by Anna Premoli
“Yes! I mean, no! Oh, God, I don’t know—” I answer, panic-stricken. I know what they're getting at and I don’t like it. “Listen, girls, I know you think you’re helping me by forcing me to open up about it, but believe me, all I need right now is a good sleep. Tomorrow I’ll be rested, it’ll be a new day and things will look a bit less bleak. This really isn't helping me, though, believe me.”
Vera and Laura look at each other for a moment before nodding.
“Ok then, we won’t talk about it right now,” Vera promises, “but remember, you’ve got to clarify the whole situation for us as soon as possible. You don't usually run away from your problems. We’re doing this for your own good.”
I stand up from the armchair meaning to finally go to bed. “When I work out what’s going on, you two will be the first to know.”
Chapter 20
I struggled to get to sleep, slept badly and, as if that wasn't enough, woke up at the crack of dawn. To avoid any further attempts to 'make me see reason', I very wisely decided to come to the office earlier than usual. And it was definitely a great idea.
I’ve been here since six thirty and I don’t look as perky and relaxed as I usually do when I get here. George is with me near the coffee machine, and I’m already on my third of the day.
“Good morning,” he says, sounding serious, “if it actually is for you. You look a bit scary,” he adds, confirming what I was already suspecting.
“Remind me exactly why I usually appreciate your honesty, please,” I say, taking my cup of coffee out of the machine.
“Because you love honesty,” he says, ignoring my bad mood.
“Not this morning though,” I admit tiredly. I thought the lad was more perceptive.
“You should get out more often, darling. Have some fun, meet some men… you’re single, aren’t you?”
I nod in resignation. “Yes, I am single—”
“Even though the press might disagree,” he says with snigger that's loaded with innuendo.
“Well, they write bollocks,” I say, to cut short the conversation while I sip my steaming coffee. It’s really bad, but I have other things to complain about today.
“You know, people in this office are always gossiping about totally made up stories, but this one about you and Ian—” He pauses, theatrically. “It’s as though there were some truth in it… something real.”
I turn visibly pale.
“Not that you would ever tell me—” he continues, trying to work out what I’m thinking, “but if you ever do need someone to confide in… remember that I can keep a secret. And if you ask me not to talk about it, well, I won’t.”
“Thank you,” I say sincerely.
“I know you live with your best friends, but sometimes a male perspective can be helpful,” he says kindly.
I must look really look desperate if everyone is offering me their psychological support.
“And anyway, you'd be doing me a favour,” he says with a wink.
“How so?” I ask, astonished.
“Simple: I've got my eye on Tamara,” he explains, “but she's got a crush on Ian. So if you were to start seeing him, I'd be forever in your debt.”
“George!” I exclaim indignantly. “What the hell are you on about? I've no intention of starting to see Ian!” I'm actually trying to push him out of my mind, since he seems to have wormed his way in.
Sometimes I really don’t understand George – how has he got the nerve to come out with such stuff?
“Why, what would be wrong with it?” he asks.
“Oh come off it!” I reply in annoyance. “Instead of wasting time with me, why don’t you check those balance sheets that have just come in?”
He gives me a pleading look. “But there are loads of them!”
“That’s why you should get onto them as soon as possible,” I reply, not moved to pity at all by his expression.
“On my own? I'll need help to get through them all,” he implores.
“All the others are already working on the stuff you dumped on them,” I point out, “but if you really need some help, I could ask Ian if Tamara can give you a hand.”
Who’s the best boss in the world now?
George looks at me ecstatically. “Would you?” he asks, hopefully.
“Only if you promise to keep your mouth shut forthwith about my private life.”
“Deal!” he agrees happily.
“But don't count your eggs just yet. Ian might not agree to my proposal,” I remind him. In the past, I would have bet that St John would never have agreed to any request coming from me, but lately things have got weird. So never say never.
“I expect you will do your best to convince him,” he says, sniggering.
“What did I just say?” I rumble, threateningly. “And anyway, I really don’t understand how anyone could believe such a thing. Ian and me? Are you all out of your minds? I’m even older than him! He probably only goes out with twenty year olds – ones without functioning neurons in their brains!”
And to be quite honest, we could also lose that ‘probably’, I think to myself.
“Completely wrong,” says a deep, irritated voice behind me. My usual good luck.
“Hello, Ian,” says George sheepishly.
Ian waves ‘hello’ to him, then walks over to me. “Have you got a minute?” he asks, sounding serious. He looks angry, but strangely more vulnerable than usual. I wish that I could answer that I don’t. Instead I answer, “Yes,” without even knowing why.
“I'll leave you to it,” says George, adding, “Remember to ask him!” before disappearing. “Ask me what?” asks Ian, positioning himself right in front of me.
“Ah, yes – is there any chance you could ask Tamara to give George a hand with some balance sheets we've received? He says he can’t manage on his own because there are too many.”
He is visibly disappointed for an instant, but Ian is an old hand at pretending, so he quickly pulls himself back together and looks at me calmly. “Ok, I’ll ask her.”
“Thank you,” I answer, trying to maintain a professional tone. “Did you want to talk to me? Is it about Beverly?”
