by Lucy Diamond
Anna raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah? That’s what you did, is it?’
‘Yeah.’ Then Sophie stopped, feeling like a hypocrite. It had taken her three years and lots of plane journeys to even start getting over Dan – and look at her the other night, reduced to jelly at the news that he was back in the same country as her. ‘Well, it helps in the short term, anyway,’ she added after a moment. ‘But I’m not exactly an expert. Whatever it takes, that’s what I say.’
‘What it took last night was dodgy liqueurs and cake. Today, it’s review-writing and phone-ignoring. Tonight, it’ll be flat-clearing and probably having a stand-up row with him on the pavement.’ Anna screwed up her face. ‘Anyway. It’s probably for the best.’
‘Yeah. Well, good luck.’
They were silent for a moment, both rather awkward at all these confidences when they barely knew each other. ‘I don’t believe it’, ‘Well, it’s true!’ screeched the women behind them. ‘I knew he was up to something when he came home with those bungee cables. I thought either he’s sorting out that roofrack at last, or he’s going all fifty-shades on me.’
Anna giggled. ‘The mind boggles,’ she whispered, then drained the last of her tea. ‘I’d better go. Thanks again for helping with the photo – and for the chat.’
‘Any time,’ Sophie replied. ‘Here’s my number,’ she said, scribbling it down on a paper napkin. ‘Ring me if you need a drink or a moan. Hey, and remember what I said about hopping on a plane if things get too complicated. It might be just what you need, a bit of Italian sunshine.’
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Anna said. She put the napkin in her bag and smiled. ‘Look forward to hearing what your friend says in the meantime. See you soon.’
That afternoon, Jim had an appointment at the hospital and, as she wasn’t working, Sophie decided to go along too. If she was at home she’d only be trying to think of something witty and love-me-ish to post under Dan’s recent Facebook update, or checking out train times to Manchester. She mustn’t stalk the poor man. For all she knew, he was married with seven children by now. (He wasn’t married with seven children though, as she knew damn well. Or, if he was, he hadn’t thought to put it on his Facebook page anyway. She’d checked.)
They all hoped that this would be Jim’s final appointment at the hospital. He was on new medication since the second heart attack and he no longer got so breathless or tired. Trish had even stopped raising a warning finger whenever Jim broached the subject of returning to work. Maybe, just maybe, life was about to take a welcome turn back to normal for him at last.
It was still bitter outside, with a raw, slicing wind, but as soon as you walked into the reception area of the hospital, the temperature soared and it was like stumbling into the tropics. As Sophie and her parents stopped to take off their hats and scarves, she glimpsed an unexpected face. ‘Roy!’ she exclaimed in surprise as he walked in. ‘What are you doing here? Is everything all right?’
Roy’s usual smile wasn’t anywhere to be seen. In fact he looked downright terrible – pale and stressed, twisting his hands together as he replied. ‘Geraldine’s had a fall,’ he said, his eyes great pools of anxiety. ‘Yesterday. She’s been in all night.’
‘Oh, Roy,’ Sophie said. ‘Is she okay? What happened?’
‘Black ice on the front path,’ he said. His mouth trembled. ‘She was wearing high heels, the daft thing. High heels with black ice, I ask you! I did tell her she should put on some wellies but she wasn’t having any of it. Not Geraldine. “You’d have to chloroform me before you catch me wearing wellies in public,” she said.’
Jim caught his eye. ‘Women,’ he said knowingly, earning himself a nudge from Trish.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Sophie said, putting a hand on Roy’s arm. ‘Is she hurt? What did the doctors say? Oh – this is my mum and dad, by the way. Mum, Dad, this is Roy, he’s one of my students.’
Roy gave them a small, tense smile. You could tell his heart wasn’t really in it, though. ‘She’s fractured her pelvis,’ he said. ‘They kept her in overnight. I’ve just been back to pick up some clothes for her. She’s in a lot of pain.’
‘The poor thing,’ Trish said sympathetically. ‘Is there anything we can do to help?’
