The Doris Day Vintage Film Club

by Fiona Harper

  For a second he stayed rooted to the spot, but then he was off and out of his flat, computer forgotten. The front door banged a second time.

  He’d chosen his wardrobe for this morning carefully. Running shorts and shoes, which he intended to use, and he’d topped it off with a hoodie. He’d probably get a bit warm, but the anonymity it would afford him was worth it. He flicked the hood up over his head as he got to the end of the garden path and cleared the box hedge that ran behind the garden wall. It was getting a bit messy, he noticed. He’d have to see if he could borrow a pair of clippers off Pete …

  He quickly looked left and right. For a moment, he thought he’d been too slow, that he’d lost her, but then he spotted Claire walking briskly towards the main road that ran across the end of their street, where there was a couple of cafés, a convenience store, a newsagent’s, a florist’s and an Indian takeaway.

  In recent weeks, he’d grown used to darting off in the opposite direction from whichever one Claire had chosen, but this morning he set off after her. He wanted to jog, but he knew he’d catch up to her too quickly, so tried to keep his paces really, really short and stopped to do stretches every now and then, ignoring the quizzical looks of an old lady with a shopping trolley who was taking great interest in his progress.

  God, he’d be rubbish as a spy. If Pete could have seen him now he’d have laughed his socks off.

  Claire turned left at the end of the road, confirming his suspicion she was heading for the shops. Which one, though? He suddenly broke into a sprint so he could reach the corner before she disappeared inside one of them. His quads didn’t thank him for it.

  Once he got there, he jogged on the spot and kept an eye on her blonde head, not fifty feet away, as it made its progress down the road. The old lady with the shopping trolley passed him as he huffed and puffed on the spot, waiting for the moment when Claire would be far enough away that he could resume his surveillance without the danger of getting caught.

  ‘Pervert,’ the old lady muttered as she trundled past.

  Dominic stopped jogging and looked quite affronted. ‘Am not!’

  The woman gave him Yeah, right kind of look.

  ‘I saw the way you were following that girl,’ she replied. ‘Ought to be locked up!’ And she carried on towards the shops, muttering and turning to give him evil looks over her shoulder every few seconds.

  It was only as Dominic returned his attention to his primary task that he realised the blonde head had disappeared. Claire had gone. He swore silently, then jogged softly towards the shops, wondering if the sun reflecting off the windows would prevent him from seeing clearly inside.

  He jogged up to the newsagent’s and tried to peer past the posters into the darkened shop. As he was standing there trying to work out whether Claire was inside, something heavy squashed his foot. He spun round to discover the old lady passing. Her trolley wobbled as if it had just regained balance after hitting something.

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Did you just run over my foot on purpose?’

  ‘I’m watching you,’ she muttered darkly and carried on her way.

  He was just turning round again to see if he could spot Claire inside the shop when something else crashed into him. Or, to be more precise, someone.

  ‘Oh, my God! Nick! What are you doing here?’

  His heart did a little hiccup and he took a moment to gather his thoughts before turning to look at Claire. ‘Running,’ he said breezily. That much was true, at least. He just didn’t tell her why he was haring round the streets of Islington. ‘I don’t live a million miles from here and I like to vary my route so I don’t get bored. What about you?’

  She glanced at the magazine in her hand. ‘Just about to get a coffee before I head off to the office. I was going to get one to take away, but …’ The smile disappeared and she looked at him seriously. ‘Do you have five minutes? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all week about your trip.’

  Dominic inhaled. ‘Sure.’

  That had been his plan all along: to bump into Claire – although not quite so literally – so he could talk to her face to face. He’d composed email after email in the safety of his flat in the last seven days, and then had deleted every single one.

  He’d thought about going to her office again, but she seemed to snap into professional mode more easily there. If he was going to come clean, it would be a lot easier if he could talk to the smiling, relaxed Claire he knew out of the office. That would remind her just how well they got on before she had to merge her mental pictures of ‘Nick’ and ‘Dominic’.

  She looked over her shoulder at the little coffee shop next door. ‘Care to join me?’

  Even better. He smiled back at her. ‘Only if it’s my treat.’

  ‘Oh, no. You don’t have to do that. Not when it was my idea to chat in the first place.’

  ‘I want to,’ he told her firmly and walked over to the coffee shop door and held it open for her.

  As he stood there, he spotted the trolley crone outside the hairdresser’s. Pervert, she mouthed at him. Dominic might have been tempted to make a rude gesture had he not been holding the door open for Claire. Instead, he turned to the old hag and gave her his most winning smile. ‘Consider it an apology for not getting back to you over the last week,’ he said to Claire as she passed by him. ‘To be honest, I’ve had a lot on my mind.’

  That was the truth. But it had been mainly Claire on his mind, and how he could extricate himself from this ridiculous situation he’d got himself into with her.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, frowning slightly. ‘If you insist.’

  Unlike the big coffee chains, this independently run shop had waitress service and, once the dour-looking owner had taken their orders, Dominic turned to Claire, took a deep breath. ‘I need to let you know that I’m having second thoughts about this trip. At least, in its current form.’

