Love to Hate You

by Anna Premoli

  Anyway, she soon remembers her mission and starts looking seductively over at the count, the future marquis and one day duke. He’s her target, as is plain for all to see.

  Ian tries to ignore her, but she is making it so obvious that there's no way he'll be able to pretend not to have noticed. The dinner goes on peacefully and without further difficulties, until there's nothing else for it but to start talking about business. Or, at least, we try to, but Beverly just doesn’t want to know.

  “The entire point of this weekend is for us to have a chance to get to know one another,” he explains as we walk back into the living room. “We'll deal with business once we’re back in London”.

  What? So what the hell did we have to come all the way to this cold, godforsaken part of Scotland for? I shoot Ian a worried look, and see that he's obviously feeling the same way.

  “Anyway, I shall leave you young people to your own devices,” Beverly concludes, and before disappearing he gives me a look that very eloquently tells me he wants to leave the two lovebirds alone.

  Ian too has understood Beverly’s intentions, because he grabs my hand and leans towards me on the sofa. “You leave me here and you'll pay for it,” he whispers threateningly, with panic in his eyes. I’m almost tempted to stay and help him for a moment, but not quite enough to actually do it, unfortunately for him. I pull my hand away from his, stand up determinedly and lean over, pretending to kiss his cheek and whispering, “Next time, I'd suggest not threatening me. Try begging – that might work.”

  And I head off to my gloomy bedroom with a snigger.

  *

  I’m sitting on my own at the huge dining table, looking forward to my breakfast. The only things I can eat, though, are toast and butter. There’s also an omelette, which contains bacon, and some sausages and bacon. There are muffins too – savoury ones, with ham instead of the usual blueberries. What a shame, I could have murdered a boiled egg.

  I’m so immersed in my thoughts that I don't hear Ian sneaking into the room. He touches my shoulder in greeting, and I jump in surprise.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, sitting next to me.

  “I was miles away,” I say, noticing his tired face. “Didn’t you sleep well?” I ask him.

  “You might say that—” he confirms while stretching.

  “Strange, I thought you'd have had company,” I tease him.

  “Oh, please. And for the record, that business last night is going to cost you,” he says, helping himself to some omelette.

  I give him an innocent look. “What do you mean? I don’t understand—”

  “Come off it, I only just managed to get rid of her. And I was terrified she was going to turn up in my bed. There's no lock on my door, obviously, so I had to spend all night with one eye open. It wasn’t very restful,” he complains, shivering at the idea of unwanted guests under the covers.

  “Oh, come on – what’s a sleepless night for someone like you—”

  He gives me an exasperated look, then glances over at my half-empty plate.

  “Will you tell me why you haven't eaten anything since we arrived?” he asks seriously.

  “Because I’m vegetarian, and all anyone talks about here is hunting, and all they eat is meat,” I answer in annoyance.

  “Oh—” he says in surprise, “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s not your fault – perspicacity's not exactly a strongpoint with you males.”

  We have our breakfast quietly and are chatting about how pleasant the Scottish countryside is when my phone suddenly rings.

  I pull it out of my pocket and see that it’s Vera calling.

  “Hello dear,” I greet her, “how’s it going in town?”

  “Where did you say you were?” she asks, nervously.

  “Somewhere in Scotland. Why?”

  “I don't suppose you've seen today's Sun, then?” she asks.

  “Errm, no, I haven’t. You know I never read the tabloids,” I remind her. I thought everyone knew I only read the FT.

  “Then you’re lucky that we do,” says Vera.

  Starting to get annoyed, I put down the piece of toast I’m eating. “Vera, I'd love to spend all day swapping chit-chat with you, but would you mind getting to the point—”.

  “It's the gossip page! There are pictures! Of you!” she exclaims.

  Yeah, right.

  “Are you still tipsy from last night?” I ask, worriedly. Vera's usually back to herself by Sunday morning, but it looks like today might be an exception.

