FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM NAAZIR! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!
Frances, I am much loving. I like cats and woman maybe you will like come at Tunisia for visit and maybe wedding with me, I, live in Tunisia, my mother is waiting for you come tomorrow for visit us! We cook great food for you! Come to Tunisia! Come! We marry ourselves! Frances I want to have wedding to you! ‘What did you get up to this weekend, Fran?’ asked Stella Sanderson. We were in the kitchen and she was eating what appeared to be a piece of grey card with faeces spread on it. ‘Want one?’ she offered, following my gaze. ‘Yes!’ I replied immediately, grateful for any communication whatsoever after the silence of the previous week. Stella pulled a jar of homemade poo out of the fridge and started spreading it on another slab of card. My stomach heaved. After Saturday night’s drinking and glue-sniffing efforts, Leonie and I had had to take ourselves down to the Grand Union for brunchtime burgers yesterday, at which point I’d got on to the Bloody Marys. Hard. Having checked in with Mum this morning – she had not had a drink in three days and sounded exhausted and utterly terrified of the task ahead of her – I felt very ashamed. ‘Er, this weekend I was mostly researching stuff for work,’ I said vaguely. And then, lest she cross-question me, had a bite out of her horrid-looking offering. It was surprisingly good. ‘Oh, great. Sounds like we’ve got you back! Your Alice in Wonderland special on Friday was cracking,’ she said briskly. I blushed and had another bite. ‘So, what were you researching?’ Bugger. ‘Erm, it was mostly – Blimey, Stella, this is delicious! What is it?’ I realized I was actually shouting. She smiled and spread some more. ‘It’s sprouted millet crackers with plum jam that I sweetened with stevia. So, what story are you cooking up?’ She handed the cracker to me and brushed down her skirt, waiting for me to tell her precisely what I’d been researching all weekend. I scrambled around mentally for a few seconds. On the copy of Metro folded on the table behind her there was a trail for an article on the forthcoming Bloggies. ‘Oh, I’m working up a story about the Bloggies 2010,’ I said airily. ‘They’re an annual award for the world’s best blogs …’ I trailed off and had another bite, chewing with gusto. Stella was still looking at me expectantly. ‘We Brits have won quite a few over the last ten years,’ I improvised. Stella raised an eyebrow. ‘I see. Lots of reading this weekend, then. Is the awards ceremony over here? I thought a lot of these people were anonymous.’ ‘They are,’ I replied. ‘Actually, there isn’t an awards ceremony, they just announce the winners online. The prize is tiny – it’s more about the kudos.’ ‘Oh, right,’ Stella said politely. ‘So what shape is your report going to take if you don’t even have an awards ceremony to film?’ I took another bite, turning cold. Good bloody question. And then, suddenly, a beautiful thing happened: a Useful Thought emerged deep from the bowels of my history A-level classes, most of which I’d skived off with Leonie in favour of all-day breakfasts at the Tesco café in Chiswick. ‘Samuel Pepys began his diary four hundred and fifty years ago, in 1660,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m working up a piece about how the average London blog compares to Pepys’s diary. These guys are just as important to the Londoners of the future as Pepys is to us now … And they’re all writing about the same old London – all that’s changed is the detail. I’ll meet some of them, get into their lives and try to take out a few snotty historians who think that blogs are the devil’s diarrhoea. It’ll be fun. Irreverent. Contemporary. Character-based.’ I took another bite, colouring. Stella nodded slowly. ‘Yes, that’s interesting. I like the Pepys part of it.’ She smiled. ‘How come you’ve gone all health-food on us?’ I asked, popping the last of her hippie snack down the hatch. ‘Just trying to look after myself better,’ she replied. ‘We have to take responsibility at some point, eh? Take control of our lives?’ She’s not wrong, I thought, as I wandered back to my desk, wondering if it was OK to take paracetamol and aspirin at the same time for a hangover. I could do with looking after myself a bit more. Even if Michael was knobbing Nellie, I didn’t need to drink myself to death. Much as it felt like a nice alternative right now. There was an email from Dave in my inbox. He was up in Glasgow, having a long weekend with his mum, and I smiled, imagining his massive hairy frame being ordered around by the sharp, sprightly little woman in the photo he’d shown me. Mrs Brennan was a force to be reckoned with, by all accounts. Freya had once told me that the first time she’d been taken up to Glasgow and presented to Dave’s mum she had been ordered into the kitchen to assist with dinner-making, handed a tumbler of Scotch and told quite firmly that Dave needed looking after and that if Freya didn’t feed him broccoli at least three times a week there would be murder. Morning Fannybaws! Heard you and Leonie patched things up. That’s fuckin grand news! Next action points: * Stop fuckin drinking * Get dating * And leave that fuckin Nellie girl alone, OK? Sound advice, I thought. It was time to step away from The Daniels once and for all. I’d lost; she’d won; I’d never get Michael back. I promptly brought up Nellie on Facebook and added her as a friend. Dave, I am insane. Just read your email and then added Nellie as a friend on Facebook. Please help. I sat drumming my fingers on the desk and waited for him to reply. While I waited, a Facebook notification plopped malevolently into my inbox, telling me that Nellie had accepted my request. Dammit! Why was she on Facebook at 10.12 a.m. on a Monday morning? Why wasn’t she poncing around on Savile Row or talking strategy around a sturdy white table in Kensington? Helpless, I clicked through to her page. And what I saw made my heart stop. No bloody wonder she was on Facebook at 10.12 a.m. on a Monday morning. Nellie Daniels is engaged!