Wishful Thinking

by Jemma Harvey

  ‘Till I told her I didn’t want to buy the house.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Well . . . after we had it off on the bed, actually.’

  We all laughed, though Lin cried out in protest.

  ‘They don’t do that on Location Location Location,’ I said.

  ‘They will,’ Georgie opined. ‘They just haven’t thought of it yet. Fantasy property-buying plus sex: it’s an ideal formula. Before you know where you are, Big Brother will be out there, picking themselves a castle in Scotland in which to be incarcerated.’

  It was an unfortunate allusion. ‘Don’t mention Scottish castles,’ Lin said. ‘I’m getting nowhere with this dating lark.’

  ‘How does your shortlist look?’ Georgie asked.

  ‘A would-be comedy writer and stand-up performer with a day job in a laundrette. A member of the chorus in The Lion King with gluten allergy. A computer technician who does bellringing on the side.’ She tried not to look depressed, but we did it for her.

  ‘Keep at it,’ Georgie said. ‘There are millions of guys on those lists. Some of them must be nice.’

  ‘These are the nice ones,’ Lin responded. ‘I told you. Nice isn’t enough.’

  ‘We can see that from your record.’ Georgie spoke without thinking.

  ‘What about yours?’ Lin retorted, with a flash of rancour. It’s one thing to admit yourself, at an emotional low point, that the men in your life were all bastards; it’s quite another to have someone else say it.

  ‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘None of us have done well in the past. It’s awfully easy to criticise other people’s choice of men but, let’s face it, we all make mistakes when it comes to choosing for ourselves.’

  ‘Hrrm!’ coughed Cal. ‘Still here. In case you girls have forgotten. I’m nice. Well, quite nice.’

  ‘A guy who got off with an estate agent in the master bedroom of a house over which she was showing him, and then dropped her immediately afterwards?’ Georgie riposted.

  ‘No point in continuing. I told you, I didn’t like the house.’

  We booted him out of the office till drink time and I returned to my desk and the further adventures of Jerry Beauman, who was to the prison system what Biggles was to the RAF.

  I was distracted by a summons from Alistair.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from Todd Jarman,’ he said critically.

  I perfectly understood the critical tone. Todd was a successful writer and Alistair appreciated him as such – and was quite happy to meet him under carefully orchestrated circumstances – but he didn’t want any author to get into the habit of telephoning him at random as if he was, say, a lesser editor. Like me. Alistair was the Boss: he was far too important to be telephoned with trivial demands and queries. I and other minions were supposed to insulate him from the creative temperament.

  ‘I thought you’d established a good working relationship,’ he went on.

  ‘Well,’ I temporised, ‘working, anyway.’

  ‘Thing is, he’s been asked to guest at some book-store event in Manchester. Bit last minute: they were going to have Ian Rankin, but he had to drop out. Evidently it’s a big deal, local TV and all that. Think he should have someone to look after him. Should be Publicity, but Georgie’s busy and Lin can’t get a babysitter. Best be you.’

  ‘But I – Manchester?’

  ‘They read books up north, or so I’m told. Nothing else to do.’

  ‘When is it?’ I asked, with that familiar sinking feeling.

  ‘Saturday.’

  I objected, but it did no good. If you’re young and single you can’t plead family commitments, and as I’m far more junior than Georgie I couldn’t claim my social engagements took precedence. I said Todd was an adult who certainly didn’t require a minder, but Alistair brushed that aside. All writers, in his view, needed looking after, if only to ensure that they didn’t say the wrong thing. ‘You won’t have to spend much time with him,’ Alistair offered by way of palliative. ‘He’s driving. We’ll send you by train.’ Oddly enough, that didn’t make me feel any better about it.

  I travelled up on Intercity, sitting in a bay with a table so I could work on Jerry’s manuscript. I had mixed feelings about spending more time with Todd Jarman. There was no denying that working with him had given me a buzz, there had been moments of something like camaraderie; but I definitely didn’t like him. I didn’t like his twitchy werewolf eyebrows and his been-there know-that superior manner and his snooty girlfriend and his mock-streetsmart façade. On the other hand, I didn’t like him in a stimulating way which was sometimes more fun than mere liking . . . I found my thought zigzagging erratically from one extreme to another (and back again), and put Jarman from my mind for the rest of the journey. In Manchester, I hailed a taxi to the hotel where Lin had booked me a room, dumped my bag, and headed for Waterstone’s in Deansgate.

