‘I’ve got to be there for six-thirty,’ I say, popping my head round the door.
‘Did you want a lift?’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all . . . oh, nice look.’
I’m sporting a headful of bendy rollers that make me look like a great, pink, re-incarnation of Medusa.
‘I’ve always thought this headgear was under-rated,’ I say, touching the rollers. ‘Oh, is that my phone?’
I have a permanent mental block over where I’ve left my mobile and have often thought about attaching it to the end of a piece of string then threading it through my coat-sleeves like Mum used to do with my mittens. Someone should patent the idea. Put something like that on Dragon’s Den and they’d be chomping at the bit.
‘Oh God, what have I done with it?’ I ask, throwing cushions and magazines on the floor in a desperate attempt to locate the ringing. ‘Hang on, it sounds as if it’s in the hallway.’
‘Kitchen,’ says Henry.
‘Are you sure?’ I scuttle out. ‘There must be something funny going on with the acoustics in this place because I could have sworn—’
I spot the mobile in the kitchen, next to the kettle, and dive to answer it, but it rings off before I do. I look down and see Paul’s number marked missed call.
I press redial, but first he’s engaged, then the phone goes onto messages. After three attempts, my phone rings again. It’s my voicemail.
Hi, Lucy, it’s Paul. Sorry to have to do this so late but something’s come up and I can’t make it tonight. Unavoidable, I’m afraid. Hope it doesn’t cause too much of a problem. Speak soon. Bye.
‘Oh God,’ I groan. ‘What am I supposed to do now?’
‘Something the matter?’ Henry squeezes past me to flick on the kettle.
‘I . . . um . . . yes. I’ve been stood up.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be leaving in an hour?’
I look at my watch. ‘Forty-five minutes. Oh God.’
‘What happened to your date?’
‘It was unavoidable,’ I tell him. ‘Really unavoidable. Family business. Paul didn’t go into detail, but it sounded serious. And he was so apologetic. I mean, really apologetic.’
Henry continues to frown.
‘I’m going to look like an idiot turning up without a date. And Roger will be furious at paying a hundred odd quid for a place that’s now going to sit empty. This is a nightmare.’
‘Could Dominique go with you?’ asks Henry.
‘She’s already going – on someone else’s table.’
‘What about Erin?’
‘At her grandma’s seventy-fourth birthday party,’ I continue. ‘Anyone would do at this stage. Anyone.’
Henry pauses. ‘I’m not doing anything.’
I think for a second. ‘You’re right. You’re not, are you? Okay, Henry, let’s see how you look in a tuxedo.’
Chapter 27
It turns out that Henry looks rather good in a tuxedo. Really rather good. I was surprised – and relieved – to hear that he owned such an item, but then I remembered him buying it last year after being nominated for some science award at a ceremony in London.
I never saw him at the time, so can’t make comparisons. But tonight, his skin is cleanshaven and smells of an alluring aftershave, the tux gives his already substantial frame more stature, and his hair has been carefully ruffled in a way that would do Anton proud.
As our taxi pulls up outside St George’s Hall, Henry steps out to open the door for me and it strikes me how he looks – to use my mother’s phrase – ‘the part’.
I’ve been to loads of events here since the hall was restored, but it never ceases to take my breath away. From its Corinthian columns to its imposing steps, the never-ending fluted pillars to the colossal bronze statues, there’s nothing understated about this place. In fact, it’s as flashy as they come – nineteenth-century style.
We head into the main hall, which is the epitome of Victorian opulence, all chandeliers and friezes, Minton tiles and Arabesques. The event organizers hardly have to try to decorate this place: nothing more than the crispest white linen and elegant fresh flowers are required.
‘You seem more relaxed tonight than you were at that bar the other week,’ I tell him. ‘What’s your secret?’
‘No secret,’ he laughs, picking up two flutes of champagne and handing me one. ‘It’s nice to be out without the pressure to get someone’s phone number. Without having to perform.’
‘You never know, you might meet someone tonight who—’
‘No, Lucy,’ he interrupts. ‘Tonight, I’m having a break. Being myself.’
