Let me repeat this. I am not a lesbian. I have no problem with lesbians – indeed, as you say, one of my best friends is a lesbian. But I am not.
I am a red-blooded, heterosexual female and I’ve had as much of the opposite SEX in my life as the next woman!’

The word ‘sex’ reverberates around the room at three times my usual volume.

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I spin round. It’s Harry. I have a sudden desire to run down platform nine and three quarters and jump on a train to another world.

He points at the desk, indicating that it’s my turn to be seen.

‘David, I need to go. I’ll phone you back to fill you in properly about the
Daily Sun
when I can.’

‘Don’t – I’m in meetings all day. Just tell me you’re going to get rid of this. Make it disappear.’

I open my mouth, but it takes a second to formulate a response that isn’t, ‘Who do you think I am? David bloody Blaine?’

‘David . . . I’m not sure I can do that.’

‘Well, we can’t have this, Imogen. Not when so much is at stake with Getreide,’ he laments. ‘MOTHER OF THE BRIDE! This
would
happen the week you’re
away.’

‘I know . . . there was just no way I could’ve known anything like this would happen.’

He pauses long enough to pull himself together. ‘Of course you couldn’t. I’m sorry, Imogen. Everyone needs a break. I’m shocked about the story, that’s
all.’

‘Well, we’ve got one of the best PR agencies in London looking after us and I’m sure they’ll manage the situation brilliantly,’ I say, reassuringly. ‘Plus,
Roy is there on the ground – I know that he’ll want to grasp this issue with both hands and deal with it. As soon as I can get hold of him.’

‘You haven’t even spoken to him about it?’

‘I’m on the case. I promise you, David, I’m on the case.’

There’s a long walk back to the hotel. I know that much, without looking at my map.

I step out of the police station, wincing every time my shredded feet make contact with the ground, and work out the direction of Las Ramblas. That leads to the harbour, then the boardwalk,
which in turn stretches out endlessly to our hotel.

I text Nic to tell her I’m on my way, then set off, determined to be philosophical. After five minutes, I become vaguely aware of someone adjacent to me, ten or so feet away. I look up.
It’s Harry.

‘Hi,’ he says, with a grin.

‘Hi,’ I reply awkwardly, stepping up my pace.

A few seconds later, he’s still there.

So I stop. Then
he
stops. ‘Can I help? I ask.

‘Don’t think so. I’m walking back to my hotel. It’s in Barceloneta.’

‘Oh.’ I carry on walking.

‘Where are you staying?’

I wonder why he makes me so uneasy. ‘I’m in that direction too.’

‘Oh, great – where? I’m at the B Hotel.’

I swallow. ‘Great.’ I’m not going to tell him I’m there as well. No way. Except, if I don’t tell him, what happens if we bump into each other at breakfast? Oh,
bollocks. ‘I’m there, too.’

‘Really? That’s a coincidence! I’ll walk with you.’

‘Great,’ I repeat. Only I don’t feel great. And not just because my toes are starting to bleed.

‘There’s a chemist up here if you want to get some plasters.’ He gestures to my feet and I redden furiously. ‘I can come in and get you some antiseptic cream if you like.
I speak Spanish.’

‘No! I can manage. Why don’t you go on ahead?’ I suggest.

‘It’s all right, I’ll wait.’

Oh,
must
you? I take a deep breath, nod and push through the pharmacy door.

For someone whose previous experience of speaking Spanish has been limited to ordering drinks, my efforts to communicate are pretty good, if I say so myself. The assistant understands perfectly
what I’m attempting to enunciate with only the help of a English–Spanish mini-dictionary, and hands over the cream with a courteous smile.

When I emerge, Harry’s still there, as promised. I start walking.

‘Aren’t you going to put those plasters on? There’s quite a way to go.’

I hesitate, before taking a seat on a bench, removing the antiseptic cream from the paper bag and lavishing it between my toes. I find myself resorting to small talk to cover my
embarrassment.

‘I wish I knew more Spanish, but you get by when you have a knowledge of other Latin-based languages. I can speak fluent French and a bit of German,’ I witter, in a spectacular
display of embellishment. ‘It was actually very straightforward in that chemist – surprisingly so. I suppose it’s all about confidence . . . sorry, did you want to say
something?’

