‘Well, you’ve got a lovely place here,’ says Davina awkwardly.
‘Oh, this?’ I reply. ‘We’ve been here a while, haven’t we, Henry?’
‘Four years.’
We carry on staring at each other, grinning.
‘You’re home early,’ Henry says. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Oh.’ I look at my watch and pretend I hadn’t noticed the time. ‘Oh, yeah. Fine.’
‘Did you have a date?’
‘Hmmm? A date? Well, yeah, kind of. Not really. I was out with people from work. It was dull, to be honest.’
‘How come you’re home at this time?’
‘I wasn’t feeling well.’ I trot out another lie.
‘Oh?’ asks Henry.
‘A bit . . . queasy,’ I improvise. ‘Quite a lot queasy actually. Can’t imagine what it could be.’
‘Oh God,’ breathes Davina, ‘my flatmate came home early last Saturday feeling queasy and she’s discovered she’s pregnant.’
I glare at her.
‘It’s spooky,’ she continues. ‘She said exactly the same as you: that she felt queasy but couldn’t imagine what it could be. Found out three days later she’s expecting.’
‘I’m not pregnant,’ I say flatly.
‘Are you sure?’ asks Davina, looking genuinely concerned. ‘Are you retaining water?’
‘No,’ I reply firmly.
‘You know, my friend was the last person I’d ever suspect would get pregnant, yet she has. I’d double-check if I were you.’
‘Really, I’m not pregnant.’ I laugh, as lightly as possible.
‘You can get the tests from the supermarket these days – they’re less than a tenner, which is worth it for the peace of mind.’
‘I don’t need peace of mind – I’m not pregnant,’ I tell her.
Davina looks at me pityingly. ‘Only, if you are then they say it’s best facing up to things early on. That way, you can keep your options open. Being in denial is the worst thing for it – that’s what they say.’
‘Honestly,’ I insist, feeling rather frustrated now. ‘I’m one hundred per cent certain I’m not pregnant.’
‘Well, that’s what Lucinda thought, but—’
‘Look,’ I shriek, throwing my arms up, ‘I’ve had about as much sex lately as the founder member of a pro-chastity group, so unless there’s been an immaculate conception I AM NOT PREGNANT!’
The room falls silent. Davina is dumbfounded. Henry shifts uncomfortably.
‘Perhaps we should get out of your way.’ He stands and takes Davina by the hand. ‘I was planning to show Davina my . . .’
Henry stops speaking as it dawns on him that I may not want to know what he’s about to show Davina.
‘No. I’ll get out of your way.’ I back out of the room. ‘Sorry, I . . . I’m sorry.’
As I get to my bedroom and throw myself onto the bed, I look at a crack in the ceiling, feeling thoroughly depressed. A minute later, there’s a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ I say, sitting up.
Henry walks in and shuts the door behind him.
‘Haven’t you got a guest to entertain?’ I ask as he sits at the end of the bed.
‘She’ll be okay for two minutes. Did something happen tonight?’
‘Oh Henry, don’t ask,’ I say, then regret it immediately because I’m desperate to talk. ‘I had another crap date. The worst. I nearly killed someone.’
‘Are you serious?’ His eyes widen. ‘What did you do?’
I fill him in on all the gory detail and he sits, listening as patiently and sympathetically as ever. ‘The worst thing is,’ I say, ‘it was going so well before the false nail disaster. He’d even asked me to go fencing with him . . .’ My voice trails off.
He frowns. ‘Fencing? That’s an odd choice of date.’
‘Hmmm . . . yes,’ I say sheepishly.
A look of recognition flashes on his face. ‘You told him you could fence.’
‘I . . .’ I am about to protest but realize immediately that there’s no point.
‘Lucy, can I make a suggestion?’ he asks.
‘Why not?’ I shrug.
‘The thing with the nail was unfortunate, but sometimes things happen that are beyond your control – and there’s no point worrying about them. It’s the things that are in your control that you need to think about.’
‘What do you mean?’
He looks me in the eyes. ‘You’ve got to stop lying to these people, Lucy.’
