Greatest Love Story of All Time

by Lucy Robinson

  FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM BOB! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!

  All right Fran If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put you between F and CK. Mail me. FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM PETER! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!

  Hi Frances I’m a selfish, fucked-up waste of space who likes a bit of rough sex every now and then. If this sounds like your sort of thing then bell me on 07065 333891. Cheers Peter FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM KERRY! HERE’S WHAT SHE HAD TO SAY!

  Hi babes, you don’t ever do girl on girl do you? If not, try it … ; -) FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM ANDREW! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!

  Hi Fran. I am Andrew. I am man. You are woman. Interesting woman, by the look of things. With even more interesting friends. Who did your write-up? Can I go on a date with her?! However if she’s unavailable I’d definitely be interested in a date with you. Do you like beer? If so, let’s meet up and have one (each). Andrew X FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM EDDIE! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!

  Hi Fran, er, surprise! Fancy seeing you here … (!) Look love could you keep this quiet please? I won’t say anything to anyone at ITN if you do the same for me! Thanks hun, see you soon, E x ‘STEFANIA!’ I yelled, striding out into the yard. I blinked in the unexpected winter sun as Duke Ellington sprinted up the tree that overhung Stefania’s shed. I rapped on her door. ‘STEFANIA! COME OUT! Surrender yourself, woman. You are in a world of trouble.’ Silence. I was sure she was there. Duke Ellington glowered fiercely at me from the bare branches of the tree. ‘Count yourself lucky that you’ll never have to Internet date,’ I told him. He crouched on the branch, preparing an assault, and I moved away. He’d never launched himself at my head yet but I wouldn’t have put it past him. Stefania’s shed door was flung open. ‘FRANCEES!’ she screeched, even though I was only a few feet away. ‘Don’t you shout at me, Stefania. You just wait until you see what’s been arriving in my dating inbox. You’ll be getting down on your hands and knees begging forgiveness.’ She rubbed her hands with glee and cackled. ‘Ha-ha! Is all part of ze plan! Show me your inbox!’ Inside, Stefania held her sides and wept with laughter while I made lunch. ‘Franny, thees is vonderful!’ she gasped. ‘Vhich one vill you pick?’ ‘None of them!’ I replied, flopping down next to her with two plates of cold falafel and salad. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘They’re organic,’ I said tiredly. ‘Francees. Now, listen to Stefania. I looked after you, I took your bullsheet day after day and I never complain, no? All I ask of you is zat you go on zese eight dates. Zat is all. It is not too much to ask.’ ‘I still don’t understand it, Stefania. But I’ve given you my word so I’ll do it, OK? I just hope you can explain to me what the hell this was all about one day.’ ‘I can explain now. I vant you to be happy. Is zat simple.’ I put down my falafel and smiled at her. ‘Thank you. You mad, weird woman.’ She batted me away, clearly embarrassed. ‘Peess off. Now, vhich one are you going on a date viz? I like ze sound of Andrew. I sink you go on a date viz Andrew. He makes funny joke about Stefania. Yes. I vill email him now.’ ‘Get off,’ I yelled, reaching for the laptop just a little too late. Nimble little bugger that she was, Stefania sprinted off with it and locked herself into the bathroom, laughing evilly. A few minutes later I heard her shouting, ‘I set you up on date viz Andrew now! You go on Thursday, do you understand?’ ‘I HATE YOU,’ I yelled, grinning. Andrew it was, then. God knew who else she emailed: it was a full fifteen minutes before she re-emerged from the bathroom. While she sent poorly spelt messages on my behalf, I put the remaining falafel back in the fridge. There was a picture on the door of me and Michael sitting on Brighton beach in the rain, eating each other’s ice cream and laughing like toddlers. As I stared at it, I imagined him sitting on Brighton beach in the brilliant sunshine with Nellie Perfect Daniels and felt my stomach churn. The jealousy was almost overwhelming. When we were together I’d never really been jealous of Michael: he’d been so committed, so into me, wanting to be with me all the time – although, for reasons that eluded me he had often been jealous about me and other men. Over the last couple of years he’d thrown out some inexplicably paranoid theories, including a conviction that I was exchanging significant glances with some Essex entrepreneur Leonie had been knobbing last winter, and even some fierce cross-questioning about Dave. Dave! Dave, who couldn’t have been further from what I was looking for; Dave, who had the most beautiful partner in the world and was no more interested in me than he was in handbags. The weird Michael/Dave incident had happened in the summer of 2008: Leonie, Dave and I had been enjoying a particularly raucous Gin Thursday, which had culminated in a prolonged karaoke session at Lucky Voice. I had sung ‘I’ll Stand By You’ in what I believed to be ethereally beautiful and tragic tones and then proceeded to knock out so many power ballads that Leonie had eventually wrestled me to the floor to get the microphone. Drunk as I was, I decided to stay there for a little kip. When Lucky Voice closed and I refused to wake up, Dave had had to sling me over his shoulder and carry me all the way up to Clerkenwell Road to hail a taxi. He’d sat with me back to Camden and had been discovered by Stefania an hour later. Stefania had been doing some sort of mad-sounding equinox worship and had noticed us outside: Dave was sitting uncomfortably on my doorstep while I slept with my head in his lap, snoring loudly. I had apparently lost my keys and Dave had decided to stay with me until I was sober enough to knock on the door and explain myself to Michael. Needless to say, Stefania had hissed so loudly and dramatically during her conversation with Dave that Michael woke up. He came out, took me inside, tight-lipped with fury, and the next day questioned me for nearly an hour about Dave, refusing even to let me go to the kitchen for emergency hangover toast. ‘Are you completely barmy?’ I’d shouted at him, from my pit of pain in the bed. ‘Dave is like my bloody dad! I’d set him up with Mum if he was a few years older!’ He’d stared angrily at the ceiling for a few more seconds and then had sat down suddenly on the floor, putting his head in his hands. ‘I’m so sorry, Franny. I’m insane. Please, please, forgive me. I just had a really bad day at work and I wanted to talk to you last night.’ I’d been overcome with remorse and had dragged myself out of bed to comfort him. I wagged off work and made him a lunch of Tesco sandwiches and mini chocolate trifles, washed down with a back massage and some hungover sex, which made me feel even more ill. After that he had stayed even closer to me. We always knew where each other was and I liked it that way: Michael was my shadow. My much better-looking shadow. I felt safe, secure and completely certain of his feelings for me. So how the frig had he managed to start an affair with Nellie Daniels? How, when I knew his every moment, had I not noticed? And why had I gone from being his prized possession to Just Not Good Enough? Three days to go until Meditation. Chapter Eighteen

  FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM ANDREW! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!

  Great! Yes, I’m free on Thursday. Soho? If you work in the media you will probably feel at home there. I love watching all the frustrated media-type men with their steel-rimmed glasses and striped jumpers and futile once-a-week yoga habits. How does 8 p.m. corner of Frith Street/Old Compton Street work? Ax ‘Sounds great, Frances, count me in.’ This was Mona Carrington, head of New Media at ITN, signing up for my meditation class tonight. Or Stefania Mirova’s meditation class, as I put it. (I didn’t know Stefania’s surname but that one felt right.) I’d briefed Stefania to treat me like any other class member and she suspected nothing. It was really quite exhilarating, all this lying. I just needed one more media type to fool and then I was done. ‘I am Frances O’Callaghan and I am a massive bullshitter,’I said to my reflection in the ITN toilet mirror. I pouted, enjoying my sleek, short-skirted image, and flounced out. Back at my desk I pretended to watch a Brit Awards news report while plotting how I could find my final media bitch. In my book there were two types of people who went
to meditation: first, there were the genuine carob-munching, bean-sprouting, recycled-Fairtrade-cardigan wearers, and second, there were the wealthy middle classes who didn’t really give a shit about meditation or yoga or alternative well-being but suspected that it might just give them an advantage over other people. It was these self-absorbed types that I wanted at my class. And I knew Nellie would be one of them. I knew because she had a PA called Tara and a Rolex and hair like Cheryl Cole’s. An email from Mona Carrington arrived in my inbox. Hi Fran. A contact of mine would like to come along tonight. Is that OK? I sat back and rubbed my hands. My bitch quota was complete: I was good to go! The only problem was that I had lied to Stefania. That part felt less enjoyable. But I couldn’t put a stop to it. There were only nine hours to go until I could meet Nellie and the anticipation was almost unbearable. In fact, I wasn’t sure I could wait that long. I went out and bought a packet of beef Monster Munch to tide me over for a few hours. That evening, as I helped Stefania lay out her carefully prepared healthy treats, I felt paralysed with fear. I was about to meet the woman who was now sleeping with my man. I’d dreamed last night of her expressionless face staring frostily at Michael’s bottom while he slept, and had woken up crying and determined to cancel the class. Determined to bloody well call him and find out what on earth was going on. But when I’d picked up my phone, I’d been paralysed. Stefania was humming; her eyes bright and her typically car-crash sartorial style radically transformed. She was wearing a simple long raw silk dress Mum had donated to her a few years back; it fitted her perfectly and made her look significantly less mad. If I wasn’t mistaken she was even wearing mascara, and her hair was clean and shining. As she propped up a little statue of Buddha on the table at the front, I marched over and hugged her tightly. ‘Thank you so much for doing this, Stefania,’ I muttered into her hair. She laughed, surprised and delighted, and pulled me away, studying my face. ‘Ees OK! Zis is a vonderful day for me! Vhy do you sank me?’ ‘Just because. You’re a really good friend to me, Stefania.’ A mother, I thought, with a little twinge of sadness. ‘Shush, little cabbage. You are going on a date tomorrow and zat is all I require. Anyvay! Ze vomen vill be here soon! I can feel their angster!’ ‘Angst.’ I laughed, lighting a candle. ‘And remember, Stefania, I’m not the organizer of the class. I just want to enjoy it and join in. Just another class member, OK?’ ‘No problem!’ She saluted. The women began to file in. They were an uptight, pushy bunch all right. ‘Hello, Fran,’ Mona Carrington boomed, walking in with … with a man. An extremely attractive man. But a man all the same. This was a class for media bitches! Not bloody fit men! I walked over to remove him but Stefania got there first, welcoming him with her palms together in some sort of Buddhist greeting. I stopped. If she was happy to have a man there then so be it. I shrugged. Perhaps he and Nellie would fancy each other and then she’d leave Michael. Five minutes later, as the media types removed their expensive shoes and stashed their beautiful handbags at the back of the room, there were only two women left to arrive, Freya and Nellie Daniels. So when Dave shuffled in with a roll-up behind his ear, coughing loudly into his dirty hand, I was appalled. ‘Er … Dave?’ I hissed at him. ‘Where’s Freya?’ Dave made no attempt to lower his voice. ‘All right, Fran. This is a fuckin’ triumph, girl! Yeah, I decided to come along myself, actually. Get some of this Zen shite.’ I stared at him furiously. ‘Dave, this is meant to be a class for women! For crying out loud!’ Dave laughed, taking off his big army coat and throwing it on the floor next to a bowl of rose petals, most of which flew across the floor in the tailwind. ‘Och, Fran, I need some inner calm. It’s fine! And there’s another fellow over there. What are you on about?’ Stefania had come over. ‘Oh, all right, Stefania, how’s tricks?’ Dave said conversationally, as he pulled off his workman’s boots. Stefania smiled coyly. ‘Ees vonderful to see you, as always, Dave. I am glad to have man in my class. Men have vonderful experience of meditation! You are very velcome!’ Dave beamed at her and turned to me. ‘See?’ I was gearing myself up to have a quiet tantrum when the door opened and in walked Nellie. With one hand she was turning off her BlackBerry, with the other she was pulling out her hairband … and there it was: that mane of perfect hair. I gawped, suddenly breathless. She was, if at all possible, even more flawless than the porcelain-faced Rolex woman in the picture. She was far taller than me, probably nearly five foot ten, and she had the figure of a gazelle. Long, long legs in expensive seamed tights, beautiful spikey shoes and a charcoal pencil skirt with a tight black, flawless shirt tucked into it. A small gold pendant saying ‘Nellie’ hung round her neck and she carried the Heritage Bayswater satchel that I longed for but would never own. I felt physically sick. This? This was my competition? Never before had I felt quite so inadequate. The hot man smiled at her in a way that said ‘Ah. We’re the two best-looking people in this room. We must therefore fuck.’ Not even having spoken to him, I felt betrayed. He was MY hot man! In MY class! He should be after me, not bloody Nellie! I looked at Dave. He, too, even though he was with the Mrs bloody Natural Flower Meadow Woman, was staring open-mouthed. Annoyed, I removed my socks while Stefania introduced herself. I winced, as Nellie said, ‘Yah, I’m really pleased to be doing this. I think it’ll really help me.’ What the fuck did she need help with? She was stunning, successful, clearly rich, fashionable … oh, and she now had the best boyfriend in London. Stefania asked her name and I held my breath. Don’t say your surname. Don’t say your surname, don’t say your surname … ‘Nellie.’ Phew. Stefania looked at me and smiled slightly: OK, she was saying. Nellie isn’t just a name for an elephant. Stefania sat us down and began. After a lengthy chat about the benefits of meditation, she finally closed her eyes and asked everyone else to do the same. Of course, I did no such thing. I now had an uninterrupted forty-five minutes to stare at Michael’s new girlfriend. Why had I doubted myself? It was a bloody brilliant plan! I stared at her waist, which I was reasonably confident I could get my hands round. Her ankles, too, were delicate, yet sexy and powerful. There was a tiny mark on her chin. Was that a stubble rash from Michael? I remembered him kissing me every morning with his chin all spiky and felt my eyes smart. I’d never get him back if he’d fallen for this woman. ‘Just focus on the sensation of breathing in and out …’ Stefania was saying. ‘Ze air feels colder on the back of your nose as it goes in, zen varmer as it comes out.’ Did they have better sex than we’d had? Nellie and I were at the back of the room and I was closest to the door where everyone had put their bags. I gazed at her Mulberry with envy: not only did she have the love of my life, she had the bag of my dreams. Her coat was folded next to it, some frighteningly expensive cream thing that made my grotty trench look like a dustman’s overall. The pocket nearest to me was flashing. It must be her BlackBerry. Don’t do this, I told myself. Seriously. If she finds you with your hand in her coat you’ll be arrested. You are decent, sensible Fran, not the sort of weirdo who goes into other people’s pockets! But I was the crack whore again. In a second, I leaned over and then it was in my hand, smooth and cold, blinking quietly. I opened up her email inbox; it all seemed pretty boring. When Dave snorted loudly for no discernible reason I jumped a mile in the air but his eyes were still closed. Furtively, I switched over to her phone messages. When had I turned into this person? Her screen was large enough for me to be able to see eight messages, all with ‘Michael xxx’ in the sender line. Michael with three kisses? For crying out loud! My stomach flipped as I clicked on the most recent. Enjoy this evening. You deserve it. I’m sorry if I’ve been grumpy recently, it’s just a difficult time for me. But what I said last night stands: I am over her. I only have eyes for you, Nell. I love you. XXXXX The BlackBerry went quickly back to the coat from which it had come. I felt dizzy. That was it. I was going to have sex with Andrew from the Internet tomorrow. Even if he was a boss-eyed Nazi with wooden teeth and halitosis. ‘By now you should be feeling blissfully