‘That’s all anyone wanted you to be,’ I tell him.
I feel a hand on my elbow and turn around to see Roger Peaman, my boss. He’s trimmed his beard tonight and looks rather dapper.
‘Lucy, how’re things?’ He kisses me on the cheek.
‘Great, Roger. Have you met Henry?’
‘Lovely to meet you.’ Roger shakes Henry’s hand. ‘You’re the optician, right?’
‘Oh no, Roger, that’s Paul. He couldn’t make it.’
‘I believe you’re in the running for an award,’ Henry says, removing the need for Roger to feel awkward.
‘Best Marketing, PR or Advertising Agency,’ Roger beams. The award has been on his mind for weeks. He tries to pretend he’s not bothered but is about as good at nonchalance as a four-year-old on Christmas Eve.
‘Of course, there’s a lot of competition. About twenty firms are in the running. Still, it’s nice to hear people say we stand a chance.’
‘Of course we stand a chance, Roger – we’re the best,’ I say.
My boss chuckles and nods to Henry. ‘I dread to think what she says behind my back.’
Roger is soon off working the room and we’re joined by Tom Mathews, a young design company entrepreneur, and a glamorous brunette called Rachel, who I assume is his latest squeeze.
Tom’s company is one of Dominique’s clients. She’s managed to foster an extremely positive client-agency relationship, despite (or perhaps because of) flings with Tom, his Marketing Director and his Creative Director.
‘How are things, Tom?’ I kiss him on the cheek. ‘Is Dominique keeping you satisfied these days?’
As the words escape from my mouth I realize how inappropriate they are in the presence of his girlfriend, and blush. Tom doesn’t seem to mind.
‘You know Dominique,’ he replies with a cheeky smile. ‘She takes a personal interest in keeping us all satisfied. What line of business are you in, Henry?’
‘Nothing like anyone here, I’m sure,’ says Henry, clearly self-conscious. ‘I work for the Tropical Medicine Research Centre.’
‘Really? How fascinating,’ gasps Rachel. ‘I used to live next door to one of the senior people there – Professor Stevens?’
‘I know him well.’ Henry’s eyes light up. ‘I’d consider him a mentor. Fantastic guy. He’s retired now.’
‘I know,’ she replies. ‘It’s years since I lived next to him, but I tell you . . . some of the work you do there – I take my hat off to you, honestly.’
Henry’s self-consciousness starts to melt away.
‘Henry’s working on a cure for malaria,’ I add proudly.
‘Really?’ sighs Rachel. ‘That’s amazing. You make what anyone else in this room does feel trivial.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ laughs Henry, flashing a look at Tom.
‘Don’t worry,’ grins Tom. ‘She’s right. Besides, I never argue with my little sister.’
‘Oh, you’re sister and brother?’ I ask.
‘I’m afraid so,’ she jokes. ‘Ooh, I must go and catch up with Nick Dickinson. Henry – I have to sit next to you at dinner. I’m dying to hear more about what you do.’
When Tom and Rachel are out of earshot, I turn to Henry. ‘You’ve won a fan.’
‘I know.’ Henry widens his eyes in astonishment. ‘I don’t know how that
happened.’
We are soon mingling among the guests and I detect a change in Henry. It might be slight, but it’s there all right. Instead of the nervy chap we dragged to the bar the other week, tonight’s Henry is distinctly self-assured. Not too much, though: he has the right balance of confidence and self-deprecation, of assertiveness and niceness. Deciding he’s not here to pick someone up has done wonders.
‘How’s Loverboy?’ says Dominique, as she marches over and slaps him playfully on the bum.
Henry shakes his head in amusement. ‘If that slap was the other way round, you could have me arrested for sexual assault.’
‘I’d never do that to you, Henry. You can smack my arse whenever the mood takes you. What are you doing here, anyway? I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.’
‘Paul had some urgent family business,’ I mutter. ‘He couldn’t make it at the last minute.’
‘Hope you’re going to make him pay for that.’
‘Oh, I’m certain it was genuine,’ I leap in, ‘and he was really apologetic.’
‘Good,’ she says. ‘Though, looking at Henry tonight, I think you’ve ended up with a better date anyway.’
