The Time of Our Lives (12 page)

He was right (annoyingly, he often was) – after an extensive search, he ended up simply moving into my place in Clapham, where we were blissfully happy. But that afternoon, of course, I
didn’t know this, so the fact that he lifted my mood so drastically, so quickly, is testament to the effect Roberto had on me in those days.

That afternoon, we lay on our picnic blanket above the curves of the London skyline, exchanging slow kisses as we grazed on ripe peaches and Prosecco. It was close to perfection.

Then we had our first conversation about having children.

I have no idea who brought it up; it could well have been me, because there was nothing I couldn’t share with him, even that early on.

And it didn’t surprise me that he was so determined that he never wanted a baby.

His childhood, while not troubled in a way that would vex social services, had not been the source of fond nostalgia that mine had. My memories were dominated by lavish, sausages-on-sticks
birthday parties organised by Mum (who still throws better parties than anyone I know), and wobbly bike rides along the prom with my dad.

Roberto’s were all about the aching fear of a cold, unaffectionate mother and the near-permanent absence of his philandering father.

So when he told me in no uncertain terms that babies would never be on the agenda, I reassured him: ‘That’s fine, because I have no desire to have kids, either.’

It was the truth at the time. I was obsessively focused on my career and had never been gripped by the maternal twinges my cousins had (I’m a godmother five times over – my extended
family could win Olympic medals in breeding).

‘Imogen, are you only saying that because you think it’s what I want to hear?’ he asked, clearly worried.

‘I’m saying it because I mean it.’

His anxiety visibly slipped away. ‘When you’re this in love with someone, it’s hard to understand how there could be room for another person.’

I was about to lean in and kiss him, when he reached into his pocket. ‘I have something for you.’

My insides surged as he placed a small, blue box in my hand.

‘It’s not a ring,’ he said self-consciously, as I gently pulled on its ribbon. ‘Although one day I’d like to give you one of those, too.’

‘What is it?’

‘Open it.’ And I did.

Inside was the most exquisite piece of jewellery I’d ever seen: a delicate, blossom-shaped pendant with a slender, silver chain that glittered in the sunlight. It confirmed – as if
I’d needed it – that he sometimes knew me better than I knew myself. Its gorgeousness was in its simplicity.

‘Roberto, you can’t give me this . . .’

‘Of course I can.’

‘How on earth did you afford it?’

‘A little light company embezzlement. You’ve got a yacht coming next week.’

‘Very funny.’

He placed the chain around my neck and fumbled with the clasp until it was fastened. Then he brushed his lips gently against the back of my neck, making my entire body tingle. ‘Wear it for
ever.’

When I responded, it was with a giddy, half-blind certainty that nothing was ever going to go wrong.

‘I will,’ I told him. ‘I’ll never take it off.’

My eyes spring open and I know I’ll never get to sleep now. The clock reads 3 a.m. and I’m wide awake.

It takes at least another hour before I’ve calmed down enough to feel my eyelids flutter closed . . . and it’s just as I’m submitting to slumber that I am jolted awake by a
sound vibrating through the room that almost convinces me that Meredith has rolled onto a whoopee cushion.

‘PWTTTHHHHHHHHHT!’

I frown at her, stunned at the sheer volume, and seriously hoping that it’s a one-off.

‘PWTTTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHHHHHT!’

And so I have my answer. Meredith’s pineapple might have cured her snoring, but it’s also produced the sort of wind power that could supply half the National Grid.

I am woken at 7.04 a.m., after two and a half hours of sleep, by the piercing jangle of my phone.

I vault out of bed, taking care not to launch anything untoward with the remote, be it the television, the curtains or the flush toilet on the International Space Station.

‘Is that my sodding phone?’ Meredith sits bolt upright, like Christopher Lee emerging from a coffin. ‘Or is that
your
sodding phone? Either way,
ANSWER THE SODDING
PHONE!
’

I am now prancing about the room like a decapitated chicken, but totally fail to locate it before the ring dies.

Meredith flops down with an emphatic groan and buries her head under her quilt.

‘You’re not meant to lie on your back after the first trimester . . .’

‘PWTTHHHHT!’

There’s not a lot I can say to that.