calm. All zere is in your head is your breath going in … and out …’ Stefania was purring. Panic charged through me and I dug my nails into my hand, willing myself not to cry before I got home. What a fool I was! I looked at Dave again, hoping that his blissful state might rub off on me. But instead of a mane of wild hair, I saw two crinkly blue eyes. Two blue eyes that were staring at me, one eyebrow raised. He’d seen the whole thing. At the end of the class, a radiant and beaming Stefania did the rounds of the media bitches with her platters of health food. Dave had left as soon as the class finished; I’d been unable to meet his eye. No doubt he was off to tell his beautiful girlfriend what a complete fuck-up I was. Not that she needed to be told. I seized the opportunity to talk to Nellie about Spikey PR. Clearly it hadn’t crossed her mind that I might just be being polite because she was holding forth with unbridled enthusiasm about her newest client: a trendy members’ club for posh new mums in Chelsea. It sounded like utter hell to me: swarms of Range Rovers arriving with ghastly, messy-ponytailed women carrying babies called Claudia and Archie, guzzling designer coffee and organic cake while they helped each other through the devastating hardships of motherhood. ‘It’s just such a cute little venture,’ she breezed. ‘Rully, rully talented guys who’ve set it up, y’know. They rully know their shit. They know just how hard it can hit these women when they have a child – they’ve always been so successful and suddenly they’re run ragged and alone all day. The club’s all about support and friendship, y’know.’ I nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, it sounds wonderful,’ I trilled. Nellie consulted her Rolex and I panicked slightly. I needed more. More crack. ‘Actually,’ I gabbled, ‘I work for the ITN news at six thirty and we’ve a strand of reports coming up in the next couple of weeks about the aftermath of the recession … We’ll deffo look at how it affected luxuries like members’ clubs, gyms and whatnot – how about we come and do a feature about these guys and how their business is booming in spite of the recession?’ Nellie paused, thinking about it. ‘Well, yuh, sounds great!’ I hesitated as I handed over my number and promised to call her in the next few days, wondering what would happen if Michael found it. But why not? Why wouldn’t I meet her at a meditation class and set up a feature? Stefania arrived with a plate of raw-chocolate fudge and offered us each a piece. ‘Er, thanks,’ Nellie said doubtfully. ‘How is this raw? I don’t understand.’ Her voice was so posh and husky. I wanted to stab her with her Patrick Cox shoe. ‘Ees damaging to many foods to cook zem,’ Stefania explained. ‘Viz many foods ees possible to sprout zem or rehydrate zem to give zem ze same texture as cooked foods vizout damaging ze nutritional structure.’ Nellie smirked a little. ‘But why would you bother? I mean, if you’re going to eat chocolate then surely you’re fucked anyway, aren’t you?’ I bristled. Nellie was not allowed to say ‘fuck’ to Stefania. She didn’t know her. The bloody arrogance of it. Stefania laughed. ‘You’re not fucked if you eat zis,’ she said. ‘Try it. Ees delicious!’ I felt a stab of protective love for Stefania. If Nellie messed with her, I was taking her out. But I didn’t need to: Stefania’s years in that shed had made her a brilliant chef. Nellie’s brown eyes widened as she chewed. ‘It’s bloody delicious, babe,’ she said. ‘Amazing!’ ‘Yah, I agree,’ said the preposterously hot man, who had somehow joined our group and was standing next to Nellie, smiling confidently into her eyes. ‘Really good stuff, this. I love healthy, simple food!’ ‘Totally! She’s an angel,’ Nellie said, enjoying the attention. I tried not to vomit over them. But Stefania was beaming. I thought she was going to throw down the plate and hug them both: I’d never seen her so rosy-cheeked. I’d have to encourage her to continue with the class after today. She patted Nellie lightly on the arm of her perfect, uncreased black shirt and said, ‘Ah, sank you … er … Vhat is your name again?’ Nellie flicked her mane over her shoulder. ‘Nellie. Nellie Daniels. Spikey PR. I’m looking forward to the next session. Please do get that woman Yolande to sign me up for the rest of the course.’ Stefania’s head dropped as she realized what I’d done. While the guests drifted out of the door she stood still, staring at a spot by my feet, white with anger. Chapter Nineteen