  I found Todd in the manager’s office, drinking whisky and giving an interview to the Manchester Guardian. Contrary to Alistair’s claim there was no TV, but plenty of regional press and apparently he’d already done a radio show. ‘Nice to see you,’ he said with more politeness than sincerity. ‘Alistair said he was sending someone, but I really don’t need my hand held.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s nice,’ I said baldly. ‘If it comes to that, nor do I. I have other things to do with my Saturdays.’ Well, actually Jerry’s rewrites and a cosy evening with the television, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

  He grinned and offered me a whisky, having appropriated the bottle from the manager.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I hate it. I’d rather have wine.’ I’d seen a few glasses of red on a tray.

  ‘Somehow I knew you would. Whatever I offer, you always want something else.’

  ‘It’s a matter of principle,’ I said, feeling gratified that he’d noticed. Provocative behaviour is wasted if it doesn’t provoke.

  ‘You do your best to annoy me, don’t you?’ he responded. ‘Whether it’s removing my commas or refusing my coffee. It’s what they call bad chemistry.’

  ‘Striking sparks off each other,’ I reiterated. (Bloody Alistair. Why did he always let me in for this?) ‘I wasn’t the one who started it.’

  ‘Of course you were.’ There was a glint in his eye. ‘Cutting my title like that.’

  ‘That was my job,’ I protested. ‘Anyway, it’s better short. More eye-catching.’

  ‘I like long titles. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. `A La Recherche de Temps Perdu.’

  ‘None of them made it to number One,’ I stated, hoping I was right. ‘It was you. You said I was too young to edit your books, you – you poured scorn on my efforts, you said my mother’s milk was still wet on my lips!’

  ‘Did I? It seems very unlikely.’

  ‘Well no, but you might’ve done.’

  ‘It doesn’t appear to have discouraged you.’ The glint had reached his teeth, which showed in the sort of smile you give an enemy, knife-edged and short on humour.

  ‘I put on a bold front,’ I said.

  ‘A front, anyhow,’ he remarked, with a flicker of the assessing look he had given me when he’d told me not to lose more weight.

  I was disconcerted, and temporarily at a loss for a retort, but the manager joined us and conversation became general, and there were no further opportunities for argument.

  The store was crowded – always a novelty at a literary event. Todd read an extract from his previous book (rather well) and answered questions from fans and novel-in-the-bottom-drawer literary aspirants to well beyond the allotted time.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said when the session finally ended. ‘You don’t have to take me out to dinner. I’m driving into the country to stay with friends – and I’m going to be bloody late.’

  I was conscious of a needle of disappointment, but I didn’t intend to show anything. ‘I could’ve borne it,’ I said stoically. ‘It’s my duty. You’re still owed an edit
orial lunch, after all.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to that.’ Obvious sarcasm.

  ‘Me too,’ I responded in kind. I wished him a dulcet goodnight, and departed in search of a taxi to my hotel.

  For the others, it was an eventful weekend. Lin, driven by desperation, daring the perils of the Internet from the safety of her own home, had decided to venture into a chatroom. And Georgie, with mixed feelings, took a message on her phone from Neville Fancot, asking her for another date.

  Chapter 7

  For woman’s face was never formed in vain

  For Juan, so that even when he prayed

  He turned from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy,

  To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary.

  BYRON: Juan and Haidée

  It is always the best policy to speak the truth – unless, of course, you are an exceptionally good liar.