‘Yes, let me take your number, Roy,’ Sophie said, pulling out her phone. He looked as if his world had been tipped upside down and shaken out of all recognition. She remembered Geraldine saying they had no children (‘Not for want of trying, eh, Roy? But it wasn’t to be for us’) and wondered how they were going to manage. ‘Have you got any family around, or neighbours who’ll be able to help out?’
He was blinking as if the questions were all too much for him. He seemed so lost without garrulous, charming Geraldine beside him – older and more feeble, standing there in his coat and scarf. ‘Tell you what,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll walk round with you now, okay? Is that all right, Dad? Then I’ll meet you two in Cardio.’ She took Roy’s arm. ‘Come on. Tell me where we’re going and I’ll keep you company.’
Back home that evening, Sophie went straight to her laptop, determined to swallow her pride and respond to Dan’s Facebook update. Seeing Geraldine and Roy holding hands in the hospital ward and smiling into one another’s eyes, still besotted after all these years, had reminded her that true love did exist. It happened for some people – her parents were another shining example. Who was to say it couldn’t happen for her, too? If anyone was worth fighting for, it was Dan Collins.
It had been a good day overall, she thought, as she waited for the home page to load. She’d enjoyed her chat with Anna. Then at the hospital her dad had been discharged and told that he could go back to work on Monday. He hadn’t stopped smiling since. As for Geraldine – well, things weren’t so bright for her, unfortunately, with several weeks of bed-rest ahead and definitely no high heels for a while. And bless her, she was hardly recognizable with no make-up and a pair of flannel pyjamas on. But Sophie was glad that she’d bumped into Roy and could offer some practical support and comfort. She was already planning how she and the other members of the Italian class might be able to rally round.
On the way home from the hospital, her mind had teemed with possible replies to her ex-boyfriend’s I’m back in Manchester. Did you miss me? update. If she was going to reply (and she definitely was – faint heart never won fair bloke, and all that), then she had to come up with the perfect response: cool, funny, and just a tiny bit flirty, to let him know that hello, he was still in with half a chance. So what to write?
She discounted a blunt HELL, YES (too obvious), played around with a few witticisms punning on ‘Down Under’ (too crude), pondered on some in-jokes that nobody else would understand (up yours, Dan’s other friends) before deciding to keep things simple.
A straightforward, grown-up Dan! Welcome back. Hello from sunny Sheffield – that kind of thing. That would do the trick, wouldn’t it? Not a hint of bunny-boiler, yet subtly letting him know she was also in the UK.
Feeling quivery, she opened the browser and clicked through to Facebook. Back, back, back she scrolled through the timeline to find his message … there it was.
She frowned, the quivery feeling replaced by disappointment as she saw that twenty-three comments had already been left beneath his initial posting. Too slow off the mark, Sophie.
Gemma Blaine: Dude! Totally missed you. When can I get my hands on you again? xxxxx
Alice Harris: Dannyboy! Get your arse down the Tib pronto!
Eloise Winters: Course we did! RING ME!
Jade Nicholls: OMG DAN! Cannot WAIT to see you. Deffo missed you, babe. Big kisses.
Sophie couldn’t read any more. Kisses. Capital letters. Babe. Dude. Who were these women and what claims did they have over him?
She shut down the web page, her hand shaking on the mouse. Gemma and Alice and Eloise and Jade … she bet they were just the tip of the iceberg. Easy-going, handsome Dan must have been fighting them off for the last few years. And why had she ever though
t otherwise? She should have known.
Well, she was damned if she was going to add her name to the slavering harem. Dan had made it perfectly clear back in Sydney that all good things came to an end. He’d got it right first time.
Chapter Twenty-Three
All’ufficio – At the office
Trying to write a killer restaurant review with a hangover was one thing. Trying to write it with a hangover and an image of your boyfriend snogging another woman flashing through your brain approximately every thirty seconds was damn near impossible. Yet Anna’s copy needed to be on Imogen’s desk by four o’clock this afternoon: fact. And she knew that Marla, on returning to work, would go straight to Anna’s review like a heat-seeking missile hellbent on racking up a long, critical list of its faults. If there was a single lame sentence, Marla would cite this as conclusive evidence that Anna just wasn’t up to the job: fact.