Ian's face is inscrutable. “Beverly did indeed get in touch, to ask for a lunch meeting with both of us next week.”
“No problem,” I re-assure him, happy to change the subject and talk business.
“But I wanted to talk to you about something else,” he says, lowering his voice. “Do you have time for a drink after work?” he asks, staring at me with his blue eyes. He definitely knows how to make them work for him. If he starts fluttering his eyelashes too, I'm done for.
“No,” I answer curtly and frightened.
“No?” he asks doubtfully.
“No.” This time my tone is even more determined. I could make up a lie or an excuse, but I don't feel that I owe him one.
“How about dinner then?” he asks, starting to show signs of being slightly irritated.
“No,” I say in the same determined tone.
He looks at me in astonishment. “Just ‘no’?” he asks, looking almost offended.
“Exactly.” I haven’t had enough sleep to make conversation with him today.
“Why not?” he asks, grabbing my arm. His grip isn't tight, but he clearly doesn’t want to let me go.
I break free though. “Have you lost your mind?” I say, looking worriedly over his shoulder at Colin’s secretary, who is spying on us. Doesn’t that woman have anything better to do? Hasn't she got a job?
Ian snaps out of his daze. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but you’re making me lose my patience.”
So it's my fault now? I'd like to tell him everything that’s on my mind, but somehow I manage to keep my mouth shut. I've got a feeling that our relationship will remain this tense until we find a way to manage our problematic mutual attraction.
“I need to talk to you, I really do. I won’t bother you any more after this.” His expression is determined, and I rea
lise I'll never be able to talk him out of it.
“Ok, then,” I say, unwillingly giving up, “let’s have dinner together.” At the end of the day, I think, this is probably the lesser evil.
“Friday evening at my place,” he proposes, “since I owe you an invitation anyway.”
“But let’s get one thing clear,” I say, “this will be our first and last dinner date.” He nods. “Fine, great,” I say nervously, trying to find a way to escape.
“Jenny, there’s someone for you on the phone,” a girl in the open space calls over. “Put them through to my office! I’m coming!”
I’ve never been happier to have an excuse for disappearing!
Chapter 21
This is not a date, I tell myself nervously as I observe my reflection in the mirror, this is simply dinner with a friend. Although Ian isn't really a friend, I think. Ok, so this is just dinner with a colleague.
Yes, put that way it sounds reassuring. I like it.
“You’re not going out looking like that, I hope?” asks Vera reproachfully from the doorway.
“What's wrong with it?” I ask innocently, looking at myself in the mirror.
“What's wrong with it is that you're covered up from head to toe!” she points out as she enters the room.
“Perfect! In case you hadn’t realised, that was exactly my intention,” I confirm.
She snorts and sits down on the bed. “You can’t go out looking like that. I won’t let you. Over my dead body!” she threatens, folding her arms. “Look, forget about all your past history – you are going for dinner at the home of a man who is charming, good-looking, aristocratic, rich—”
“Obnoxious, arrogant, spoiled—” I add, “and plenty of other adjectives. And?” I ask, a little irked by the intrusion. I’d been thinking for quite a while now that I no longer had to answer to anyone about how I wanted to dress.
“You can’t go to his house looking worse than my bloody mother!” she says loudly.
“That's not a very nice way to talk about your mother,” I retort, untroubled by her accusations.
Vera looks at me angrily. “If you must wear trousers, at least put on your skinny jeans! And change that horrible T-shirt! What kind of colour is that, anyway?” she asks indignantly.
“It's brown,” I reply.
“Exactly! It's brown!” she repeats, sounding exasperated. “And you seriously think it’s ok to wear a horrible brown T-shirt on a Friday night?”
“Is there a rule that says you can't wear brown on a Friday? It's just dinner with a colleague, so I can wear my horrible brown T-shirt,” I say with conviction.
“Darling, for the record, you shouldn’t even wear that t-shirt to go to your mother’s for dinner, because even she would have something to say about it.”
That's low!
“Okay, okay, this t-shirt might not be the nicest thing I've got in my wardrobe—” I admit, finally deciding to take it off.
Vera grabs it in a flash. “I'll take that – it'll make a brilliant duster! Knowing you, sooner or later, you might decide to wear it again.”
I try to look offended but she doesn’t even look at me.
“Now change those bloody trousers!” she orders.
When Vera is in this aggressive mood, you've no choice but to give in, and so I grab the jeans she has decided I should wear, and begin to get changed. I haven’t worn a pair of jeans this tight in donkey’s years and I find them quite uncomfortable.
“Can’t I just wear my usual ones?” I beg.
“No, you can’t – these are perfect,” she informs me, decisively.
“As long as I don't pass out—” I grumble. But my friend isn’t even listening.
“Now we have to find you a decent top,” she says, and starts rummaging about in the wardrobe. A few minutes, and several tops later, she emerges from the pile with a satisfied expression. “This is perfect!” She says, holding up a black top covered in sequins and with a plunging neckline.
“When did I buy a top like that?” I ask, bewildered.