Chapter 28
Political correctness gets a lot of stick these days. But when you come across men like David Carruthers, you’re reminded why it was invented.
With facial hair like an Old English Sheepdog and a semipermanent dribble, Carruthers is the conspicuously wealthy owner of various manufacturing businesses – two of which Peaman-Brown represent. He is also the sleaziest man you could meet, someone who, given the choice, I wouldn’t sit within a mile of, never mind next to.
I hadn’t realized men like him existed until I attended a similar event a couple of years ago and spotted him groping the backside of Savilles’ Head of Finance.
She responded by spinning round and slapping him across the face in a move that could win her a part in Kung Fu Panda. Unfortunately, this only encouraged him. After twenty minutes of fighting him off, she gave up and left, leaving the other guests – male and female – appalled. Yet no one wanted to step in. Somehow, he got away with it. I don’t know how, but he did.
‘Lucky old me, next to the prettiest girl in the room,’ he slobbers, invading so much of my personal space someone should call NATO.
I smile uneasily and inch my chair closer to Henry’s.
‘Here – would you like a menu?’ I thrust the cardboard at Carruthers, hoping its presence between us will send him a clear message. Instead, he grabs it and discards it, before thrusting his elbows on the table and leaning towards me. When I find out who arranged this seating-plan I’m going to throttle them.
‘You’re one of those lovely PR girlies at Peaman-Brown, are you?’ He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes sweat from his beetrooty brow.
‘I work in PR, but have never classed myself as a “girlie”,’ I reply with a ball-breaking glare. I can’t help myself, despite him being one of our clients.
‘Are you a secretary?’ he asks.
‘Apart from Roger Peaman himself, I’m the most senior member of staff here.’
‘Hahahahahahhaha! We’ve got a feisty one here!’ He winks at Bob McIntyre, the boss of a shipping company, on his left. ‘Dontcha love ’em?’
I glance in desperation at Henry, who is seated on my right. But with Rachel, his one-woman fan club, to his right it’s clear he isn’t in a position to talk. Carruthers grabs a bottle of red wine and splashes it haphazardly into my glass, before starting on his own.
‘Come on, let’s get plastered,’ he snorts, nudging me in the ribs.
‘I don’t drink red,’ I say flatly.
‘What?’ he bellows. ‘You should. It’s been scientifically proven to give women stronger orgasms.’
‘Is that right?’ I say coldly, as Bob McIntyre shifts uncomfortably. He’s obviously toying with the idea of rescuing me, but hasn’t worked out how without making a scene.
‘Not that any woman needs to worry about that with me around. Hahahhahhahahha!’ He slaps his hand on the table, delighted at his own wit, as I inch even closer to Henry.
‘White wine, madam?’ asks a waiter.
‘Please,’ I nod, taking a large sip as soon as he’s filled my glass.
I’m about to get up and excuse myself to go to the ladies, when everyone is asked to take their seats, if they haven’t already.
‘Greeeaat! Just what everyone needs,’ Carruthers scoffs. ‘Five hours of speeches from a load of boring businessmen. We need to make our own entertainment,’ he adds, leaning towards me and winking again.
I shift my chair so violently I almost cause a four-person pile-up involving Henry, Rachel and the two guests to her right. ‘Sorry,’ I whisper, but Rachel doesn’t look as if she minds.
The awards are longer and duller than previous years. That at least means Carruthers doesn’t have the opportunity to open his mouth much – except to make juvenile comments about ‘women on top’ when any of the award-winners are female.
As the night wears on, my thoughts drift to Paul’s message. At first I’d taken it at face value, that something important had come up. Now I’m starting to wonder. Has he gone off me because I was crap at walking up mountains? He obviously didn’t believe I’d done Snowdon last month. Or, worse, perhaps he thought my injury wasn’t as bad as I said. Maybe he’s got me down as a hypochondriac. Hang on a minute: what a cheek! Who’s he to make judgements about my injuries? He’s not a qualified medic. I feel a flash of indignation, before reminding myself that my foot couldn’t have been healthier if it belonged to an Olympic sprinter.