Getting some fresh air and meeting Sophie helped some, especially as Sophie seemed so confident about her friend making a breakthrough when it came to the Gino-hunt. But all too soon she was back in her stuffy office, the screen in front of her maddeningly empty.
Enrico’s, the new Italian restaurant on Ecclesall Road, has a great atmosphere and lovely staff, she began, then immediately deleted it. Ugh. Wooden and forgettable. Try again.
Love Italian food? Then you’ll love Enrico’s, the new Italian restaurant on Ecclesall Road, she tried next. Also awful, she decided in the next moment, backspacing through the lot. Now she just sounded like a cheesy advert.
This was harder than she’d anticipated. That all-important first sentence was eluding her. Anna knew from previous Imogen lectures that you had approximately three lines to grab a reader. If you hadn’t hooked them in by then, they’d turn the page and ignore your carefully written piece. ‘You can have the most fascinating, brilliantly constructed article ever,’ Imogen liked saying, ‘but if the opening is shite, nobody will bother discovering its magnificence.’
Anna swigged the rest of her lukewarm coffee, trying to get into the right frame of mind. She never had this problem usually. Bloody Pete and his wandering tongue. Not only had he made her feel like a complete idiot, he was now inadvertently wrecking her career by distracting her from the job in hand.
‘Everything all right?’ said Joe, walking past just then. His expression was wary, as if he half-expected her to freak out and sprint away like she’d done the night before.
‘Yeah, fabulous,’ she replied sarcastically. ‘Couldn’t be better.’
He put his hands up. ‘Only asking,’ he said, then walked off.
Oh great. Now she’d driven him away when he was only being friendly. She opened her mouth to say sorry, she didn’t mean it, but then shut it again because he was already out of hearing range.
Heaving a sigh, she turned back to her computer, made the font of her title bigger, put it into bold, then made it smaller again and added the date. Then she put her name into italics and out again. Come on, Anna. Make a start. You can always go back and edit out the crap bits later. Just write, damn it!
Still her fingers hovered over the keys, refusing to tap out a single word. This was hopeless. Maybe she should just throw a sicky and go home. But then she’d have filed nothing for the review and Imogen would never give her another chance. Also, Marla would love it. Just imagine the gloating, the unbearable smugness. More difficult than it looks, isn’t it? Not everyone has the talent necessary for reviewing, unfortunately.
Thinking of Marla gave her an idea. How did she, the self-proclaimed queen of the Sheffield restaurant scene, do it? Anna opened the newspaper’s website and clicked through past reviews, hoping for inspiration.
Picture the scene: it’s Saturday night, I’m in my new dress from Republic and some seriously mega heels, out with my three besties all looking their finest. Where’s the best place in town for a group of women to go for some fabulous food in stylish surroundings? Well, funny you should ask that …
Anna pursed her lips. Marla’s style was all me-me-me, but even she had to admit it worked in its own way. It was a damn sight better than the plodding opening sentences she’d already tried and rejected, that was for sure.
Come on, Anna. You can do personal. You can do bubbly. Just bloody start writing, for heaven’s sake.
She lowered her fingers like a maestro about to launch into a difficult piano concerto, then at long last began to type.
‘Anna, it’s me. Pete.’
‘Come in.’ Anna held the door open for him then stepped back as he tried to put his arms around her. ‘Don’t.’
‘Anna, love, you’ve got it all wrong.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Her voice was Arctic, crackling with ice. ‘What was it again – a blowjob at your mum’s house? A quickie in the Greyhound toilets? That’s lovely, that is, Pete. That’s total class.’ She folded her arms across her chest and stuck her nose in the air. ‘Just take your stuff and go.’
Shock and fear filled his eyes. His jaw dropped. Gotcha. ‘What do you mean? How did you … ?’ he stammered.
‘Your laptop,’ she said curtly. ‘All there in black and white for anyone to read. Anyone with half a brain cell who could guess your password, that is.’
His face sagged like a fallen cheese soufflé. ‘I … I … I was only mucking around,’ he pleaded. ‘It didn’t mean anything.’
