‘You do.’ Josh’s mouth was surrounded by a circle of tomato sauce. ‘You’ve got no one else to talk to.’
‘I’ve got loads of friends,’ Adam insisted.
‘All blokes,’ Josh said dismissively.
‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘When did you last have a girlfriend?’
‘Shut up, Josh.’
‘When?’ he persisted.
Adam put down his fork. ‘Remember Serena?’
‘Of course I do. How could I forget?’ His son shuddered at the memory. ‘All she ever made for us to eat were things with broccoli in them.’
‘Quite.’ Adam took a glug of his Chianti. It was coming to something when you were quizzed on your flagging love life by your twelve-year-old. ‘She was a psycho.’
‘If you keep saying nasty things about women, I’ll grow up gay.’
‘I wouldn’t mind that.’
Josh looked outraged. ‘I would!’
‘Have you got a girlfriend?’ Adam said, trying diversionary techniques.
‘Yes,’ Josh said bashfully. ‘She’s called Imogen and she’s eleven. She’s in Mrs Bleesdale’s class and she’s very good at sums.’ He puffed up his chest proudly. ‘She can sing like Britney Spears.’
Adam longed for the days when these gifts were all that you required in a woman. He smiled at his son. ‘That’s nice.’
‘She lets me be my own person,’ Josh said. ‘Matthew’s girlfriend is always nagging him to get a new bike.’
‘I’m glad you’re happy.’
‘I could see if Imogen’s got a mum,’ Josh offered. ‘Perhaps you could go out with her?’
‘I do not want to double-date with my son, thank you,’ Adam tutted. ‘I’m perfectly OK on my own.’
Josh stopped eating and looked serious. ‘I worry about you being lonely.’
‘I’m not lonely. I’m fine,’ Adam assured him.
‘I could come and live with you,’ the boy volunteered. ‘If you like . . .’ Then his voice tailed off.
Adam’s throat closed. This was the hardest thing, seeing his child for a few snatched hours each week, but how could he explain to Josh about the complications of custody arrangements and the difficulty of him working shifts and the awkwardness of his other parent?
‘I’d never get a woman if you came and lived with me,’ he said simply. ‘You’d scare them all away.’
‘But you will try to find someone?’
‘Yes,’ Adam sighed. ‘I will try. Eat your pizza.’
Josh gave the smug smirk of the triumphant and happily got on with devouring his pizza.
Chapter Sixteen
We are lying on the floor in a state of complete inebriation, brought on by a surfeit of Smirnoff Ice. The migraine colours of Cara’s decoration are all swimming together in the manner of a particularly exuberant kaleidoscope, and it reminds me of one of those disco scenes in 1960s films where oil blobs morph across the walls and everyone dances really badly to B-side Rolling Stones tunes.
My pain has receded to the point where I’m no longer worried that we haven’t come up with a wonderful solution to my current predicament. At least, I don’t think we have. If we did, it can’t have been that wonderful or I wouldn’t have forgotten it already. Would I? I don’t know. I need another drink. As if by magic, Cara rolls over and pours me one.
‘I loathe men,’ I say, forcing myself upright. ‘All of them. They’re all bastards.’
Cara props herself up on her elbows and squints at me. ‘I haven’t had a decent man since women wore puffball skirts with straight faces.’
‘I loved Declan.’ I wave my Smirnoff Ice at Cara for emphasis. ‘I loved him so much. And look what he did.’ I can feel my lower lip trembling. I am lucid enough to appreciate that I’m at the Maudlin/Regretful stage on the Drink Consumption Index. ‘Just look what he did.’
‘Put your bum on the Internet.’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘Exactly.’
I know I’m going to wish I hadn’t drunk so much in the morning. I have to go back into school tomorrow. Really, I do. You’re not supposed to let the state of your love life affect the education of our future actors, television presenters, politicians and brain surgeons. I will get a severe bollocking from the Head, I can tell you. I’ll just have one more drink and then I’m off to bed.
‘I hate men,’ I repeat, helping myself to another bottle. Cara has clearly laid in supplies for us to get completely off our trolleys. The odd Pringle might have helped to stave off our worst excesses, but we are doing this completely without calorific accompaniment. Cara thinks Pringles are loaded with deadly chemicals that are going to rot our brains in years to come. But, hey, we’ve all got to go sometime. I can think of worse ways than death by excessive Pringle consumption. I have another drink in lieu for our foodless state. ‘I’m never, ever going to go out with another man ever, ever again.’