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Below it, among the mushroom cloud of comments that had gathered overnight, was Jenny, Michael’s sister, with a gigantic, capital-lettered WOOOOOOOOOOOO! The final twist of the knife. I called Leonie and stared at my hands. My vision had begun to tunnel and my mouth had gone dry. This could not be happening. It just couldn’t. If they got engaged it would be the greatest rejection of all time. The largest imaginable demonstration of my inadequacy as a human being. Michael getting married to a Pantene model from Chelsea? Save for him getting married to Leonie, I couldn’t think of a worse scenario. Leonie didn’t answer. My heart was pounding. I needed help. Now. My desk phone rang and I ignored it. Hugh had not yet lifted his embargo on me speaking on the phone and, quite frankly, there wasn’t anyone work-related I wanted to speak to right now. I carried on staring at my hands, trying frantically to get a handle on my feelings. My phone started ringing again. I looked at it and registered, vaguely, that it was an 0141 number. Glasgow! I snatched it up, relief exploding through my veins like heroin. ‘Dave! They’ve fucking got engaged …’ I trailed off as my voice began to break. There was a pause. Oh, treble fuck. ‘Oh … er, news desk – hello?’ I added. A dry, papery cackle came down the line. ‘Well, good morning to you, Frances. It’s Glenda Brennan here.’ She sounded exactly as she looked in the picture: small, efficient and sharp as a razor. ‘Oh. Mrs Brennan … I, oh, blimey, I’m sorry. I sort of expected it to be your son –’ ‘David was just after telling me about your situation. I told him it sounded like you needed some common sense drilled into you.’ ‘Right,’ I mumbled. ‘Still, it seems that the situation has progressed further since you emailed him just now,’ she said briskly. ‘What’s going on, Mum?’ Dave said in the background. ‘Och, the girl has got engaged to Michael, that’s all,’ said Dave’s mum. That’s all? But suddenly, with all my might, I wanted to be in Mrs Brennan’s warm tenement kitchen with the smell of the batch loaves that Dave told me she made every Monday morning. ‘Now, Frances, this situation is unacceptable. You’re to get this girl out of your life right now, do you hear? And you’re to stop drinking. This is an order.’ I waited for her to chuckle or do something to indicate irony, but nothing came. ‘Frances, David told me about these web romances you’ve signed up for. Please take your friends’ advice and go on them. Stop filly-willyin
g around, you hear?’ I nodded dumbly. ‘FRANCES?’ ‘Sorry, Mrs Brennan. Yes. Right. No filly-willying around.’ ‘Grand,’ she said. ‘And stay away from that girl. You masochistic fool.’ In spite of everything, I smiled. ‘OK, Mrs Brennan.’ ‘Good,’ she replied, scraping back a stool. ‘Well, I need to get on with my bread. Good day to you.’ ‘’Bye, Mrs Brennan,’ I said, slightly dazed. ‘Give my love to Freya.’ But she’d already put the phone down. Dave’s email followed a few minutes later. I can’t put it any better than that. Behave yourself. Hope your mum’s doing OK. Back tomorrow X Strangely calm, I logged back into Facebook and, without pausing for a second, went into Account Settings and closed my account. Just like that. Gone. Poof. Then I emailed Dave. OK, David. I’ve just committed Facebook suicide. And I’ve taken Nellie’s number out of my phone. I’ll arrange another date by the end of tomorrow & I’ll think about this drink thing. I meant it. I’d try anything if it stopped me feeling like I had just been run over by a train. I took a deep breath, started up an email to Hugh about the Pepys/blogger situation I’d pulled out of my backside and pondered the ‘drink thing’. Was there a drink thing? Guiltily I thought about the weekend. There had definitely been a drink thing this weekend. Leonie and I had agreed that a Bloody Mary seemed like a reasonable start to the day when we’d arrived at the Grand Union for a hearty burger yesterday. But while she’d gone home at four, ready to get on with some work-related thing, I’d stayed for another. And then another. I’d excused myself on the grounds that Leonie, who was a charity mugger, clearly didn’t have any ‘work things’ to be doing on a Sunday and was thus going to meet Alex to Finally Have Sex. Bloody Mary was my antidote to this terrible possibility. Later on yesterday, when I’d returned at seven o’clock to feed Duke Ellington and have some therapeutic banter with Freddy, Stefania had arrived in my kitchen looking very pretty with newly washed hair hanging over her shoulders. ‘Vhat in ze name of Guru Nanak are you doing?’ she had asked, as she stood in my doorway. It was a reasonable question: I had tried to open a bottle of wine by pushing the cork into the bottle with a pencil because I had lost the corkscrew, but unfortunately the pencil had splintered at the last minute so I was now sieving the wine into a bowl. ‘I’m filtering for bits of pencil,’ I explained. Stefania shook her head. ‘I have come to take you to my lodgings,’ she said. ‘It is time you consumed something healthy. Dave told me you ate a sack of doughnuts and now I find you eating pencils and vine on a Sunday night. Come,’ she said pityingly. ‘Dave told you I ate a bag of Krispy Kremes?’ I said. ‘Why are you lot talking about me behind my back? Bloody Gestapo! Stop it!’ ‘Ve are merely concerned for you. Come viz me.’ I brought the bowl of pencil-filtered wine with me, accepting that Stefania was quite right to pity me. I was pathetic. Drinking pencil wine when my mother had just celebrated three whole days of sobriety after nearly twenty years of chronic dependency? I was disgusting. ‘Er, morning, Fran.’ I snapped out of my ponder, paracetamol still halfway to my mouth. Alex was standing next to my desk looking very uncomfortable. In one hand he held a thimble of designer coffee and in the other a copy of the Independent. I stared at it with horror, half expecting a front-page announcement about Michael and Nellie’s engagement. Then I stared up at him, mute. The agony of Michael’s engagement had left me incapable of speech. ‘Um, I need to talk to you about something,’ Alex began awkwardly. ‘NO!’ I yelled, my vocal cords miraculously restored. ‘There’s no need to say anything about Michael. I just found out.’ Alex looked even more uncomfortable. ‘Er, OK. Are you all right? I can’t believe it, Fran. It’s just terrible.’ I nodded glumly. As he stared at me, cringing like a frightened dog, I marvelled at the bizarre turnaround that Leonie had effected by letting Alex into her life. Gone was the repellent confidence of News Producer Alex who would have revelled in my misery: here instead was Gawky Teen Alex, who seemed genuinely anguished about my horrible situation. ‘Sorry again for accusing you of selling Mum to the press, Alex,’ I said eventually. ‘And for the, erm, rude message.’ We both smiled awkwardly. ‘Not at all. I’d have done the same. And I just want you to know the tape had nothing to do with me,’ he said. ‘OK. Fair enough. Let’s just get on, yeah?’ Alex’s pointy features broke into a genuine smile. ‘I agree! Do you want to go for lunch, maybe?’ One thing at a time, Ratty. ‘Er … Not sure. It feels weird, Alex. What with this Michael stuff going on.’ Alex looked wounded. ‘It’s terrible, Fran. I met up with him yesterday and he told me. I got really angry with him and said –’ I cut him off. ‘Thanks. I hear you. I’ll survive this somehow but I don’t think I’m ready to have lunch with his best friend just yet.’ Alex sipped his coffee sheepishly. ‘Yes. I understand.’ He glanced awkwardly at the burgeoning election team. ‘Well, better go. Lots to do.’ ‘I’m sure there is,’ I said politely. I didn’t want to hear about his busy job. It should have been mine. ‘You could … um, well, if you don’t hate me so much you could always come and get involved,’ he said. I raised an eyebrow, trying not to look too keen. ‘I could clear it with Hugh. He didn’t really want me to do the Nick Bennett interview on Friday, Fran, he wanted you to do it.’ ‘Thanks,’ I said slowly. ‘That would … That would be great. Let me know once you’ve got the go-ahead.’ As I watched his skinny legs scamper away it occurred to me that he’d probably be best man at Michael and Nellie’s wedding. Michael and Nellie’s wedding. The idea sliced through me like a butcher’s knife. Sharp, precise, deadly. Michael and Nellie’s wedding. ‘Coolest blogs in London,’ I typed furiously into Google, determined to get through the day without giving in to the wedding-shaped dark cloud of despair that was lurking dangerously at the periphery of my mind. But it was out of my hands. Two seconds later, as I opened the clublondon blog, my phone delivered a message from Michael. Fran, there’s something I need to tell you. Can we please meet up as soon as possible. I slammed my phone down on the table. And then picked it up, suddenly calm. I thought of what Mum had said last Wednesday. It stops here. If Mum was brave enough to take responsibility for her mental wellbeing, so was I. I hit reply. I know what’s going on, Michael. Please leave me alone and don’t contact me ever again. Fran. Chapter Thirty-two
FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM MICKEY! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!
Fancy a game of pin the cock in the arsehole? Mickey xxxxx ‘NO NEWS FROM CAMDEN,’ Stefania yelled. I winced and held my mobile away from my face. Even through the music and beery chatter at Smiths of Smithfield I could hear her as clear as a bell. This was because, according to her usual custom, Stefania was conducting our phone conversation in an out-and-out roar. My heart sank. Where was my little furry prince? Duke Ellington had failed to come in for his breakfast this morning, a completely out-of-character occurrence. Even in the event of a nuclear fall-out he would come in for his breakfast. It was his chance to reassert his reign of terror over our yard each day. But nothing. I’d bashed away at his can and called him for more than ten minutes to no avail. Stefania, doing yoga on a mat in the yard in spite of the eight-degrees temperature, had seemed genuinely worried and had even scampered up the tree, like a mad little elf, to check that he wasn’t stuck on either of our roofs. He wasn’t. I’d given her my keys and asked her to come and check later on in the day. Judging by the frequency with which she’d called me, she’d spent the whole day in my house waiting for him. I couldn’t help but feel horribly afraid. Duke Ellington was like my child. ‘OK, well, let me know if you see him,’ I said miserably. ‘And thanks. You’re a good friend.’ But she was off, chanting some sort of cat-finding prayer. ‘Pint of Asahi,’ I said, to the nice Brazilian barman. He smiled crisply and said, ‘Be careful with beer. You have good physique. Do not ruin it.’ ‘Seconded,’ said Dave, as he arrived next to me and pulled up a stool. ‘Since when did you drink draught beer?’ I smiled wanly. ‘Well, you kept bollocking me about drinking so I thought I’d transfer