The bluntness of the statement punches me in the stomach. I suddenly feel embarrassed – and defensive.
‘I don’t lie, Henry,’ I protest. ‘I just . . . just . . . okay, I admit I have been known to exaggerate. Slightly. But it’s no more than that.’
He frowns. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Of course I’m—’ Then I stop, mid-flow, and sniff. ‘No,’ I say meekly. ‘I’m not sure. You’re right, Henry.’
Tears well in my eyes and he leans over and holds my hand.
‘I don’t know what makes me do it,’ I whimper. ‘Desperation, I suppose. I just want one of these bloody dates to go well. For someone to think I’m special enough to want to see again.’
‘Lucy, what have I been telling you?’ Henry says. ‘You’re special enough as you are. Lying gets you nowhere – can’t you see?’
‘In the cold light of day, of course,’ I mumble. I look down at his hand, squeezing mine, then back at his eyes. He lets go and stands up.
‘I’d better get back to Davina.’ He heads to the door. ‘But think about it, won’t you? Face up to what you’re doing – and stop it.’
‘Okay,’ I sniff.
He looks into the hall, then back at me. ‘Are you going to be all right?’
I nod. ‘Course. Get back to your . . . to Davina.’
He smiles and leaves, shutting the door behind him.
I’ve never felt so desperate to continue talking. To analyse this ludicrous compulsion I have to tell giant porkies to everyone I go out with. And I’m desperate for Henry to tell me that, despite everything, he still loves me; that I’m still his best friend in the world.
But as the sound of Davina’s giggling seeps through the cracks in my door, I pull my pillow over my head and curse myself for ever having thought up Project Henry.
Thanks to my bright idea, my one successful relationship with a bloke is slipping through my fingers. And I can’t do a thing about it.
Chapter 53
Something strange is going on with my mother.
It’s Monday lunchtime and I’ve nipped into John Lewis. I’m testing out a Clinique lipstick when I glance over and there she is. My mum. At Elizabeth Arden. With not one but three items in her hand.
I know most people wouldn’t find this suspicious, but my mother does not frequent upmarket cosmetic counters at department stores. She buys her make-up from her mate Julie down the road and always has. Her idea of a luxury skin product is a bottle of Skin So Soft from Avon, which she’s been buying since about 1961.
I have to know what’s going on.
I march up to Mum and tap her on the shoulder. She almost drops a jar of anti-cellulite cream.
‘What’s up?’ I say.
She gasps. ‘Wha— Lucy, you nearly gave me a heart-attack!’
‘You don’t normally get your make-up from places like this, do you?’
‘I was just having a look.’ Her shoulders stiffen.
‘You look like you’re buying them.’
She frowns. ‘So what if I am, Inspector bloody Clouseau?’
I uncross my arms. ‘It’s out of character, that’s all. What would Julie say?’
‘I’ve gone off Avon lately,’ she says quietly, picking up a tube of eye-cream.
I am taken aback. ‘She’ll be distraught.’
‘No, she won’t. I hardly think me not buying a two-pack of talc every six months is going to put Julie out of business.’
‘Don’t get me wrong – it
’s nice to see you spending some money on yourself for a change.’
‘Well, you’d never guess. All I’ve done is come in here for some bits and bobs and it’s like being interrogated at Guantanamo Bay.’
‘Sorry. I was just surprised to see you here.’
‘Instead of chained to the kitchen sink, you mean?’ Without waiting for an answer, she goes off to pay for her goodies. They come to more than sixty pounds and she hands over her Barclaycard without hesitation. I have to stop myself from doing a double-take.
‘Have you had lunch?’ I ask as we head outside.
‘Not yet. I was going to grab something and eat it on the bus.’
‘Have you time for a sandwich? My treat,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve only got half an hour though.’
The café is busy but Mum and I manage to get a table next to the door. I take a bite of my chicken and pesto wrap while she stirs four packets of sweetener into her tea. Mum has always had a sweet tooth. If someone hadn’t invented Aspartame she’d be the size of an eight-berth motorhome by now.