The super-grade curtains on the windows allow absolutely no sunlight to sneak into the room, so I tiptoe around trying to find my phone with only the loo-roll light to illuminate my path.

It proves an ineffective surveillance aid, however, as proved by my resulting trip on the hairdryer cord and dive, which could have kicked off an 800-metres swimming final. I just see the corner
of the luggage rack in an all-too-impressive closeup before I make contact, landing with a sharp thud directly on my eye socket.

My resulting shriek is loud enough to convince those working out in the basement gym that there is a wild boar being slaughtered on the sixth floor.

‘Ehh— Whaaa—’ Meredith manages, before instantly falling asleep again.

I make great efforts to suppress my overwhelming desire to scream as pain throbs through my frontal cortex and down into my neck. I crawl on my hands and knees to the mirror and switch on the
smallest, most modest light I can find, which only succeeds in floodlighting the entire room.

‘IMOGEN! WHAT IS GOING ON?’ Meredith cries, rearing up again as she shields her eyes.

‘Sorry! I’m sorry!’ I mumble, dimming the lights. She thuds down as I peer into the mirror to examine my left eye. I’m seeing triple, so there are three of them but,
apart from that, it could be worse. It’s swollen and starting to go purplish, like a rotting beetroot that’s been boiled for several days. You know – exactly the sort of look you
want on holiday.

Meredith cocoons herself again in her duvet as I hear a beep from the bathroom, and discover my phone in the pocket of one of the two dressing gowns.

David has left a voice message.

‘Imogen!’ He sounds breathless and echoey, like he’s running inside a biscuit tin, and his voice has a quality that is rare in my boss: urgency. ‘I need to speak to you.
It’s about this
Daily Sun
thing. We need to get rid of it, Imogen. Now. It could be catastrophic, not just for the merger, but the company per se. I’m still trying to track down
the . . . the
bottom wipe
who got us into this mess. Although I’ve come to the conclusion that ultimately it doesn’t matter who it is – all that matters is that we stop
this happening. Can you phone me asap? That’s ASAP. Thanks.’

Attempting to quell my alarm, I phone him back. It goes to voicemail, but I want to speak to David directly, so I end the call and try again. And again. I reluctantly leave a message telling
him, in the calmest voice I can muster, to phone me back so we can update each other. Which I realise gives the impression I have something to update him on, but never mind.

Two hours later, as I wait to meet Nicola for breakfast, having left Meredith to lie in, I’ve heard nothing from him. And he’s not the only one. I’ve made three calls to the
police station about my necklace, but managed only to connect with a non-English speaker who listened intently before putting down the phone on me.

I sigh and adjust the sunglasses Meredith threw at me from her bedside table before I left the room. They are the size of two small dessert plates and dark enough to stop me walking in a
straight line, but they’re an improvement on the black eye, I can’t deny it.

Nicola arrives looking refreshed and relaxed. ‘Morning! So, did the pineapple work?’

‘Yes.’ Then, ‘No.’

She laughs. ‘Eh?’

I lift up my sunglasses to read the breakfast menu and she gasps. ‘Why do you look like
Million Dollar Baby
?’

‘Oh. Thanks. I had a fight with a luggage rack and lost.’ My morning’s struggles have left me hungry, and I look around eagerly. ‘Where’s our waiter? I’ve
been here for twenty minutes and haven’t been approached yet.’ While whomever is serving us appears to have gone to Seville for their fag break, the rest of the staff are treating
everyone else as though they have a Masters in sucking up.

‘Excuse me!’ I cough politely. ‘Could we possibly—’

A waitress marches past carrying a coffee jug to attend to a couple who’ve already drunk so much they’ll be awake until a week on Tuesday.

‘She’ll be over soon enough. Maybe we should go and get something from the buffet,’ Nicola suggests.

We wander into the adjacent room and gaze upon the most spectacular feast I’ve ever seen.

‘Maybe we can live without the coffee,’ I say.

Nicola nods. ‘You could be right.’

Despite the bountiful nature of the food, I resolve to show some restraint this time and not fall into the same trap as at the airport. I take only those items I
really
want: a modest
slice of melon, a boiled egg, a piece of coconut cake and some dried prunes. Admittedly, I’d win no prizes for menu coordination.