‘That stuff you’re putting on your feet—’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s denture cream.’

By the time I’ve returned to the pharmacy, purchased then applied the correct cream and set off on my way, I’d rather hoped to have shaken him off. But apparently
not.

Added to this, the entire forty-five minutes it takes for us to walk along the boardwalk to the hotel involves a repeated and increasingly uncomfortable scenario: we are being checked
out
.
People are looking at us as if we’re a couple, and not in a good way. I keep getting knowing looks from fellow females that say, ‘Good on you, girl, for punching so far
above your weight!’

There’s something else that’s odd, too. After learning that Harry’s originally from Aberdeen, lives in London and is here for work, our conversation skips to the sort of banter
you’d have with a friend after too much sangria. Given that I haven’t
had
any sangria, it’s a mystery how he sucks me into it.

‘Favourite character in a book or film?’

‘Hmm. Offred in
The Handmaid’s Tale
, Jo in
Little Women
or Princess Leia.’

He nods slowly, turning this over in his mind. ‘Excellent choices. Okay – best feature?’

‘Whose?’

‘Yours, of course.’

I frown and contemplate the possibilities, those bits and pieces of me that my friends compliment: 1) Eyes – which are in fact blue and boring; 2) Boobs – far too big, despite
efforts to minimise with bras capable of restraining a subsiding building; 3) Waist – which is not in fact small. It only
looks
small compared with 2 . . .

‘My wrists,’ I conclude.

He laughs.

‘What’s wrong with my wrists?’

‘Nothing. But they’re not your best feature.’

This comment, accompanied by his distractingly handsome face, prompts a sudden and vivid insight into the kind of guy he is. Fun, yes. Flirtatious, undoubtedly. And someone who likes women just
a little too much.

That glint in his eyes reminds me of the cocky, conceited types at university, the ones who might as well have been holding up a sign saying: ‘I am gorgeous. I have a huge penis. I will
show you a fabulous 24 hours then never, ever phone.’

I could never work out how even the brightest of my friends fell for such dubious charms. Personally, I decided on the first day of Freshers’ Week to date only the sensitive, respectful,
corduroy-wearing types, even if that wore thin on occasions. It’s difficult to fancy a man who thinks they know what it’s like to own a womb.

‘What’s
your
favourite fictional character?’ I ask.

‘Hmm. That’s a tricky one.’

‘But it’s your quiz!’

‘True, although I hadn’t finished with yours yet.’

I sigh. ‘You’ve already asked me everything except my shoe size – what can you possibly need to know?’

‘It’s not a question of
need
. I’m just interested in anyone who holds Princess Leia in the same esteem as I do. And if you really want to disclose your shoe size,
I’m not going to stop you.’

I throw him a look. ‘Do I seriously come across as the kind of woman who’d discuss such a thing with a stranger she’d met for the first time today?’

‘We met yesterday when you threw your breakfast all over me, remember.’

‘Not
quite
all over you – I tried my best to get some cereal down the collar of your shirt, but failed miserably.’

He laughs. ‘Well, if you’re not going to give me your shoe size, I’d better settle for your name.’

‘I . . . oh.’ I’d forgotten I hadn’t introduced myself. ‘Imogen.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ He stops walking and we shake hands.

The physical contact makes me feel uneasy. I pull away and start walking again as I think of a way to change the subject.

‘Do you often get to stay in places like the B Hotel?’ I ask.

‘I’m more used to a £39 Travelodge.’

I’m about to ask if he won a competition too, when his phone rings.

I try not to listen, but can’t fail to notice that he appears to be talking to his boss. He seems keen to get rid of him; glancing over from time to time as if he’s worried I might
overhear. I haven’t the heart to break it to him that I’m not remotely interested in anyone’s work issues other than my own.

When he ends the call, he turns to me. ‘So, is your little girl with her dad while you’re here?’

‘No, he’s not . . . no,’ I reply as I reach for the necklace.

And feel a punch of dismay when it’s not there.

‘You know, I hate to say it,’ he says, as we enter the lobby of the hotel, ‘but you probably need to forget about that necklace.’

I freeze. ‘I can’t
forget
about the necklace.’