  “I didn’t drink anything last night!” she exclaims, sounding offended. “I was home with tummy ache.”

  Something very weird is going on.

  “Well it can't be me. It must be someone who looks like me,” I say assuredly.

  “Jennifer, trust me – it’s you. And you’re with Ian.”

  At those words, I look over at him, and he looks back at me questioningly.

  “Ok, I’ll pick up a copy and call you back,” I say, starting to feel my own fear rising.

  Ian looks at me with concern. “Bad news?” he asks.

  “I’m not sure. My friend says that we are in the gossip column of the Sun. But she must have got me mixed up with someone else.”

  “Of course—” he says. But strangely enough, he doesn’t sound totally convinced of his own words.

  I leave the table quickly and go off to find the governess. She’s in the lobby with Elizabeth. The poor girl looks quite upset, and is gripping a newspaper. Oh, God!

  “Good morning,” I say chirpily to both of them.

  The governess grunts some sort of answer, while Elizabeth gives me a confused look. “Good morning,” she answers, in a very faint voice.

  “Are you having breakfast with us? I think Ian's waiting for you in the dining room.” But she doesn’t bite. It must be serious.

  She walks down the stairs and gives the newspaper to the governess. Now I’ll have to get it off that old bulldog, who is already glaring at me as if she's all set to bite. I’m guessing it won’t be easy. Right at that moment, Ian appears at the door. “Oh, the paper! Just what I was looking for,” he says. Cunning thing!

  The housekeeper can’t avoid giving it to him, but she’s annoyed and she does nothing to disguise the fact.

  Ian grabs the Sun and starts climbing the stairs towards his room, me behind him, ignoring the withering looks from down in the hall.

  I catch up with him quickly and snatch the newspaper from his hands. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a look,” I say nervously.

  “I do mind, actually, because I’d like to give it a look myself first,” he answers, snatching it back, and we bicker all the way to his room. Ian slips inside, and I follow him.

  “I did think, at least, that I wouldn't have to defend myself from this type of thing with you, Miss Percy,” he says, sarcastically.

  I rip the newspaper from his hands.

  “Oh don't talk rubbish!”

  Strangely, Ian is smiling as he tries to defend himself from me.

  “Come on, let’s find these pictures,” he says as he sits down at a table. As I imagined, his room is basically a luxury apartment, and a very impressive one to boot. The table he’s sitting at is a Louis XVI – a real one, for a change.

  “Where’s the gossip page?” he asks, as he starts leafing through it.

  “How would I know?” I answer. I mean, come on – this isn't the type of thing I normally read!

  Ian snorts. “You are a woman, at least in theory. What kind of woman are you if you never read the gossip columns?” he accuses me.

  “I’m obviously a woman who doesn’t read gossip columns. There’re a few of us around, hadn't you heard?”

  “How shocking,” he says.

  “Yes, I can imagine it must be.”

  After a moment we finally find the page we're looking for, and there we are. The picture is out of focus, but it's clearly us. The article’s headline is “New Flame for th
e Duke of Revington’s Heir” and it shows us outside the place we met the other night, as we were saying goodbye. I’m touching his arm and he’s holding my hand.

  “God—” I say, taking a deep breath. Ian says nothing, so I start reading the article.

  “'The mystery girl, who sources claim is not part of the count's usual circle of friends—’ Dear God, deliver me,” I comment, then go on reading. “'… unlike the count's usual conquests, his new flame is no extravagant beauty, but it’s clear that the hunky young aristocrat has deep feelings for her—’”

  At these words, I burst out laughing. A loud, not very refined laugh.

  “What?” asks Ian, sounding annoyed.

  “They say you were looking at me with dreamy eyes—” and I start laughing out loud. I guess that girls don't usually behave so ungracefully around him. Ian carries on reading, trying not to let me distract him. “Well anyway, there’s nothing compromising in the article,” he says, once he's finished.

  “Of course not – the only compromising thing they could have seen would have been an argument,” I remind him, trying to sound serious.