  He wasn’t going to pull the plug completely. That wouldn’t be fair to her after all the hard work she’d put in.

  ‘Oh?’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘The more I think about it, the more I realise this isn’t the right time to be planning a romantic trip. I think I’ve been getting a little ahead of myself.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said again, looking even more confused.

  He could see her brain working overtime, a million questions zipping through her head, but then he saw her shut all those questions down, one by one. She blinked then smiled at him. ‘So, what are you thinking of? Cancelling?’

  He didn’t like that smile. It was her ‘office’ smile. Just what he’d hoped to avoid. ‘I’d still like to get away,’ he said evenly. ‘I need time to think about what I want to do next with my life.’

  As those words left his lips, he realised how true they were.

  Yes, he loved his job. Yes, he loved making films, but the pace had been relentless in recent years. If he kept it up, when it was time to end his career and move back home, he’d discover he was old and lonely. He suddenly realised how much he didn’t want that.

  Claire didn’t miss a beat. ‘And you still want my help? From what you’ve told me, you’re more than capable of managing this on your own.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I do want you. I mean, I want your help. I need to do something different. I need to change.’

  Claire didn’t look entirely convinced. A slight scowl marred her forehead, but at least she wasn’t smiling that scary plastic smile at him any more. That had to be a good thing.

  ‘Okay,’ she said and fell silent.

  Right. He realised he’d made another error. Unlike a lot of women he knew, she obviously wasn’t the nosy type. She wasn’t taking the bait to ask him why he’d changed his plans. Damn. Since he’d been back in London he’d realised that his interpersonal skills had been severely eroded by his solitary lifestyle.

  ‘Somewhere temperate might be nice,’ he told Claire, as the waitress set a cappuccino in front of her and a double espresso in front of him with a surly grun
t of acknowledgement. ‘As you know, I seem to have specialised in hot and dusty locations in recent years.’

  Claire emptied a packet of sugar into her cappuccino and stirred it carefully. ‘Have you ever been to Uganda?’

  Dominic’s stomach dropped. Did she know? Had she worked it out before he could tell her? If so, why was she so calm, making this almost a throwaway comment? When Erica had laid little traps like this for him to fall into she’d watched him like a hawk. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Claire shook her head and smiled. ‘Oh, no reason. Or at least not a professional one. It’s just that I saw this documentary the other night …’

  He swallowed, and his blood, which had been racing round his veins, cooled and slowed to almost nothing. He knew his first self-produced project had been repeated last week. Had she really …?

  ‘Any good?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.

  Claire nodded, and a fire lit behind her eyes. ‘Really good,’ she said. ‘So good that I’m seriously considering child sponsorship. I’ll have to try to remember the name of it.’

  The Lost Generation, he whispered mentally.

  And she’d liked it? Claire had actually liked it? His blood started pumping again, and this time it was doing a victory march. The oddest feeling swelled inside his chest making him feel lighter, freer, as if the impossible could happen and that he could spill his secret and everything would be okay. It was only as it took him to its dizzying heights that he realised that strange sensation had a name – hope.

  ‘Shouldn’t be too hard to work out,’ she added and then she laughed. ‘That was the funny thing about it. It turns out it was made by my – oh!’

  She frowned and reached into her handbag, which sat on the floor by her feet.

  ‘By your …?’ he prompted, willing her to carry on. It would be the perfect way in to saying what he needed to say, but Claire didn’t take the hint. Instead, she pulled out her phone and looked at it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head and smiling, ‘but it’s Doug. Do you mind if I take this?’

  Dominic shook his head. What else could he do?

  Claire pressed the screen of her phone and then held it to her ear. ‘Hello, Doug? How can I—’ She stopped midsentence and frowned. ‘Oh, I see … Yes … Yes … Well, obviously that wouldn’t be suitable at all. I’ll get to work on it as soon as I—’ She paused to pull a face at Dominic, indicating the conversation she was having was as difficult as he’d been imagining. ‘Okay … Okay … Listen, don’t panic. I can’t do anything right now, but all the files are at the office. I can be there in less than half an hour. Yes … Yes … Okay. Goodbye, Doug. Try to breathe a little for me, will you? Okay. Bye.’

  She finally ended the call, placed her phone on the table between them and gave him a ‘would you believe it?’ kind of look. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘An emergency involving Doug’s South Pacific trip. Would you mind terribly if we …’

  Dominic felt his whole body sag, but he smiled and said, ‘No, of course.’

  ‘Email me,’ she said, and gave him a slow sweet smile that flipped his heart like a freshly tossed pancake.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied, as she tucked her phone back into her bag and signalled to the waitress that she’d like a takeaway cup for her coffee. Before Dominic could form a coherent thought, she’d hurried out of the shop and disappeared.

  Emailing? That meant he was back to square one.

  Fantastic.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps

  Claire was supposed to be doing some work on Peggy’s Paris proposal trip. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed in her pyjamas. Her laptop was balanced—unsurprisingly—on her lap and the TV was on low, switched to a baking show.