‘I’m simply saying,’ he continues, failing to notice my irritation, ‘I don’t get the impression they’re leaping to try and solve the crime.’

‘Well, I might phone them tomorrow to see how they’re getting on. You never know.’

‘Hmm. Good luck.’

I suddenly despise him and his flippancy. As a dry, burning heat erupts in my throat, I want to be as far away from him as possible. ‘This isn’t just some
wallet
, you know.
This isn’t something I’m going to fill out a form for, claim on the insurance, then go and buy a new one. Some things are more important.’

He slows down, realisation and regret sweeping across his face. ‘I’m sorry.’

My jaw twitches. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I reply, and hurtle up the granite stairs before he can see the tears in my eyes.

‘When are you going to put down that bloody phone, Imogen?’

Meredith thrusts a large glass of sangria at me as we lounge by the pool, as if this is going to solve all my problems. I am deeply, inconsolably upset about the necklace. In fact, if it
wasn’t for what’s going on at work, I’d barely be able to think about anything else. So I don’t know if the fact that I’ve just sent my tenth text to Roy is a good
thing or not.

He’s having the Caps Lock treatment on this one – that’s how pissed off I am with him.

I compose myself and instead focus on my surroundings. The wanton glitziness of the pool deck never ceases to amaze me. Tanned cocktail waiters in shorts of dazzling whiteness weave past
canopied sun beds, while guests flick through copies of
Harper’s Bazaar
and dip their expensively painted toes into the infinity pool.

I’ve been here a day and have yet to see someone actually swimming in it. Occasionally, someone slips in to hover temporarily at the side, refusing to remove their shades or, indeed, put
down their champagne glass.

This is a people-watching extravaganza, a recession-proof bubble where wealth fuses with glamour to produce smooth-skinned heiresses gliding around in a waft of Hermès, and buff
forty-something men who are never off their phones.

We are reclining opposite Yellow Bikini Lady (as christened by Meredith): a stick-thin woman who is smoking energetically, tanning herself to the shade of a conker and who appears to have had
two Fisher Price play balls surgically implanted into her chest.

Next to her is Meatloaf. Not
the
Meatloaf, obviously – this is his hairier, richer cousin – a man who’s ordered enough Cristal in the last half hour to fill his
Jacuzzi.

Then there are The Wankers, an undetectable-accented threesome of young, overtanned blokes who clearly believe themselves to be the most ravishing creatures to walk the earth and whose
conversation hasn’t deviated from two subjects: their fitness regimes, and how many women they’ve bedded.

And, as I look up from my phone – yes, my bloody phone – suddenly there is Harry.

The first thing I notice is that he isn’t wearing the geek glasses he had on at the police station, and for some reason that makes me slightly disappointed.

He strolls through the glass doors from the bar area and heads for the only free sun bed, before sitting on its edge and idly selecting a magazine from a nearby table. Yellow Bikini Lady perks
up considerably, as does the woman to his right. And his left.

I quickly turn onto my front and wonder if I should text David to check if he’s heard anything.

‘Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?’ Meredith asks. She puts down her copy of
Company
, holds a tube of factor 25 over her belly and squirts it like you’d
adorn a hot dog with mustard.

‘Believe me, Meredith, I would love to put my phone away. But there’s a full-blown crisis going on at work and, whether I’m here or not, the buck stops with me.’

‘Do you know where
my
phone is, Imogen?’ she asks.

‘No, where?’

‘My phone is in the safe in our bedroom which, I discovered, is entirely soundproof.’

‘But you won’t be able to play Scrabble,’ I point out. It’s her obsession and she’s absolutely brilliant at it, the only person I’ve ever met who can batter
her opponents in one move using only two obscure consonants and a vowel.

‘A small price to pay to get some respite from Nathan’s texts.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Nicola bites her lip.

Meredith sighs. ‘The frustrating thing is that when we spoke this morning and he told me about his gig last night, I could only think how much I fancy him, even after all these years.
I’ll give him this – he’s still hot stuff.’ She pauses, then grimaces. ‘It was all going well until he told me he’d bought me some nipple cream – and
I’m talking about the stuff from Mothercare, not Ann Summers. I dread to think what he’ll be like when the baby’s born. As if things aren’t going to be horrendous
enough.’