to something a bit softer.’ I took a sip and promptly belched. ‘Not sure it’s for me, though. I forgot about my belching. Do you want this? I can get some wine.’ Dave looked down at his hands. He seemed to be struggling to say something. ‘Dave?’ I prompted. He was running them up and down his worn old jeans, exhaling slowly. After a few seconds he looked at me and smiled. ‘OK, Franny Fannybaws. Here’s the deal.’ I sighed and took off my duffel coat. ‘Go on,’ I said, resignedly. There was a ladder in my tights. Glam Fran was a bit sketchy today. He coughed, then said, ‘You’re going to stop drinking and I’m going to do it with you. As of now. We’re going to stop drinking together.’ This, I had not expected. I looked at Dave, who had obviously been subjected to a severe haircut by his mum over the weekend. He looked tired, but his face seemed a lot younger now that it wasn’t so obscured by his mane. ‘How old are you?’ I asked suddenly. ‘Thirty-eight. That’s not the answer I was looking for, Fannybaws,’ he added, with a smile. ‘Back to this deal, please.’ I studied the pint of lager in front of me and realized that, in the last week, three of the people I cared about most had begged me to stop drinking. And at that moment the thought fluttered gently into my head that they might actually be right. It flew around like a timid butterfly, refusing to settle, but it didn’t leave. Had my judgement been up to much of late? No. And if I really didn’t have a problem with alcohol, what was the harm in trying a few weeks without it? Apart from anything else, I felt confident that it would do wonders for my skin and would get everyone off my back. ‘OK,’ I said slowly, biting my lip. ‘But it’ll be hard. I like booze. How will I do Gin Thursdays without gin?’ Dave grinned and gave me a double thumbs-up. ‘Because I’ll be with you,’ he replied. ‘You’ll be doing your mum a huge favour by not drinking. And your head’ll be in far better shape for your Eight Date Deal.’ How I loved Dave. Quite why a big hairy scary man like him, with his legendary career and legendarily beautiful partner, gave a flying fuck about me and my pathetic gin-drinking, doughnut-munching habits was beyond me. I jumped off the stool and hugged him, knocking him into a group of suited money types who were buying cocktails behind him. He gave me a brief squeeze and pushed me away, picking up my coat, which had gone flying in the assault. ‘How’s about we leave this pint behind and go upstairs for some scran? You could do with a square meal.’ As I followed Dave up the stairs, I gazed happily down at the bar spread out below me. Framed neatly by industrial steel and exposed brick, the after-work crowd roared on, oblivious to whether or not I had a drink in my hand. No one cares, I mused. The only person who gives a shit whether or not I’m drinking is me. And that’s not enough. Feeling overwhelmed but a lot happier, I surveyed the crowd one last time before turning the corner of the stairs. And as I did so, my eye was caught by a burst of beauty. A pair of people so attractive that the drinkers parted before them, like the Red Sea before Moses. I swear the music was even turned down. It was, of course, Nellie Daniels. Why not? And she was with a really exquisite man. She was flushed and happy and, dear God, she was clinging to his arm as if her life depended on it. A fairly sizeable rock sparkled visibly from her left hand, which was curled round his arm in a way that said, We are going to have sex later. What the blazes … ? I shuffled sideways to the turn in the stairs and peered round the corner as they headed towards the bar. There, the man ostentatiously picked up a handful of Nellie’s shiny hair and moved it reverently over her shoulder to her back. His hand remained on her neck and he whispered intimately in her ear before raising his hand to call over the barman. ‘Fannybaws?’ Dave said, coming back down the stairs next to me. ‘What are you doing now, you mental?’ I pushed him back up the stairs. ‘Don’t move another inch, Dave Brennan!’ Dave put his hands in his pockets and watched me from a couple of stairs above. ‘Will you explain this to me or am I to stand here for the rest of the night?’ ‘It’s Nellie! She’s here with some hot bloke and, Dave, I swear, they’re having an affair! He’s all over her! And she looks like she’s having some sort of orgasm!’ ‘Fuck’s sake, Fran, is that why you wanted to come here? Are we on a fucking stalking mission? Thanks a lot.’ ‘No! I had no idea they were coming.’ Dave got a packet of Golden Virginia out of his pocket. ‘Whatever. I’m going outside to have a fag. By the time I get back I want you sitting down and minding your own fuckin’ business, OK?’ I grabbed him. ‘No! Nellie can’t know I’m here … Dave this is big – look at them!’ Nellie and the man were standing at the bar with their faces less than a foot apart. Nellie was grinning coyly into his face and he had her left hand in his. He was staring at her ring. Then he said something in her ear, which made her laugh uproariously. Were they laughing at Michael’s taste in rings? Then he silenced her by kissing her. I glanced sideways at Dave, who was really quite shocked. ‘Fuck,’ he said after a few seconds. ‘Fuck, that’s really bad. She can’t seriously be after marrying Michael with this going on?’ I shrugged. Dave withdrew and sat on the stairs next to me. He looked pissed off. ‘Why are you cross?’ I asked him, confused. ‘It’s not looking good for Michael, is it?’ he said eventually. ‘What do you care about Michael?’ He shrugged. ‘I guess I just don’t like infidelity much. Never had time for it.’ I watched his face, which was pitted with real irritation. It was quite touching. Freya’s fear of Dave’s foreign travels was obviously misplaced. Then I had a thought that made my stomach slide out of my bowels. ‘Oh, God, Dave. Maybe Michael proposed to her because she got pregnant. Maybe they were never that into each other but he’s marrying her out of honour. That’s exactly the sort of thing I’d expect him to do. That’s why he sounds so sad in his messages! But how can I take him back if he has a child? With The DANIELS?’ I clutched the banister for support as my mind raced. Dave resumed rolling. ‘Get a grip, Fannybaws. And stay out of it. Whatever’s going on it’s got nothing to do with you, you hear?’ I peered round the corner again but Nellie and the man had gone. I scanned the floor, looking for Nellie’s wall of shining hair, and suddenly located it, about five metres from me, advancing up the stairs. I considered my options: grab Dave and run to the first-floor wine rooms or brazen it out and talk to her. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be trapped in any of these venues with Nellie and her bit on the side. So, after a lightning-quick consideration, I grabbed Dave’s tobacco and rammed myself down on the step between his knees. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and launched my face at him, kissing his mouth just as it opened in surprise to ask me what the hell I was playing at. Nellie’s stilettos clacked past us and I heard her soft, husky giggle as she saw the tawdry little scene. For a couple of seconds Dave didn’t move, he just sat rigidly with his arms at his sides while I face-raped him. His face was all spiky and there was a definite aroma of fag smoke about him. Finally, he regained his composure, grabbed my shoulders forcefully and shoved me away. ‘What the fuck?’ he hissed angrily. ‘Get off me!’ I checked that Nellie had cleared our line of vision, then removed myself rapidly from between his long legs. Dave, meanwhile, was dusting down his coat as if I had just aimed a slurry hose at him. I didn’t want to be kissing him any more than he wanted to be kissing me but the force of his disgust was a little hurtful. ‘Erm, sorry,’ I mumbled, rearranging my hair and standing up. ‘But there wasn’t time to run off and hide.’ Dave just shook his head. ‘Have some bloody respect,’ he replied eventually. I went red. Dave had just announced his views on infidelity to me and within seconds I had thrown myself at him. ‘I’m sorry! If you want I can tell Freya and make sure she knows it was just a strategic move.’ ‘You can stay well away from Freya, Fran.’ He was furious now. ‘C’mon, Dave,’ I said lamely. ‘I didn’t mean to snog you. It was just one of those things. Y’know, like when you go to Ikea for a picture frame and come back with a kitchen. I was just trying to hide from Nellie.’ Unable to help himself, Dave smiled. ‘Shite analogy, Fran. But you’re OK. Let’s forget about it, forget about Nellie and go and have dinner, OK?’ I nodded
gratefully. ‘OK. They’re bound to be going to the third floor – that bloke looks minted. Let’s go and eat on the second, right? And you have my word, no more face-raping. EVER.’ He grimaced and offered me his arm. As I scanned the menu my brain whirred furiously. What was going on? Was my pregnancy theory right? And, if so, did Michael know about Nellie’s lover? ‘Stop it,’ Dave said, without even looking up. ‘What?’ ‘This doesn’t mean you can get back together with Michael. It just means the situation, whatever it is, is even more fucked than we thought.’ ‘But Michael’s been cuckolded!’ I was half delighted, half appalled. I still loved Michael – right down at a cellular level – but with this amount of baggage his appeal was a little more complicated. It wasn’t just baggage, it was like a full-on left-luggage convention at Heathrow. Distractedly I ordered and then breathed a sigh of relief as Dave stood up to go to the loo. As he went he gave me a warning look. I got straight on the phone to Leonie. ‘Fuck,’ she breathed, awed. And then: ‘SERIOUS fuck. Fran.’ ‘I know,’ I muttered furtively. ‘What do you think’s going on?’ Leonie thought about it, then said, rather to my dismay, ‘I think … Oh dear, I’m sorry, Franny, but I think it’s all completely rogered. Way too messy. I think you need to keep away from him. Sorry, my darling.’ I popped an olive into my mouth and chewed miserably. ‘Yeah. You’re probably right. But, Leonie, it’s hard. I miss him. It still hurts every single day. How am I meant to deal with this? It’s like the best worst thing that could happen!’ Leonie said nothing. ‘Oh, God, Leonie, do you actually know what’s going on? Did Alex tell you?’ ‘No,’ she said immediately. ‘I was just thinking. Fran, you have to trust me: I have not and will not talk to Alex about you and Michael. Do you believe me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I cannot for the life of me work this out but I strongly urge you to just keep the hell away. OK?’ ‘Understood. Thanks, Leonie. ’Bye.’ Dave would almost certainly go for a fag after he’d been to the loo. If I did it quickly, I’d be able to sneak up and get one last look at The Daniels. I scampered across the floor, signalling to the waitress that I was coming back. Creeping up the stairs to the third floor, I realized there was something I could do here. Something that would settle once and for all what Michael was up to in texting me and whether he knew about Nellie’s dodgy dealings. I slid back the lens cover of the camera on my mobile and inched my head gingerly round the corner of the restaurant entrance. I was Fran the Charlie’s Angel. I was Jack Bauer. Perfect! Nellie and the man were sitting by the window with Smithfield meat market spread out majestically below them; the lights of the Thames glittered distantly in the background. They were both hunched over the table so that a gap of only a few inches separated them and their faces were flushed. As I began to take aim, I clocked a bucket of very expensive wine sitting next to them. They were in fact sitting at a table for four. Was Nellie mad? Going out in public with another man was insane enough; surely she wasn’t so brazen as to invite others? The man leaned over and kissed her. She arched her back, lifting her hand to touch his face. I took aim and fired. And, of course, my flash exploded across the serene white-tableclothed room like lightning. They both jumped and turned to me, frozen in the doorway, camera in hand. And then I heard a familiar, child-like voice to my right, saying, ‘Fran?’ It was Jenny. Jenny Slater. Jenny and Dmitri. Time stood still. I looked at them, then back at Nellie and the man, who were both thoroughly startled. Somewhere in the periphery of my mind it occurred to me that Nellie was rogered now: not only had I just gathered pictorial evidence of her affair but Jenny – Michael’s flesh and blood – had seen the whole thing too. But I knew this wasn’t correct. I knew that the picture of hell unfolding around me wasn’t quite right. I knew it was me who was rogered. In slow motion, I saw Nellie get up from her seat and start to walk over. She was wearing a simple slip dress and expensive tights with chunky velvet platforms. Beautiful silver bangles jangled at her wrists. ‘Hi, babe,’ she said carefully. ‘Were you just taking a picture of us?’ I turned to Jenny, who was evidently perplexed. ‘How lovely to see you, Fran! I … This is odd!’ she exclaimed. My heart thumped loudly in my chest. There was no escape. And then something bizarre happened. Nellie kissed Jenny and Dmitri quickly, before turning back to me. She’d known they were coming? ‘Babe … what’s with the pictures?’ ‘Hi, Michael!’ Jenny called. At this point I nearly fainted. Please, dear God, please let Michael not be walking up the stairs behind us. And then I saw that Jenny was smiling and waving at Nellie’s lover, the handsome, flashy man who was getting up out of his chair and coming over towards us. Michael? I heard Jenny’s voice, as if through a cloud, tinkling, ‘Congratulations, Michael! What wonderful news! And do you know Fran too? Well, this is all a bit funny, who’d have thought it?’ Nellie was engaged to a man called Michael. Who was not Michael Slater. Not my Michael. Not my boy. She didn’t have my boy. Michael had never kissed her. I felt tears of relief and shock form in my eyes and, before I had time to do anything about it, they started falling. I sat down suddenly on the floor and leaned against the door frame. ‘Oh, my God,’ I whispered. ‘It’s OK. It’s not Michael.’ I came to a few seconds later. Jenny was kneeling next to me, looking floppy and worried. Dmitri was striding over with a white-aproned waiter, who was holding a glass of water. Nellie’s long, toned legs were rising up in front of me and this new Michael was on his haunches, staring at me. I pulled myself up a little bit so I was sitting properly rather than sprawling against the door frame. They all talked over each other and I drank some water, working out what the hell to do next. The decision was taken out of my hands by a gravelly Glaswegian voice. ‘Oh, bloody hell, Fran. What have you done? Get up off the floor!’ Dave’s hand was outstretched in front of me. Jenny started telling him that I’d just sort of fainted and Nellie started to say hello to him, recognizing him from Meditation. As the dizziness began to subside, I found myself in possibly the most embarrassing situation of my entire life. I took Dave’s hand and got up slowly, dusting myself down. Five different pairs of eyes stared at me, waiting for an explanation. Jenny looked deeply and genuinely concerned, Nellie was a bit embarrassed, and the men wore the expression that men always wear when a woman has just done something inexplicably silly. Dave’s eyes were boring into me: he was daring me to make up yet another lie. As I cleared my throat he shook his head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, which only I saw. He was right. There was only one thing for it. ‘Right. Hi, Jenny. Hi, Dmitri. It’s nice to see you. Sorry I decked it. And, Nellie, erm, hi. And Michael, yes?’ He nodded. ‘Well, nice to meet you. In fact, Jesus, you have no idea how pleased I am to meet you.’ They were clearly bewildered. The waiter drifted off, already losing interest. ‘Er … ahem. I …’ Dave reached for my hand and gave it a quick squeeze. ‘Well, you see, the thing is, and you are totally allowed to have me sectioned or fired or something, if you want, but, um …’ This was mortifying beyond my worst nightmares. Dave squeezed my hand again. ‘Come on. The sooner you do this, the sooner you can let it all go,’ he murmured. I glanced up at him for reassurance. He nodded and smiled. And with that I began to smile too. ‘Nellie, basically I thought you were going out with Jenny’s brother Michael. He’s my ex. He broke my heart.’ Jenny flinched but I carried on: ‘We broke up a couple of months ago and he said something about a Nellie. So I looked at his Facebook friends and found you and decided that he was going out with you. It’s killed me. I’ve … well, I’ve been pretty much stalking you, trying to work out what’s going on,’ I said. Nellie crinkled her brow, clearly disbelieving. ‘But, babe, how? I mean, we met by chance at that meditation class.’ I looked at the floor. Nellie started laughing. ‘Oh, my God, you’re precious. You invited me, didn’t you?’ I nodded, scarlet. ‘And the shoot with Isabelle? Oh, my God, babe, that’s soooo funny! And the running club!’ By now Nellie was really laughing, her smoky Sloane voice suddenly warm with affection and amusement. ‘Oh, babe, and what terrible bad luck tha
t Michael is called Michael! Of all the bloody names!’ Michael, standing next to her in an impeccably cut suit, was restlessly tapping his foot. He began to smile too. ‘Women,’ he said, raising his eyebrows despairingly at Dmitri. Dmitri jangled the change in the pocket of his equally impeccable suit and nodded. Suddenly Jenny threw her arms round me. ‘Oh, Fran,’ she cried. ‘Oh, my poor Fran, you must have been going out of your mind. God, this is all so wrong. You and Michael should be together! You’re made for each other!’ I’d really missed Jenny. I realized now that in my haste to stalk Nellie I’d kind of abandoned her as an ally. We pulled apart and she looked at me with eyes full of compassion. ‘Poor old Fran,’ she said again. ‘Come and have dinner with us.’ I began to back away into Dave. ‘No, no, I …’ She was firm. ‘No, I insist. Nellie? Is this OK? My bloody brother has put this poor girl through hell. I promise you she’s a good egg!’ Nellie smiled. ‘Yuh, I know. We get on well. And I love that I had a little stalker! How cool! Yuh, Fran, you must join us. We’re celebrating the engagement!’ I looked at Dave. He shrugged. ‘Are you sure you’re not freaked out?’ I asked Nellie. ‘No, babe! No, I love it! I’m a total full-on Facebook addict! I stalked my ex like a fiend when we split up! Oops, sorry, sweetie,’ she added, patting Michael’s sleeve. ‘Yup. Come and join us. Waiter, two more, please,’ said Michael, springing to life. He had a posh, assertive voice and looked like he’d exterminate you if you crossed him. The waiter all but ran to get the extra place settings. An hour later, everyone was still laughing – albeit kindly – at my expense. The mood was relaxed and Dave was in excellent spirits, regaling everyone with tales of my insane tactics. ‘I couldn’t believe she went running with you,’ he told Nellie. ‘I mean, did you notice how fuckin’ uncoordinated she is?’ ‘Shut it,’ I told him. ‘I’d like to see you running.’ Nellie giggled uncontrollably. I’d avoided asking Jenny anything about Michael for the last hour or so. Since she’d said that he’d been miserable without me I’d been floating on a cloud of joy and relief; I knew I’d find out more in due course. All that mattered was that he missed me. Now she took my hand and started talking. ‘I still don’t understand why you thought my Michael was with Nellie, my love,’ she said kindly. ‘What was it he said about a Nellie that made you look for her in his Facebook friends?’ ‘Well, the day you went into labour you asked me to call Dmitri so I did and then I …’ Jenny looked at me with such sympathy that I suddenly felt close to tears ‘… and, God, Jenny, I’m so sorry. I looked at your phone because I was so miserable and mad and I wanted to see if he’d texted you. And he had. He said he was with a Nellie. So I kind of called him and he thought it was you. He said he was with Nellie and she had some jumpers and he was walking her home and then coming to the hospital.’ ‘Love it, babe.’ Nellie giggled. Deep breath. ‘And then I found her in his Facebook friends and Googled her and found she worked in PR. And I realized she must have been the fashion PR who’d been giving you free maternity clothes, and because she’s so bloody beautiful, I just thought he must be shacked up with her –’ Nellie smiled, obviously loving this ‘– and then when I called you in hospital a few days later he was there with Nellie. I heard both of them.’ I left out the bit when I’d ‘borrowed’ Nellie’s BlackBerry and had seen a message from ‘Michael’. There was a limit to how far I was prepared to shame myself. Jenny squeezed my hand. ‘Oh, little Franny, you poor thing. How you must have tortured yourself!’ Nellie was all but squealing with excitement. ‘Yuh, I was totally with Michael Slater the day you had Lily!’ she crowed. ‘But how funny, because you’d palmed him off on me for the day so you could see Fran!’ Jenny nodded, smiling. Dave forgot himself and reached for the wine, remembering at the last minute and returning, slightly disgruntled, to his virgin cocktail. ‘No offence, girls, but Michael isn’t rully my thing. I mean, he’s lovely but he’s a bit, well … sedate,’Nellie said. I started laughing. As if Nellie would ever be interested in my boy. And once I’d started laughing, I couldn’t stop. ‘I’m a certifiable mentalist. I’ll totally understand if you decide to press charges,’ I said to her. She cackled with delight. ‘If you go down, I’ll be going down with you, hon! I never knew anyone stalked as much as me!’ ‘See?’ I said to Dave. ‘See? It isn’t just me. Everyone does this stuff!’ ‘Whatever, Fannybaws. You just tell yourself that.’ I looked at Jenny to see if she, too, was about to throw her cap into the stalking ring but she seemed suddenly rather sad. ‘Are you OK?’ I mouthed at her. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘But Michael’s a mess. I’m so worried about him. He misses you so much – he’s just not been himself since you split up.’ My stomach was churning again and I bit my lip. ‘But, Jenny, he finished with me. It was all his idea. The separation, the ninety days without contact, everything. I just sat there and cried.’ Jenny nodded sadly. ‘I know. He told me. He told me everything except WHY he did it. He …’ Now she seemed on the edge of tears. ‘He was going to propose to you that night, Fran. He had the most beautiful ring … It was our grandmother’s, made for her in Egypt in the thirties. I just don’t get it. It’s so sad.’ Her lip trembled a little and I felt tears gather in my own eyes. ‘Oh, God,’ I whispered. The table went silent. ‘He had something in his pocket. I bloody knew it was a ring-box. I miss him, Jenny. So much.’ A loud sniff to my left revealed that Nellie had decided to join in. I saw a single perfect pearl of a tear glide down her flawless cheek. Her empathy was the final straw and, without further ado, I started bawling. Not perfect pearly Daniels tears but messy, mascara-filled globules of sadness, full of the shock and horror of that night in Green Park. The women cried while the men shuffled in their seats, embarrassed. ‘Come on, girls,’ barked Michael, half impatiently, half sympathetically. ‘It’s not the end of the world! They can get back together!’ Jenny nodded rapidly. ‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘I so hope you do!’ I poked at my lamb cutlet. ‘He’s been texting me recently saying how much he misses me.’ Nellie mopped up her one tear and yelled, ‘Traitor! Behind my back!’ Her Michael shot her a warning look. I suspected his tolerance of this situation was beginning to fray. ‘Yes …’ Jenny paused. ‘He heard you’d started seeing someone. Someone beginning with D? I can’t remember. Is that true?’ ‘Oh, yes! Duke! What happened to him?’ Nellie asked interestedly. I blushed deeply but Dave laughed. ‘Duke Ellington is Fran’s cat,’ he explained kindly. Nellie gasped, thrilled at my further deception. ‘But she is dating,’ he confirmed. ‘I’m dating but it means nothing,’ I said hastily. ‘My friends made me promise to go on eight dates while I waited for the ninety days to be over. It’s just a silly game.’ Jenny’s face showed relief. ‘I thought I’d be more likely to get him back if I waited the ninety days like he suggested, and worked on being a bit less insane in the meantime. He’s going to be my date number eight, I hope.’ ‘Good plan, Franny,’ Jenny said. ‘I think that’s a great idea. Michael’s a fool and this bloody ninety-days thing is a predicament of his own making. Let him sweat it out. Trust me, I know how much he’s missing you.’ Dmitri had his head in his hands and was shaking with laughter. ‘What?’ I said to him. ‘I just cannot believe, Fran, that you told Nellie you were dating your cat.’ I felt a little stab of fear, hoping that Duke Ellington was now back in my kitchen. Half an hour later I was rooting around for my wallet. I needed to get home, first to find Duke Ellington, and second, to work out what to do about Michael. ‘You’re not off to see Michael already, are you?’ asked Dave, suspiciously. He was fully on my case. If I planned to see Michael before the eight dates were over, I’d have to do so in secret. ‘Duke Ellington’s disappeared. I need to go home and try to find him,’ I replied. ‘Seriously? That little fucker never strays far. Do you want a hand finding him?’ ‘No, no, don’t be silly, it’s miles out of your way.’ I got out a couple of twenties and put them on the table. Michael waved them away dismissively. ‘Really, please don’t.’ He shook his head and I noted that his expensive hairstyle di
dn’t move. Dave pushed his chair back. ‘Thanks, matey,’ he said to Michael. ‘And may I apologize on behalf of my colleague here for her crazy behaviour?’ he added, with a grin. A chorus of ‘Not at all’ ensued. I sighed, smiling. Fran the lovable clown was back in business. But she was a damn sight better than Fran the drunken stalker, even I could grasp that. ‘I’m so happy to see you,’ I said, as I hugged Jenny goodbye. ‘You too, darling Fran. I’ve got my fingers crossed for March the twenty-third. Even Mum and Dad are hoping you two will get back together!’ She giggled. We both knew that this was not true. Nellie stood up and grabbed me in a warm embrace. ‘So nice to meet another stalker, babe,’ she enthused. ‘We’ll be cured some day, eh?’ She looked affectionately at her gold-plated fiancé. ‘Actually, I think I already am.’ ‘Did you look on the roof?’ Dave asked, as we sped along St Pancras Way. He had a roll-up tucked behind his ear, and his eyes were dark and oddly foreboding as the shadows of London shifted across his face. ‘Stefania did,’ I replied. ‘Hmm. Reckon I know where he might be.’ The taxi rumbled on. I hoped very much that he did. ‘NOZZING!’ Stefania hissed, as soon as we stepped through the gate. And then: ‘Oh, good evening to you Dave.’ She smiled warmly as Dave bent down and kissed her on the cheek. She was so pretty when she smiled. ‘To vhat do ve owe zis pleasure?’ ‘Just thought I’d pop over and see if I can find that damned cat. Trust him to cause a bloody nuisance when Fran’s a wreck.’ Stefania rolled her eyes in agreement. Dave strode to the back of Stefania’s shed purposefully. ‘Oi, Duke Ellington, you little fucker, are you down there?’ he said, as he disappeared out of range. Stefania watched him go and smiled slowly. ‘Aha! I zink he is looking in ze old pit where ze cars went.’ We heard a bang and a bit of a commotion. ‘He’s down here!’ came a muffled shout from under the shed. ‘And he’s just fucking bitten my hand.’ ‘My baby! THANK YOU SO MUCH, DAVE!’ I jumped up and down a bit. ‘Do you need help?’ ‘No point all of us getting attacked, he’s only – STOP IT, Duke Ellington, YOU BASTARD!’ I giggled and started to fill Stefania in on tonight’s events. Assorted bangs and curses from under the shed accompanied my recital. Stefania was strangely silent. Eventually she said, ‘Frances, I sink you need to vait ze ninety days before you see Michael. I sink zis very strongly. No, in fact I TELL you. Stefania is TELLING you, Fran.’ Startled by her ferocity, I began to explain that that was exactly what I’d decided to do but then an enraged miaow rent the evening air, followed by ‘FUCKING BASTARD,’ from Dave. I giggled. Duke Ellington had been excavated. A couple of seconds later, Dave’s head emerged from under the shed, his large left arm clasping an angry, scrabbling cat. I clapped my hands, flooded with relief at the sight of my little grey weapon. Dave tried to hand Duke Ellington to me but my cat leaped out of his arms and galloped angrily up the stairs to my flat. The night was silent again. Stefania had disappeared. I shrugged. This obsession she had with the Eight Date Deal really was quite ridiculous. ‘Dave.’ He carried on brushing himself down. ‘Dave!’ ‘Aye, Fannybaws.’ ‘Thank you. For everything. You’re a true friend. I am so grateful to you, for the drink thing, for Mum, looking after me tonight, finding my cat – everything. You’re a bloody legend. Freya is a very lucky woman.’ And with that I threw my arms around him. Dave chuckled. ‘No further assaults, remember?’ I removed my arms hastily. ‘What did you do with Stefania?’ ‘Oh, she flew into a sulk about Michael. She’s worried I won’t complete your bloody date challenge. Honestly, the way you lot are carrying on about it!’ Dave hooked the roll-up from behind his ear. ‘Just do it,’ he said. ‘Night.’ He walked off, whistling. ‘THANKS, DAVE!’ I yelled after him. Few people had friends like Dave. Twenty minutes later, grateful to be going to bed sober for once, I was curled up with a rather cobwebby Duke Ellington and my phone cradled in my hand. A message to Michael sat on the screen, ready to be dispatched, the cursor blinking patiently. I’d read it approximately five thousand times now and I reckoned it was good to go. I’m sorry about the other night. I thought you’d got engaged. Long story. 23 March is only three weeks away. Let’s see each other then, OK? And you were right – no contact will make it all the better. X I thought about it for a few more seconds, remembering all the pain and despair I’d felt over the last weeks. And then I thought of his grandmother’s ring, and the sadness in Jenny’s face when she’d talked about him, and knew it was OK. He loved me. He’d made a mistake. He’d panicked, for whatever reason, and now he was paying the price. I was safe. I turned off the light and pressed send. Hugging myself, I smiled into the darkness. In three weeks I’d get my boy back. Chapter Thirty-three
Greatest Love Story of All Time Page 19