‘Don’t make it worse.’ She grabbed her handbag. ‘I’m going out now. I’ll give you half an hour to clear your stuff then I never want to see you again. Got that?’
‘But Anna …’
‘Bye, Pete.’
She walked briskly out of her flat and down to the Lescar, where for thirty torturous minutes she sat on her own at a corner table with a pint of Guinness and tried her hardest not to cry.
When she returned home, every last trace of Pete had vanished, bar a note on the table.
Sorry, Anna. Then he’d started writing If you ever … only to change his mind and cross it out. Huh. She could only guess at what he’d been about to say.
If you ever want a shag, give us a ring.
If you ever feel desperate, call me.
If you ever decide you’ve made a mistake, you know where to find me.
Yeah, right. Hell would freeze over first.
If Anna thought a line had now been drawn under the traumas of the week, she was sadly mistaken. As soon as she arrived at work the next day, before she’d even taken off her coat, Imogen was on her case.
‘A word, please, Anna,’ she said in that crisp, no-nonsense way that immediately struck terror into your soul.
Oh God, Anna thought, following her boss into her office. Now what? It was that restaurant review, she could feel it in her bones. Imogen hated it. Imogen was regretting asking her to cover for Marla. Imogen was going to—
‘It’s the restaurant review,’ Imogen began, as if reading Anna’s mind. ‘I’m disappointed, I must say. I was hoping for something zingier, with a bit more punch.’
‘Zingier, with a bit more punch,’ Anna repeated dully.
‘Yes, Anna, the lovely zingy sort of punch that you manage in your cookery column. It’s glaringly absent this time. What went wrong? Any clues? Were you ill? Were you drunk? Had someone slipped you some Valium? You blew it.’
Whoa. Why don’t you just come straight out with it, Anna thought, wincing. She opened her mouth, wondering whether or not to pour out her lovelife sorrows on her boss’s powder-blue padded shoulder. It took her less than a second to decide Not. Imogen was about as touchy-feely as an alligator. ‘Sorry,’ she said feebly. ‘Must have been having an off day. I’ll give it another try.’
‘You do that. And bring in the personal touch this time. Less of the meh, give me your voice. Make it your story, okay? I’ve promised the subs they can have it by midday, so you’d better get on the case. Clock’s ticking.’ She spun on her chair to do something on her Mac, so Anna took the hint and scuttled away.
Yuck. It was like redoing hom
ework. As a journalist, you could never be too precious about your writing – it inevitably got corrected, tweaked, cut – and that was fine; that was part of the job. Being asked to start from scratch on something was a completely different matter. Her sole consolation was that Marla wasn’t there to witness this humiliating walk of shame back to her desk.
She re-read her rejected review, spirits sinking. In all fairness, Imogen was right to sack it. The whole thing was pretty turgid, reviewing-by-numbers at its worst: I ate this, my companion ate this, the restaurant was like this.
Okay. But that was yesterday’s attempt. Today she’d crack it. In two hours and forty minutes, no less. If Imogen wanted zing and punch and the personal touch, she’d bloody well give her the lot.
If you’ve been reading my cookery column recently, she began, you’ll know I’m a sucker for Italian food. So when I was offered the chance to review Enrico’s, the new Italian restaurant on Ecclesall Road, I’d booked myself a table before you can say ‘bruschetta’.
She paused. Good. That would do it. What next? Make it personal, Imogen had said. Personal. Okay. Then she remembered Pete’s lie about not being able to come to the restaurant with her, and her eyes narrowed. Should she drag Pete into the review, make him part of ‘the story’? Imogen might be furious with her for straying beyond her remit. This is meant to be a piece about food, not your private life, for goodness sake, Anna could imagine her snapping. But on the other hand, she might love it. And what better way to lure in a reader than with the added spice of some real-life gossip?
It sounded a perfect place to spend a romantic evening, but unfortunately my boyfriend claimed he was busy, Anna typed. Shame! Just as well—
She hesitated, knowing that Pete’s mum read the weekend edition of the paper, cover to cover, as did his workmates. Oh, knickers to the lot of them, she thought. He’d brought this on himself.