I’m just reaching over a big, silver bowl of chilled fruit yoghurt when my phone bursts into life from the back pocket of my shorts. With nowhere to put down my plate, I hastily balance it
on one hand and attempt to retrieve my phone, but I’m so hell-bent on swiping the green button before it rings off this time that I promptly drop my phone into a cut-glass bowl of fruit
salad.

‘SHIT!’

‘What have you done?’ hisses Nicola, appearing at my side.

‘Imogen? IMOGEN?’ echoes David’s voice from between a cluster of cherries and a chunk of mango.

‘You need to get that out quickly,’ says a voice.

Before I can argue, my phone is being fished out of the bowl and I watch with a throbbing heart as Harry begins wiping it off with a napkin with his big, tanned hands. I am momentarily
mesmerised, before grabbing the phone and shoving it against my ear, only then realising how sticky it is. ‘David? David?’

The line’s dead. Harry looks slightly taken aback.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snatch,’ I say, providing the requisite response I expect from Florence in similar situations.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘That looked like one hell of an important call.’

‘You could say that.’

‘Worth marinating your mobile for, I hope?’

I frown down at my phone as I hold it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. ‘Oh God, look at it!’

He picks up some more napkins. ‘Turn the phone off and lay it on these while you open it up and get the battery out. That’s the most important bit.’

‘How are you such an expert? I ask, frantically dismantling the phone.

‘I did something similar once. Only worse.’

‘Not the loo—’

‘Fortunately not,’ he replies with a laugh. ‘Just a muddy puddle. I spent the night Googling solutions on my computer, none of which worked. But they might on yours. You got it
out pretty quickly.’

‘You mean
you
did.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t call me a hero until you’ve got that melon juice off your sim card. Any news on your necklace, by the way?’

It’s then that I realise that he’s striking up a conversation with me. Just like the first time, it unsettles me.

‘Not a word. So you can be satisfied that you were probably completely right.’

‘I take no satisfaction in that. Sorry if I gave the impression otherwise.’

‘You didn’t. The necklace is just a big deal to me, that’s all.’

Harry looks at me. ‘You don’t seem to be having much luck on this holiday.’

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ I reply, lifting my sunglasses onto my head to get a better look at the phone as I start to put it back together.

He tries to play down how startled he looks. ‘Oh . . . dear.’

I put the glasses back on, self-conscious. ‘Hmm. Not a good look really, is it?’

‘Are you okay?’ He looks genuinely concerned, which only makes me feel like dying inside.

‘I’m fine. Hardly hurts at all, really,’ I lie. ‘So what are you up to today?’

‘I believe I’m off to the Picasso museum, then tonight I’m going to some big party here at the hotel.’

‘I thought you were here working?’

The click of stylish heels interrupts our conversation and, as I look up, the woman Harry was with yesterday appears at his side. She looks even better close up, with flawless skin and a
spectacular smile.

‘’Arry Pfeiffer!’

If I spoke at that volume, I’d sound about as dulcet-toned as Dot Cotton mid-meltdown.
Her
voice, on the other hand, is forceful but melting, like she’s performing the final
scene in
Carmen
.

‘We need to go!’ She grabs him by the arm.

‘Sorry. I’m in demand, apparently.’ He shrugs playfully as he’s whisked to the exit by Clipboard Barbie, before he’s been able to pick up so much as a
croissant.

I gaze after them, at her slender arm linked through his and, for a fleeting moment, wonder what it must be like to be one of the Beautiful People.

People with whom I have nothing in common.

I’ve gone back to rescuing my phone when I see Harry unravel himself from the woman and weave back past two tables, before grabbing something from the surface of one. Then he makes his way
back, catching my eye en route.

‘See you later,’ he says smiling, as I notice a copy of
The Book Thief
in his hand.

The plan today is to visit La Sagrada Família, one of Barcelona’s most celebrated landmarks. I’ve read a lot about it in the guidebooks and it’s the
place I’ve been keenest to see, given the monumental hype it attracts.

According to what I’ve read, construction for Gaudí’s giant basilica started at the end of the nineteenth century and it still isn’t finished (which will be little
comfort to the blokes over-seeing my mum’s kitchen extension, who threaten delay at their peril).