  JEROME K. JEROME

  I had to finish sorting out Jerry Beauman’s manuscript in a ludicrously short time since my holiday had been booked six months earlier and I had no intention of taking work away with me. ‘Watch out when you get the proofs,’ Laurence said. ‘He’ll want to do more rewrites: he always does.’ Strictly speaking, proofs are supposed to be corrected but not altered, since major changes at that stage are expensive. But cost wouldn’t bother Jerry Beauman, and so – perforce – it wasn’t allowed to bother us. I sighed, shrugged, and thrust the problem from my mind. I had two weeks on Crete, at a lay-back, strip-down resort called Plakias (pronounced, appropriately enough, Plucky Arse), and all I intended to think about was my tan. I was going with a friend from college days. We don’t see much of each other under normal circumstances since she lives in Leeds, but we had fallen into the habit of taking our summer holiday together. This worked quite well since, having a year in each other’s lives to catch up on, we always had plenty to talk about. Sinead is very dynamic and runs her own business (some sort of mail order) and is always having broken engagements. I reflected quite cheerfully that at least this year I could keep my end up, with the disintegration of the Nigel affair.

  Georgie and I went on a shopping expedition to find me the kind of bikini where the top comes in proper bra sizes and you can buy the bottom separately. ‘We can’t have you lying about in a one-piece with your tummy staying white,’ Georgie said. ‘You’ll have to spend serious money.’ But somehow I got the feeling her heart wasn’t in it.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked. ‘Have you booked anything yet?’ She’d got just a week off, overlapping my slot.

  ‘No. I thought I’d pick up a cheap deal at the last minute.’

  ‘It really will be the last minute if you don’t do something soon.’

  ‘I might just stay home and enjoy the heatwave.’

  ‘But you’ve always been into exotic foreign travel!’ I protested.

  ‘I’m economising.’

  We were walking down the street as we talked, and I stopped abruptly, staring at her. ‘Are you quite well?’

  ‘No need to be funny. I have to economise. You know I do. When they refer to the debt mountain, they mean me. I’m a mountain all by myself.’

  ‘How much did that Dolce & Gabbana T-shirt cost you last week?’

  ‘A lot less than a holiday.’ She sounded curiously listless. But listlessness had always been alien to Georgie’s nature.

  ‘This has to do with Cal, doesn’t it?’ I deduced. She had already told us about the conversation over the linguine.

  ‘I’m in love,’ she said sadly. ‘It’s really coming home to me. The big L. Head over ears, arse over tit. With Cal McGregor, former office lech, married, unavailable, a man so illiterate he never opens a book – he’s only interested in what goes on the cover. How the hell did it happen?’

  ‘Don’t say we didn’t warn you.’

  ‘I know, I know. I thought I was immune. With Franco . . . it was different. It was Romance with a capital R. We met in Venice, and he was wildly handsome, and a conte, and mad about me: I think I fell for the aura more than the man. So I guess I got what I deserved, in the end. And before that, there were a couple of celebs with whom I was sort of infatuated – until it fizzled out. An actor, a TV presenter. I could’ve understood if I’d fallen big time for someone like that: fame and sex appeal is a hot combination. But Cal’s not famous; he wouldn’t want to be. He’s attractive, but not a pin-up. He’s ordinary . . . How could I fall for someone ordinary?’

  ‘You said it was fun to have that feeling again,’ I reminded her. ‘You said that ages ago.’

  ‘It’s fun to be a little in love. It’s an emotional romp – a roll in the hay – your heart goes on holiday, and then it comes back, intact, with a few nice memories to keep it warm. That was the idea. This is – deeper. So deep it hurts. I don’t do deep, Cookie. I don’t do hurt. I’m a lightweight in love – I flutter through life like a butterfly – a butterfly with painted wings – drifting from flower to flower.’ She paused, evidently dwelling on the image.

  ‘Butterflies start storms,’ I said. ‘That’s physics.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Georgie, ‘as long as they aren’t in my teacup. I don’t feel like myself any more. I don’t want to spend money all the time. I had to force myself to buy that Dolce & Gabbana T-shirt – you know? And it didn’t even cost very much.’

  ‘This is serious.’

  ‘I’m losing my sparkle, aren’t I? Just when I need to be utterly gorgeous, it’s all fading away. I’ve got fifteen lines going on sixteen, and no one will ever take care of me . . .’

  ‘You don’t look very faded to me.’

  ‘Damn Cal. Perhaps I should build me a willow-cabin at his gate . . .’

  ‘You’ll never get planning permission, and anyway, he’d be embarrassed. Bad move. Book a holiday. At least it would give you a break.’