A thought strikes me. I should text him. To say something subtle and easygoing – but caring at the same time, in case the emergency is as important as I told everyone.
I slip out my phone and start texting.
Hope everything’s ok. Shame u couldn’t come – is a gr8 nite!
I switch it on to silent and place the phone next to my side plate, flashing Roger a look as if I’m expecting a crucial call from The Times newsdesk. Clearly, the only thing on his mind is his award nomination, as it barely registers.
I wait patiently for a response, drifting in and out of a daze between awards. But an hour later, I am forced to accept: Paul is not going to respond.
Chapter 29
The awards drag so much I’m almost catatonic by the time that the ‘Best PR, Marketing or Advertising Agency’ is about to be announced. I glance in Roger’s direction to give him a supportive thumbs-up. Except his seat is empty.
‘Where’s Roger?’ I mouth.
The woman to his right, a retail park chief executive, gives a bewildered shrug. Whispers are exchanged across the table. People start to look agitated. The strongest theory is that Roger stepped outside to take a phone call a couple of minutes ago, but hasn’t been seen since.
‘Choosing the winner of Best PR, Marketing or Advertising Agency was a particularly difficult task for our judges,’ says the presenter, a cheerful, prematurely-balding building society executive. ‘The competition in this sector has become stiff in recent years, with an aggressive rate of new business start-ups making it a particularly buoyant – but demanding – industry.’
‘What if we win?’ I hiss to no one in particular. ‘Who’ll collect the award?’
‘Looks like that’ll be you! Hahahhhhha!’ laughs Carruthers, tucking into a plate piled high with booty from the cheeseboard.
‘But I can’t.’ My stomach goes into freefall. ‘I hate speeches. I can’t do them. I just can’t.’
‘The agency chosen demonstrated all the factors critical to success in this sector: impressive profit growth, a good spread of customers from different sectors and a high level of creative expertise that ensures every one of its clients is promoted to the full.’
I spin round, seeking help. My mouth is suddenly so dry it feels as if I’ve been gargling with sand.
‘Don’t worry,’ whispers Henry, sensing my panic, ‘there
are twenty agencies up for this award.’
‘And the winner is . . .’
The presenter opens his gold envelope and I bite my fist so hard I almost take a chunk out.
‘Relax, Lucy,’ continues Henry. ‘You probably won’t—’
‘Peaman-Brown PR!’
A spotlight swirls across the room as 600 guests begin a lacklustre but somehow still deafening applause. I squint as the light shines in my eyes and hold my hand over my forehead. Every guest on the table is looking at me.
‘Lucy,’ Henry murmurs, ‘I think you’re going to have to go up.’
‘No way,’ I reply numbly. ‘I can’t move.’
This is no exaggeration. Despite nine pairs of eyes imploring me to stand and walk to the stage, my legs couldn’t be less inclined to service me if I’d had an epidural.
As the applause dies down, there’s a bewildered hush across the room. The only sound that can be heard is my heartbeat, which thunders in my ears like I’ve spent the weekend next to the speakers at a hardcore dance festival.
‘Er . . . Peaman-Brown, are you out there?’ laughs the presenter nervously. The audience titters.
‘Come on, girlie! I thought you were the most senior person here!’ Carruthers guffaws, spraying semi-chewed Stilton and Digestive biscuit.
‘Lucy, you’re going to have to do this,’ Henry tells me. I look at him in desperation. He smiles supportively. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Can’t you go?’ I whimper.
He pauses. ‘Do you want me to?’
I am about to say yes. I know Henry will do it for me, without a shadow of a doubt.
Then I realize how ridiculous that would be: my flatmate collecting a gong on behalf of my company, a company he has nothing to do with. I owe it to myself, to Peaman-Brown, and to my mentor, Roger Peaman himself, to do this. Despite the fact that I could happily kick him for disappearing.
‘Don’t worry, I’m going.’ I rise to my feet.
The spotlight swirls and lands on me decisively. Music belts out in what’s clearly the sound engineer’s attempt to whip up the audience again. Sure enough, they start clapping.
My Single Friend Page 12