‘Me neither,’ says Cara. And I hate to point out to her that her main problem seems to be getting one in the first place.
‘I think this house is on a gateway into the underworld,’ she decides as she takes in her vivid decoration. ‘Or on an ancient leyline. I reckon that’s why I can’t get a decent man.’
‘I don’t know what a decent man is.’ I am feeling ridiculously sorry for myself now. It can’t be too long before Aggression or Blissful Oblivion kicks in. ‘I have no idea what I want from a relationship, Cara. Since I was fifteen, I’ve drifted from one bastard boyfriend to another.’
‘Lucky you,’ Cara mutters drunkenly.
‘I have spent the formative years of my life cowering on football terraces, never understanding the off-side rule and not really caring. I have had my brains knocked out on the back of speeding motorbikes, stood shivering alone on windswept beaches while the love of my life has indulged in the love of his life – windsurfing. I’ve trailed round golf courses, gone to Van Halen concerts, sat through sci-fi films when there was a perfectly good romantic comedy starring Hugh Grant being shown on the very next screen – and for what? They’ve all bled me dry of money and love.’ Although, it has to be said that Declan has done it on a much grander scale than anyone else I have loved. ‘I have no idea who I am, Cara. I am merely a man’s appendage.’
‘Oo er, missus.’ Cara giggles raucously.
‘I mean it,’ I say, trying to sound serious, which is quite difficult given the level of alcohol abuse I’ve enjoyed. ‘I don’t even know what kind of music I like. For the last five years I’ve been into Irish music, for heaven’s sake. Who, out of choice, would listen to stuff with titles like “Bernadette’s On Her Back Again” or “Patrick’s Lost His Wellies”? I’ve pretended to like all of this crap purely to keep Declan and his supposed love of tradition happy. He wouldn’t give a fig for tradition if it wasn’t trendy. And what’s he ever done for me?’
‘Put your bum on the Internet.’
‘Put my bum on the Internet,’ I echo with feeling. ‘Are there men out there who don’t like football, who want conversations and who aren’t afraid of commitment?’
‘Yes,’ Cara tuts. ‘Of course there are. And the Abominable Snowman and poltergeists exist too.’
It is a bad state of affairs when even Cara doesn’t believe it. Cara believes everything. She reckons that wind chimes are all it takes to make the world a lovelier place.
‘I want a man who’s in touch with his feminine side, yet who’s still laddish enough to be manly.’ I’ve gone all wistful now. ‘I want someone who’ll walk in the woods on a crisp, frosty day and who’ll curl up beside me in front of a roaring log fire at night. I want a man who appreciates fine wines, but who can still down a pint of lager in one. I want someone who can discuss philosophy, but who still thinks Ben Elton’s funny.’ I sigh into my Smirnoff. ‘Oh. And I want someone who’s brilliant in bed and particularly skilled in the art of massage.’
Cara gives me a sideways glance. ‘I think you actually want ten men, not one.’
&
nbsp; ‘I need to give this some serious thought,’ I say. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as strange that after five years Declan and I have never, ever discussed marriage?’
Cara looks vaguely surprised. ‘Would you have wanted to marry him?’
‘I don’t know.’ And I really don’t, which isn’t a good feeling.
‘I don’t think you were ever compatible,’ Cara offers gently. ‘You’re a water sign and Declan is an earth sign. And you know what that means?’
‘Mud,’ I say. ‘Together we were mud.’
‘You know, there is a lot to astrology, Emily,’ Cara says crisply. ‘It’s been scient . . . scient . . . scientifically proven.’
I think my friend’s tongue has alcohol anae . . . anaes . . . anaesthetisation. Oh nellies, I’m doing it now. ‘Oh, I know.’ I try to placate her. After all, she is nearer the stash of booze. ‘I’m being flippant. It’s just that I don’t really believe in all that stuff.’
‘Typical Pisces,’ Cara huffs.
‘Help me, Cara,’ I plead. ‘Help me get out of this mess.’