  “I wouldn't have thought it, but luckily—” he agrees cryptically.

  “I'd have preferred not to appear in the newspaper at all. You know, I've got my career and my credibility to think about, unlike the girls you usually date,” I say.

  “I don’t date them,” Ian says back. “We go out to dinner every once in a while. Anyway, I’m single—”

  I lift my hand to cut him off. “I don’t care who you go out with and what you do. That's your business. The only annoying thing is that even a bloody work meeting with you turns into news.”

  “Do you see what I’m up against, now?” he asks.

  I look at him seriously. “Don't you understand that it’s your own fault if you end up in situations like that? After crying wolf so many times, nobody believes you any more.”

  “Oh, of course, Miss Perfect bloody Girlfriend, Miss bloody living-together,” he says angrily. I've obviously hit him where it hurts.

  “I’ve never 'lived together' with anyone,” I retort.

  “Exactly!” he snaps, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Anyway, this time it was nothing serious. Just the Sunday papers,” I say out loud in an effort to convince myself.

  “So the Sun is just the Sunday papers to you? That picture's in colour and they've splashed it over half a page, if you hadn't noticed,” he insists, showing it to me again. Hang on, whose side is he on?

  “Close that bloody paper,” I exclaim, starting to lose my cool. “In fact, why don’t you throw it away?”

  I rip it out of his hands, crumple it up into a ball and throw it into the bin by the door. Amazingly, I don't miss.

  “Anyway, there's one good thing about all this,” he says seriously.

  “Which is?”

  “Elizabeth must have fallen for it, so she'll probably leave me in peace now.” The idea actually cheers him up, for God's sake.

  “Great! Offending our client’s daughter – brilliant move… Wish I'd thought of it myself,” I say sarcastically. Elizabeth is a pain in the neck, but there's no need for Ian to know I agree with him.

  “Yes, I definitely should have thought of it sooner!” the young lord exclaims, completely ignoring my wisecrack.

  “Oh, please—” I say, trying to bring him back to reality. I stand up, about to leave the room.

  “And now that that's sorted, I'd like to talk to Beverly about work. We’ve already wasted enough time,” I say solemnly.

  Ian decides to follow me. “I never thought I’d say these words, but for once, you're right.”

  And he opens the door.

  *

  A few hours later, Beverly is saying goodbye to us with satisfaction as we climb into the car, to head first to Edinburgh and then back to London. Surprisingly, we managed to get a good couple of hours' work in before Elizabeth somehow managed to manoeuvre us back into banal, shallow conversation.

  Beverly was happy with our proposals and with a bit of luck we will be able to draw up a convincing action plan once we get back to the office.

  I’m just about to get into the car when I hear Elizabeth say sadly to her father, “I just couldn’t believe it. Why, daddy? I mean – she’s so old!”

  Err, who exactly are you calling ‘old’?

  Chapter 9

  Everyone in the office evidently read the Sunday paper, even though nobody dares mention it. Nobody except George, who, as we know, has no shame at all. And in fact, on Monday morning, while we’re in my office working on a file, he suddenly brings up the subject.

  “By the way, I was meaning to tell you how happy I am that you and Ian have sorted out your problems—” he says, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smirk.

  He's pretending to be serious, but it’s quite obvious that he's not. I give him a look.

  “We haven't sorted out anything at all,” I reply, trying not to lose my focus.

  “So what about those pictures?” he says, bursting into a loud laugh this time at the thought.

  “Keep laughing,” I say with a snort. “Great idea, teasing the boss—”

  “I’m sorry, but what do you expect me to do after seeing that… I nearly dropped my coffee yesterday morning!” he says, as if it were my fault.

  “I bet you did. What are people saying about them, anyway?” I ask, in an attempt to change strategy. If anybody knows what’s going on, it’s George. I suppose it’s better to have a clear picture of the situation.

  He relaxes into his chair. “So you are worried!” he says, a look of weird satisfaction spreading across his face.