‘Have you had your hair done?’ I ask, realizing that the new make-up isn’t the only thing different about her.
Her neck reddens. ‘Yeah. Trevor Sorbie himself came round to put my Nice ’n’ Easy on. Can you tell?’
Despite the sarcasm, it’s immediately obvious that Mum’s new highlights are not the result of a home kit. They’re too professional. But if she doesn’t want to confess, I’m not going to force her.
‘How did your date go on Saturday?’ She takes a bite of her sandwich.
‘Don’t ask,’ I tell her. She waits for me to elaborate. ‘I mean it, really don’t ask.’
She shrugs. ‘Shame you’re not having as much luck as Henry these days. Did I tell you our Dave saw him last week? He barely recognized him. But then, six months ago you’d never have guessed Henry’d be going out with some leggy blonde, would you?’
‘He was with a blonde?’ I didn’t even know there was a blonde on the scene. I assumed brunettes were his speciality.
Mum looks at me and pauses. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’
‘Mother!’ I shriek.
‘Sorry. Calm down. I was only joking.’
‘Well, good. For the record, no, I am not jealous. Of course I’m not jealous.’
‘Fine. “Of course she’s not jealous”,’ she mimics.
I take another bite and look out of the window. ‘Is Denise still dragging you to salsa dancing, by the way?’ I ask.
She nods, refusing to give anything away by her expression. I find myself smirking.
‘That’s about three months you’ve been going now,’ I point out. ‘Not bad going, considering it’s “crap”. That was what you said, wasn’t it?’
She gives me another look – a warning one this time. ‘It’s all right. That’s as far as I’m prepared to go.’
‘I might come myself one night.’
‘Don’t you dare!’ she leaps in. ‘I mean it. I’m not having you turning up and taking the piss.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ I protest. ‘I’m genuinely interested, that’s all.’
‘Yeah? Well, stick to being genuinely interested somewhere else, if that’s okay.’
‘Fine,’ I mutter.
‘Oh, I meant to say,’ she says, deliberately changing the subject, ‘thanks for the anniversary card.’
‘No problem. I’m guessing Dave didn’t bother.’
‘Dave? Your bloody father didn’t bother, never mind your brother.’
I know this shouldn’t surprise me – Dad has always been like this. Mum used to get anniversary cards from him, but we knew that Nana Hilda bought them, a fact confirmed when they dried up the year she died. While I know plenty of men are the same, part of me can’t help feeling cross on her behalf.
‘Doesn’t it annoy you that Dad never buys you an anniversary card?’
‘I knew when I married him I wasn’t getting Omar Sharif,’ she says.
‘He should still send you a card,’ I grumble. ‘I’m going to tell him.’
She laughs. ‘Don’t waste your breath. It’s not a big deal anyway.’
‘But surely it—’
‘Look, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years it’s that men never change. And if you attempt to change them, you’re on a hiding to nothing.’
‘I wish someone would tell Henry that. He’s unrecognizable these days.’
‘Yeah, well,’ she says, ‘he always has been a bit different, hasn’t he?’
Chapter 54
I am starting to feel so frustrated about things between Henry and me that I decide it’s time to take action. Only as I come home and find the flat empty again, I acknowledge that it’s easier said than done. Throwing my keys on the hall table I wander through to the bathroom. With two empty bottles of conditioner lingering in the shower and toothpaste barnacles encrusted on the sink, it’s more neglected than usual. The same thought strikes me in the kitchen as I wipe away the crumbs under the toaster and begin to wash the coffee cups abandoned in the sink.
Then I realize the difference: Henry. Our division of labour used to be perfectly clear cut though we’d never officially designated jobs to each other: I’d cook dinner – because I enjoyed it – and he’d look after the housework – because I didn’t. He’s got better things to do these days than mop up after me.
I grab my mobile and dial Henry’s number. He answers straight away. ‘Hello, Lucy, how’s it going?’
‘Fine. Where are you?’
‘Driving. But it’s okay, I’m on the hands-free. What’s up?’