‘I think you need to draw up a five-year plan, Emily.’ Cara goes into business mode. ‘You need to decide where you’re going, how you’re going to get there and who’s going with you.’
‘And how I’m going to clear my debts.’
‘That goes without saying.’ Cara takes my hand in hers and puts on her deep and meaningful voice. ‘I can help you.’
With all this vodka sloshing around inside me, I’m finding it very hard not to laugh. I press my lips together, banishing the smile behind them. I might take the piss out of my best friend – a lot – but sometimes I really envy her naïve optimism.
‘I’m very skilled in the art of creative visualisation,’ she informs me. ‘I can guide you. Whatever you picture for yourself, you can bring into being.’
At the moment, I have an image of Declan swinging from a very high beam at the end of a very thick rope.
Cara composes herself into what appears to be a creative visualisation kind of pose. It’s only fitting that I do the same, I feel, and I rearrange my legs accordingly. ‘Let’s start with something simple,’ Cara says, giving me an encouraging smile. ‘Imagine who you would most like to be stuck in a lift with.’
‘A lift engineer.’ No problem there.
Hey – this stuff is easy!
Cara narrows her eyes to mean little slits. ‘I think, Emily, you’re somehow missing the point,’ she says tightly and downs her Smirnoff Ice.
Chapter Seventeen
‘Good morning, Cara,’ Chris bellowed brightly across the office and waved a copy of the Hampstead Observer at her.
‘Get lost,’ Cara hissed from behind her sunglasses as she made her way gingerly to her desk.
The office walls were white and harsh and the throbbing light from the banks of fluorescent tubes tried to creep round the edges of her shades and burn into her retina. The modern Hampstead Observer building had totally the wrong colours for fostering creativity – and for nursing hangovers. It had too many sharp corners and not enough curves, which never helped. Adam frowned at her as she sat down.
‘I had a bonding and commiseration experience with Emily last night,’ Cara croaked in explanation.
‘Ah,’ Adam said.
Cara held onto her desk in an effort to stop it swaying about. ‘It involved lots of vodka.’
‘Coffee?’
‘No, I . . .’
‘At this moment, caffeine is good, Cara,’ he interrupted. ‘Believe me.’
‘Yes. Coffee. Coffee’s good.’ Cara slunk down into her chair and Adam wandered off to the coffee machine with a slightly superior smirk on his face.
Cara smiled to herself even though it hurt. It was nice to have Adam looking after her and he’d been an absolute peach over the last day or so. She wondered why she’d never really noticed him before. He was very attractive and, strangely, growing more so by the minute.
Perhaps it was due to her rule never to get involved with anyone from the office. But, seeing as she never met anyone other than people from the office, never getting involved with anyone extended pretty much to the rest of the known universe. She was tired of being alone and she had intended to discuss this with Emily last night, but all her friend wanted to do was dwell on her own situation. Which was perfectly understandable. The least she could do was provide a sympathetic ear, and copious booze, as she felt really guilty that she hadn’t been able to do anything to stop the story going into her own newspaper. Overruled by all the typical male chauvinist pigs who worked here. Except for Adam.
Cara smiled at him gratefully as he returned with her coffee, ignoring the pain it produced in her cheeks.
‘Just grit your teeth and swallow it,’ Adam advised. ‘It’ll do you good.’
‘Thanks.’ Cara did as she was told, shuddering as the coffee hit home. The coffee wasn’t good. Frankly, it was diabolical, but this definitely wasn’t a rosehip tea moment. She put the cup down on her desk in the middle of her relationship corner and wondered if it might help form a bond between her and Adam. ‘Have you seen the story yet?’
Adam nodded, wincing slightly. ‘It’s not too bad,’ he said, folding his arms across his chest as if he thought it was very bad indeed. He perched on the corner of her desk, next to the coffee cup which could, Cara thought fleetingly, be seen as an omen. ‘This Declan comes across as an arrogant bastard, and your pal Emily as a bit of a harmless bimbo.’
Cara massaged her temples. ‘She’ll just love that.’
‘There’s not much we can do about it, Cara.’
She liked the way he said her name; it was gruff and very manly. It would sound good uttered in the abandoned throes of passion. Cara blushed.