  “No, I’m just annoyed. This whole thing is ludicrous. It was Colin who ordered us to work outside the office so our bickering wouldn't disturb our colleagues. Did it disturb you, by the way?”

  “You have no idea how much,” he confirms, sarcastic as ever, before asking, disappointedly, “So it was only work, then?”

  “George!” I exclaim, “of course it was only work! What else would I be doing with someone like St John?”

  George smiles in a way that I don't really like.

  “Ok, ok!” he says, lifting his arms as though in surrender. “Don’t get mad with me, I had to ask. And you’d better accept that it's going to be the main topic of conversation around this office for at least the next month. Moreover you’re single and he’s single too… You know how these things go.”

  “Is there really nothing better to gossip about in this bloody office?”

  I realise that I should laugh about it to show that I couldn't care less, but for some reason I just can’t.

  “Nah. It’s a dead month. You’re the news,” he says.

  But I already knew that.

  “We’ve been the news for the last five years. But not the way you lot seem to think. It's more like trench warfare!” I moan, gesticulating hysterically.

  “Yes, but where there are arguments, there's also passion—” says George, solemnly and imperturbably. When he woke up today he must have decided that he was a psychologist, instead of an economist. The look I give him would freeze the beaks off half the penguins in the South Pole.

  My deputy realises that it would be a good moment to disappear. “What a shame,” he says as he gets up. “All the secretaries were hoping for some proper scandal, if you know what I mean—” And he makes a rather inelegant but highly expressive gesture.

  I look at him in astonishment. “If you weren't so good at your job, George, I'd have got myself a new deputy long ago. You’re a bloody gossip!”

  He laughs, in no way intimidated by my threat. “That’s part of my charm!” he replies, sounding sure of himself.

  “Charm? What charm?”

  As he's leaving, George bumps into Ian at my door. They say hello to each other with some embarrassment, and George goes on his way with a wink at me.

  “What's the matter with everybody today?” I moan to Ian, who is stan
ding by my desk.

  “Is everything ok?” he asks. I must look like a lunatic, with my messy hair and red face.

  “Yes, thanks. Why are you asking?” I try to sound professional, hoping he won’t notice how agitated I am.

  Deny, deny, always deny. And anyway, in all the time we've known one another, Ian has never once asked me how I was. That’s why his behaviour now is so unnerving.

  “Can’t I even ask?” he asks, sounding perplexed.

  “Of course you can, but you never have before so why start now?” I ask, with some irritation.

  Ian wisely decides to ignore my mood. “Better late than never, don’t you think?”

  “No, not when it’s coming from you. So, why now, I wonder?” I repeat.

  I realise from his expression that he's on the ropes. It’s perfectly obvious. “Listen, can I offer you a cup of coffee? I need to ask you something,” he says, as though it were perfectly normal.

  This all sounds very worrying.

  “Please, Ian, today is already going to be bad enough, I really need to hold on to the few certainties I have, do you understand?” I beg, realising how crazy I must sound.

  “Of course I understand,” he says, with an expression that makes it clear that, in fact, he has no idea why I’m acting so weirdly.

  “In that case, please wipe that sheepish expression off your face, because it doesn’t suit you at all,” I beg.

  Ian looks almost offended and I decide, reluctantly, to put my pen down and stand up.

  “Ok, a coffee, but here in the office. After that stupid article I'm not even going to Starbucks with you.”

  As we walk along the corridor I can’t help but notice that all heads turns towards us. The lobby, usually quite noisy, is strangely quiet. Great, just what I needed today.

  Ian and I approach the drinks machine and, robot-like, he inserts some coins and selects our coffees, without even asking me what I want. The fact that he already knows annoys me even more, if that's possible.

  “Ok, I’m listening,” I say, steaming cup of coffee in hand, adding caustically, “and so is the rest of the office.”

  “That’s the problem. I want to talk to you in private,” he whispers to prevent others from listening.