‘Will you be home tonight?’
‘Should be, but not until late. I’ve got a rugby match then I’ll probably go for a couple of drinks with the guys. Why do you ask? Is everything okay?’
‘Yeah. I just wondered . . .’ There’s a pause as I consider how to put this without turning it into a big deal.
‘What is it?’ Henry asks.
We might be living virtually separate lives these days but his instinctive ability to pick up on the nuances of my mood is as sharp as ever.
‘I feel as if I hardly see you,’ I confess. ‘We’ve been friends for so long I’d hate it if . . . you know, things changed between us. It’d be nice to spend some time with you again, that’s all.’
I feel like a saddo saying this, but I can’t help myself. I cringe as soon as my sentence is over.
‘I know what you’re saying and I agree,’ he replies. ‘We’ve hardly seen each other lately – and we should do something to change it.’
‘Good,’ I say, comforted by his response.
‘This is all your own doing, you know,’ he tells me. ‘I’d still be sat at home on my own if you hadn’t devised Project Henry.’
‘Yeah,’ I chuckle.
‘When do you want to do something?’
‘How about Friday?’ I suggest excitedly. ‘I could cook, like the old days, then we could slob out in front of the television and talk rubbish like we used to and—’
‘Friday could be difficult,’ he interrupts.
‘Oh, right. You’ve got a date.’
‘Not a date exactly. Though I am going out with someone.’
‘Sounds like a date to me.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘Hey, Lucy, stop quizzing me about my love-life,’ he laughs. ‘How about Saturday instead?’
‘I’ll have to check my diary.’ Who am I trying to kid? My Saturday nights couldn’t be less action-packed if I’d spent them in a padded cell. ‘Though I’m pretty sure I’m not doing anything,’ I add, before he changes his mind.
‘Great. Saturday night it is, then. I’ll look forward to it.’
Chapter 55
Every organization needs a good PR woman. But there are times when they need us more than others. For one of my biggest clients – Peach Gear, a fashion chain for twelve- to sixteen-year-olds – it’s one of those times. With knob
s on.
I knew it as soon as I saw the expression on the face of Janine Nixon, their Chief Executive, at the start of my meeting with her and her Marketing Director, Phil McEwan. The venue they chose is JD’s dockside café, an establishment famed for its bacon sandwiches but not, judging by the peeling wallpaper, its interior design.
I take a sip of tea and am surprised to discover it tastes better here than in the coffee shop next to the office. What they lack here in baristas, they make up for in value – nothing on the menu costs more than it did in 1972.
Still, it’s the last place you’d expect to find Janine and Phil. My Peach Gear meetings have always, until now, taken place in their swanky fourteenth-floor boardroom, where I’ve sipped Italian coffee from Villeroy & Boch cups and admired the view.
It can only mean one thing.
‘We’re in a spot of trouble,’ says Janine, wiping off the egg yolk she’s picked up on the sleeve of her Armani suit.
‘Whatever it is, I’m your woman,’ I reply confidently. I am hoping to impress Janine, whom I have only met once before. Until now, she’s always left Phil to handle media matters. ‘I’ve dealt with all manner of crisis situations in my years with Peaman-Brown.’
She takes a deep breath. ‘This is certainly a crisis situation.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, we’ll go through the issues involved, draw up a plan, and you can count on me to implement it.’
Janine looks happier already. I smile. ‘So – what’s the problem?’
Phil and Janine exchange looks.
As I know, Phil says, Peach Gear has a long-standing and very public commitment to ethical trading.
At least, they thought they had a commitment to ethical trading. Three days ago, they discovered that a supplier had been hand-finishing sequinned vests, not in a strictly-regulated factory in Delhi like they thought, but a back street in Bangalore. Worse, they’ve been using children aged eleven, which is illegal, immoral and reprehensible by most standards. The team at Peach Gear are devastated, they tell me.
‘So you had no inkling of this?’ I ask the question as if this is part of the process, but I want to suss out whether they really knew nothing. While crisis management is often a dirty job, I won’t defend the indefensible.
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