‘It’s not your fault,’ Adam said, mistaking her sudden reddening for embarrassment for her friend. ‘She’s the one who whipped her kit off for her boyfriend.’
‘Haven’t you ever done anything stupid like that?’ Cara asked.
Adam looked disappointed. ‘No,’ he said.
Cara smiled. ‘Me neither.’
‘What sheltered lives we’ve led,’ Adam laughed.
‘Yes.’ Oh flip, I want you to invite me out to lunch, she thought. Cara didn’t want to care about copy and column inches and deadlines today, she wanted to be reckless and frivolous in a ridiculously low-key way. All she wanted was a butty and a bit of flirting – was that too much to hope for? Perhaps if she concentrated really hard she could send vibes across to Adam’s subconscious to get him to ask her to the canteen. The sesame-seed tahini sandwiches that she’d brought in for lunch could be consumed later.
‘I warned Emily that we’d need a photograph of her,’ Cara said, trying to drag her focus back to work. ‘She wasn’t too keen.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘I advised her to look very businesslike. A suit or something. More clothes than last time.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want a pose in the Santa outfit?’
‘Don’t, Adam. I think she’d deck anyone who suggested it.’ Cara paused. ‘She was due to go into work today, but she’s got a monster hangover. I don’t suppose you’d fancy going round and taking the photo yourself, would you?’
‘Well . . .’
‘She’ll be in all day.’
‘I’m quite busy.’
‘Please.’ Cara tried her most winning smile. ‘At least that way I know she’d get a sympathetic showing.’
Adam caved in. ‘I could pop round there at lunchtime.’
‘Oh,’ Cara said flatly.
‘I was . . . I was going to ask you to come to the pub.’ Adam’s pale cheeks flushed. ‘Just for a sandwich. Or something. So that we could talk a bit more about this. Or that. Or other things. But, well . . . another time maybe?’
‘No, no, no,’ Cara said. ‘I think it would be useful to discuss this further. In more detail. And stuff – other stuff.’
Adam fidgeted with her paper clips. ‘Me too.’
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‘Is there someone else you could send?’ Cara said. ‘Anyone?’
‘Well . . .’
‘I mean, they’re all good photographers, aren’t they?’
‘Well . . .’
‘It doesn’t have to be you, does it?’
‘No,’ Adam said. ‘I guess not. Nick could probably go.’
‘Yes, Nick,’ Cara said in a voice that indicated deep consideration. ‘Nick’s good. Nick can be sensitive.’
‘Fine.’ Adam stood up. ‘Nick it is.’ He squeezed his hands together, cracking his fingers. ‘Shall we go over the road to the Jig about twelve?’
‘Yes,’ Cara said. ‘Twelve it is, then.’
‘OK.’ With an uncomfortable smile, Adam eased himself away from her desk and sauntered back to his computer.
‘So who said Feng Shui was a load of old bunkum?’ Cara said quietly to herself as she eyed the coffee cup in her relationship corner. Wrapping her arms contentedly round herself, she grinned happily, rejoicing in the knowledge that she had once again managed to harness the mysterious energies of the universe.
She might have been less convinced of her supernatural powers if she had heard Adam mutter under his breath as soon as he had his back to her: ‘Bloody Josh!’
Chapter Eighteen
I’m supposed to be at work today, but I’ve got a monster hangover. Hardly surprising, if I think about it rationally. But rationale disappeared at about three o’clock this morning, along with the litre and a bit of wine we drank after we ran out of Smirnoff Ice.
I have discovered, to my cost, that getting drunk is not the answer to anything, even though it feels very nice at the time. When you wake up the morning after the night before, you will still have the same problems and one extra one. Mine is where to find painkillers and Resolve in a house that is stuffed full of all things natural.
It’s lunchtime already and I’ve still got a 1970s Michael Jackson Afro hair-style, a budgie’s birdcage where my mouth used to be, skin the colour of wet cement and I’m wearing a towelling bath robe that has seen better days – probably around the time when Jacko was sporting his Afro. But in my current state of mind, plucked, pale blue, threadbare towelling feels good. It’s also several sizes too small for me, but me and this dressing gown have been through some traumatic times together and it has, unfailingly, brought me comfort in my hour of need. It’s having its work cut out at the moment, mind.
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