  What she was actually doing instead of working or watching the towering sugar-work creations on the screen was fretting about Nick. It had been a lovely surprise to see him the day before. She’d really missed their chatty little email conversations when they stopped, and she hadn’t realised just what a rush of endorphins she’d get at seeing him in the flesh again. She went a little bit tingly just thinking about it.

  This isn’t the right time to be planning a romantic trip.

  That’s what he’d said, hadn’t he? But what the heck did it mean? The question kept chewing away at her, preventing her from concentrating on anything else for more than five seconds. She was driving herself crazy.

  At first, he’d just been a nice-looking guy. Maybe a little bit shallow, but attractive all the same. Someone she’d have been happy to flirt with, maybe go out on a few dates with. For her, that was big, big progress. But then he’d gone and ruined it all by revealing he was a nice-looking guy with a girlfriend. A serious girlfriend, if he was going to expend all that money and time and energy booking her a surprise trip.

  That had been fine too. She’d been able to handle that.

  Or at least she had until he’d gone and started opening up to her, showing her just what was under the ‘nice-looking, but shallow’ tip to his iceberg, until she’d really started to like what she’d seen.

  He could be thoughtful and intuitive. He was very observant, although she’d bet he didn’t realise that was one of his strengths, and, when he put his mind to it, he could be very romantic indeed. It was strange … He possessed all these qualities, but it was obvious that he was more than a little rusty in using them, even though he was in a serious relationship. Why?

  She sighed. She really shouldn’t want to know. Because the more she thought about him, the sicker she felt that some other cow had got to him first. But …

  It’s not the right time for a romantic trip.

  Did that mean there was trouble in paradise?

  And was she the lowest form of human scum for being just a little bit elated at that thought?

  She buried her face in her hands and let out a frustrated shout. Between her fingers, on screen, she could see that someone’s spun sugar tower had crashed to the studio floor. She rubbed her face, breathed in and sat up straight, returning her fingers to her keyboard.

  She’d just fire off an email to him.

  Not to ask about the girlfriend, of course. That would be truly unprofessional. However, if he got a little chatty with his reply and let something interesting slip … Well, that could hardly be considered her fault.

  From: clairebixby@farfaraway.com

  To: nica453@monstermail.com

  Subject: Sorry

  Dear Nick,

  I wanted to apologise again for dashing out on you yesterday. It was lovely to bump into you …

  Claire bit her lip. ‘Lovely to bump into you?’ Did that sound too keen? She backspaced.

  What a coincidence seeing you there.

  Yes. That was better.

  I would like to ask you a couple of things about your upcoming holiday, especially now …

  She’d been going to type ‘it’s not going to be a romantic holiday’, but that sounded far too blunt. Heck, how did she put this without sounding either insensitive or nosy. Or both? She sighed and carried on.

  … especially now the focus …

  Yes, that was a good word.

  … of your trip has changed. You can either email me back, or you can call me or drop in at the office, whichever is more convenient.

  Best wishes,

  Claire

  P.S. I realise I forgot to ever tell you the story of why those chips were so romantic. If you want to know, you just have to ask …

  She resisted the urge to add a little ‘x’ after her name and pressed send. There. A totally cool and professional email – mostly. Her halo was still intact.

  About a minute later, her inbox pinged. She instantly clicked on the reply.

  From: nica453@monstermail.com

  To: clairebixby@farfaraway.com

  Subject: RE: Sorry Hi Claire,

  Seriously, there’s nothing to be sorry for. It wasn’t as if we
’d arranged an appointment. Take me up on a rain check for that coffee, though. I mean it.

  Claire, who’d leaned forward to read Nick’s reply, sank back against her pillows. He was asking her out for coffee? Did that sound like a guy who was currently involved with someone else? Or was he just trying to be friendly? Maybe he just wanted to keep her sweet so she got the best possible deals for him. Argghh! Who could tell?

  So what disaster of Doug’s took you away from me? I’d bet a hundred quid and my left kidney that it had something to do with his mother. Have you ever met her? Picture me shuddering!

  N. x

  P.S. I am practically exploding with curiosity about the chips! You have to put me out of my misery.

  Claire’s heart soared at the sight of that extra letter after his usual sign-off. Calm down, she told herself. Maybe he does that all the time. Maybe he just forgot he was talking to you and not someone he was close friends with.

  But, still …

  She smiled as she typed her reply.

  From: clairebixby@farfaraway.com

  To: nica453@monstermail.com

  No, I’ve never met her, but I feel as if I have! Not only does Doug go on about her constantly, but I’ve been (un)lucky enough to see the holiday pics. Doug emailed me loads to prove what a wonderful time they’d had.

  This latest crisis was to do with the first-class menu on the airline I was proposing, one that Mrs B. had never used before. She’s always a bit wary of aeroplane food after being served something yellow and spongy she couldn’t identify on a trip back from Indonesia. Apparently, the uncertainty of what lay on her plate spoiled her whole journey and much of the rest of her year.

  I’ve tried to explain to her that one can’t get airline menus three months in advance, but she’s not taking no for an answer.