Vera chuckles. “You didn’t – we gave it to you for Christmas a couple of years ago.” Obviously I've never worn it. “Come on, put it on,” my friend says to me.
“It's too low-cut!” I protest, but she doesn’t seem to feel the same way.
“It’s just low-cut enough. Put it on,” she orders. Her tone implies that I'd be unwise to argue, so I follow her orders.
“Perfect,” she tells me with satisfaction. “Now your black ballerinas with the flowers on.”
“But it's cold outside!” I complain.
“And so you'll suffer! Just like the rest of the female population.”
Sulkily, I put on my shoes. “You're not a librarian, you're Cruella De-bloody-Vil.”
She passes me a black sweater which I use to try and cover myself up a bit. “Can I put this on, at least?” I ask sarcastically, as I slip into my coat.
“I've always loved that coat, so you have my approval.”
Vera gets up from the bed and follows me to the door. “One last thing: for God's sake, don’t be horrible to him! A man who cooks for you – when will that ever happen again?”
I let out a chuckle. “Don’t be so gullible,” I say out loud, “a man like that doesn’t cook – he orders in, dear.” And with that, I rush out to get the tube.
*
It takes me half an hour to get to the centre. Coming out of the underground I meet a flood of tourists who are wandering around Piccadilly, and, shivering, walk towards Hyde Park, moving closer and closer to Trafalgar Square. That's the power of money, I reflect with amusement: an apartment in the city centre.
The main entrance is majestic, exactly what you would expect from a building round here.
Ian sent me an e-mail this afternoon with the address and the code for the intercom. Hesitantly, I type in one and seven and it starts ringing, and a few moments later the door opens with a click. I walk into a marble hall, polished and clean, climb a few steps and wait patiently for the lift to arrive. I find myself on the fifth floor far too quickly. Up till now, this evening has only given me stomach ache and nothing else.
The hypothesis of a possible last minute escape, however, is thwarted by the appearance of Ian, who has opened the door of his apartment and is watching me come out of the lift.
“Hello,” he greets me warmly, as if my presence was the most natural thing in the world. He seems so at ease that it almost gets my back up.
“Thanks,” I say, walking towards him. He moves aside to let me in. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a blue shirt that fits him like a glove, with the sleeves rolled up. To complete the look, there is a leather belt and loafers that look as if they cost a small fortune. Good job Vera made me get changed: coming here dressed totally inappropriately wouldn't have helped me feel any better.
The first thing I notice is that his apartment is extremely bright, modern and perhaps smaller than I'd expected. The living room is very spartan, with a lot of contrast: the minimalist furniture is black and glossy, while the sofas and armchairs are white. If I'd ever owned anything like those they would have been covered with stains before the week was out!
The only thing that's old in here is the carpet, but that doesn’t spoil the overall effect. Indeed, if possible, it softens it.
At the back of the room, a very elegant table has been set: white tablecloth, square plates of the same colour and crystal glasses.
Ian leads me over to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to drink?” he asks immediately, just as you might expect from the perfect host.
“Better not,” I murmur, relaxing. Alcohol might not be wise.
“Come on, Jenny, keep me company,” he says, smiling, “you wouldn’t want me to drink alone.”
One of the reasons I detest this man so much is that with the right expression he can get pretty much anything he wants. And he knows it.
“Just a drop, then,” I agree reluctantly,
shifting nervously on his immaculate couch. Will he ask me to pay for the cleaning bill if a drop of red wine should dare spill from the glass? I stroke the fabric on which I'm sitting: it must be some rare linen, I think, nervously.
Seconds later Ian re-appears at my side with a glass of white wine. Thank god it’s white…
I thank him with a nod and take a sip: sparkling and dry, just the way I like it. Surely this is not a coincidence. If I've learned anything in recent weeks it’s that with Ian nothing is left to chance. You might think it is, but it's all been planned to put you at a disadvantage.
“Great wine. And nice apartment,” I say sincerely, “even though I was expecting something a bit grander, it belonging to someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” he asks, sitting down and looking at me.
“Yes – nobility, the family home, and all that.”
“This flat's got a lounge, a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom. I don’t need anything else, given the amount of time I spend here,” he says. “Anyway, it's rented.”
I'm actually surprised. “Rented?”
“Yes – even though it is from my own grandfather,” he admits, blushing slightly.
I look at him doubtfully. “Then you're on holiday, so to speak, rent free.”
“If he could, my grandfather would make me pay double,” he says seriously, “so I'm just lucky I get to pay the same amount as the others.”
“What others?”
“The other tenants.”
“You mean, he owns the whole building?” I ask, impressed.
Ian seems to be struggling. “Well, yes,” he admits, “one of several.”
“Then why doesn't he just give you an apartment?” I ask. I mean, if I had a grandson and a thousand apartments, I would happily give one up.
“He did try, after I finished university, but he never gives something for nothing. Sooner or later he always sends you the bill. And I'd rather pay the rent than owe him anything.”
I really wasn’t expecting this. Sure, Ian earns enough to be able to pay the rent, but it's still strange. Not many people, I think to myself, would have done the same in his shoes.