  There was a short silence. Then she said in a different voice – a voice that was carefully noncommittal: ‘Did I tell you Neville rang?’

  ‘Neville?’ I’d forgotten who he was.

  ‘Neville Fancot. The doctor who took me to Wagner. My most promising cardiac millionaire. Not cardiac and probably not a millionaire but definitely promising.’ She went on: ‘He left a message on my machine. I haven’t rung back yet.’

  ‘And you’re in love with Cal,’ I said.

  ‘I told you,’ Georgie said with grim wretchedness, ‘I’m a lightweight.’

  We found my bikini in the end, one that offered support without upholstery and actually made me look curvy rather than bulgy. I hadn’t worn a bikini since I was thirteen and the purchase gave me a thrill that was well worth the dent in my finances. I chose a floaty thigh-length shirt to wear over it with the same sea-shell pattern as the bikini and remarked with a grin that I was buying an awful lot of clothes to wear on a predominantly nudist beach.

  ‘Nudism is unsubtle,’ Georgie declared. ‘No mystery. Besides, men like making love to women with bikini marks. It gives them the illusion you’ve still got your underwear on.’

  ‘I bet Cal said that.’

  Georgie didn’t comment. ‘You must have a holiday romance,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing like it. You pick some guy on looks alone – usually a waiter or barman – ’cos you won’t be with him long enough to discover he has no brains or personality. You’re crazy about him for a few nights and then you leave before it all goes sour on you with a great story to tell your friends. Everything’s fine until you get the pictures developed . . . Make sure you chuck out the awkward ones. You don’t want to look back ten years later and think: My God, that’s Stefano – or Jean-Yves – or Angelos. Was I really at it with him?’ She checked herself, and sighed. ‘That didn’t come out quite the way I intended. I meant to encourage, not put you off. Bugger. Nothing’s coming out the way I intend any more.’

  All the same, I liked the idea of a commitment-free fling. It was just what I needed, post-Nigel – an antidote, an ego-boost, a dash of fantasy sex in the real world. There hadn’t been many f
lings in my life; I hadn’t been the sort of girl men wanted to get flung with. Maybe I could find an Angelos who looked a little like Hugh Jackman, in a bad light . . .

  Lin hadn’t booked a holiday either. With three kids and no backup, Abroad was too expensive and much too much like hard work. Later in the summer Vee Corrigan was taking the twins to the Isle of Wight for a week, whether they liked it or not, and Lin had fixed some time off after Georgie got back to ram some culture down her offspring’s throats, in the form of museums, art galleries, and theatre trips. ‘What’re you taking them to see?’ I asked. ‘Shakespeare at the National?’ I could visualise the boys quite enjoying the tragedies, if there was enough blood.

  ‘The Lion King,’ Lin said. ‘And Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. I needed to play safe.’

  ‘The kids are bound to find them awfully slow,’ Georgie said.

  (In fact, despite affecting to despise musicals, Sandy and Demmy adored both shows. ‘I like musicals,’ Meredith declared. ‘It’s just the songs I can’t stand.’ She was sick in the foyer at Lion King and in the auditorium at Chitty Chitty. Lin couldn’t get tickets for anything else and now suspects she’s on a blacklist.)

  Meanwhile, on the Friday, Cal stood Georgie up after Christy, who had to attend a fund-raising dinner, commanded his services as a babysitter. As they had been planning to go to the cinema to see the latest summer blockbuster Georgie was very pissed off.

  ‘It isn’t Cal’s fault,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ said Georgie. ‘It never is.’

  She rang Neville from her mobile, making a date for Saturday: cocktails and a restaurant.

  ‘You’re doing this for all the wrong reasons,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I know,’ Georgie said again.

  At Monday lunchtime, we all dived into the nearest pub to get the details. ‘Why didn’t he call for so long?’ Lin wanted to know.

  ‘Apparently he had a family crisis. His father’s been ill for a while, and he collapsed suddenly and had to be rushed to hospital. He was in Intensive Care. Neville’s parents retired to one of the remoter parts of Wales, so he had a long way to go to be in attendance.’