I was going to go mad if I stayed here on my own. I hesitated for a moment, then picked up the phone and dialled Oscar’s number.
‘Are you in bed?’ I asked when he answered.
‘My dear Nella, what do you think I am?’ he asked, shocked. ‘A geriatric who needs his cocoa and hot water bottle by ten o’clock? I’m getting over the journey, which wasn’t nearly so nice without you to keep me company, by watching a video of Bringing Up Baby, if you must know. I love Cary Grant.’
‘So do I.’ Thank God he wasn’t watching Greyfriars Bobby. I was close enough to tears as it was. ‘Can I come around and watch it with you?’
‘Of course you can,’ he said, probably alerted by my tone that something was up. ‘Shall I come up and get you?’
I laughed. ‘I know that the streets of London aren’t supposed to be safe for a woman on her own after dark, but I think I can risk going from one end of the street to the other all alone, don’t you?’ Given the mood I was in, I’d quite appreciate meeting a mugger too; there’s nothing like taking it out on someone else.
The telephone started to ring again while I was putting a light jacket on. I let the answerphone pick it up and as I let myself out of the door I heard Robert leaving yet another message.
Poor Oscar, he likes to gear himself up for the week ahead by spending his Sunday evenings slopping on the sofa in his tracksuit bottoms and no shoes watching a classic film and eating popcorn. Not many people know about this. So I expect the last thing he felt he needed was me clinging around his neck pouring out my problems. He didn’t get to watch much of his video either, but then he knows the script virtually off by heart and can quote Cary Grant at length (he does a nifty Katharine Hepburn too) so my conscience wasn’t as bothered as it might have been. I wouldn’t necessarily agree that a problem shared is a problem halved, this problem was way too big for that, but at least telling Oscar was enough of a comfort for the time being.
‘You look brown, Nella. Had a nice holiday?’ asked Darcy, our junior copywriter, as I stopped and looked in dismay at my desk, which appeared in my absence to have been on an intensive breeding programme for Post-it notes. Each one bore an apparently urgent message - usually one that was going to involve me in several hours’ work. Even the keyboard was sprouting yellow and pink paper, while the screen must have been covered a good week ago, judging by the dates on them. It was going to take me until midday merely to read them, I thought, fighting the urge to turn on my heel and walk straight out again to replenish my already depleted energy with a large Danish at the coffee shop over the road. Come on, Nella! I told myself. The last thing you need is to start comfort eating. Wasn’t I miserable enough already without the scales giving a wail of protest every time I stepped on them?
Darcy was looking offended. I smiled at her. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. My holiday was one... that I won’t ever forget,’ I said absolutely truthfully as I sat down and began piling my messages in a large heap, noting with interest that three pieces of important copy needed to be ready by ten o’clock and a report finished by lunchtime. Three weeks ago I’d have leaped to it, began tearing my hair out and some of it at least would have been done in time. Today I couldn’t be bothered. There were more important things to think about. The world wasn’t going to come to an end if I didn’t do it all either. I checked the top message, which was to come up with some immediate sparkling draft copy for a possible run of ads in the teenage press for a roll-on deodorant that might or might not be adding a new scent to its range.
‘Nella, I’ve got to have this by this evening,’ said one of the account executives, speeding past my desk and dropping a file on top of everything else without a single ‘if you don’t mind’ or ‘I’d be very grateful...’
Hadn’t I got enough on my plate right now? I thought in irritation, picking up the file and winging it back with remarkable accuracy, for me. Only a few pages fell out. ‘I haven’t got the time. Do it yourself if it’s that urgent,’ I called.
He stopped to turn around and look at me in surprise. I wasn’t known for fighting back; perhaps that was why I seemed to get more of the dross work than any of the other copywriters. Then to my surprise he gathered up his scattered papers and said, ‘Oh well, if you’re too busy... Do you think you could do it by the end of the week?’
I hid a faint smile. It seemed that even if the bottom had dropped out of your world there were still some things you could refuse to put up with. Maybe I should tackle my miserable salary next, I thought as I said airily, ‘Don’t know, doubt it. I’ll let you know tomorrow.’
In my new mood of refusing to take any more rubbish I handed over most of the messages for urgent copy-writing to Darcy, telling her to deal with them. When she began to protest I fixed her with an eagle eye and pointed out that she was supposed to be my assistant - so what had she been doing in the last two weeks, allowing my work to pile up like this? Probably buttering up others whom she reckoned were more likely to help her onto the fast track to becoming a fully-fledged copywriter. The ambitious little madam subsided and meekly asked which one she should start on first. ‘Oh, and there’s another message from some early bird, rang before you got in this morning,’ she said, handing it over.
I glanced at it, my heart doing a funny little hippityhop as I saw Robert’s name. He must be desperate to get hold of me before I looked at the picture; shame it was too late. I handed it back to Darcy. ‘If he rings again tell him I’m in a meeting,’ I said curtly. Darcy looked as if she was about to start whining that she was a copywriter not a secretary-cum-receptionist, but something in my expression must have dissuaded her.
An hour later I was in the discussion corner having a brainstorming session about a new press campaign with one of the artists and a couple of account executives, and doodling an intricate series of circle mazes on my reporter’s pad - it helps to get the ideas flowing freely, honest - when the phone went for me.
‘Hi, Nella,’ Robert said cheerfully. I was going to kill Darcy, I thought wrathfully. ‘You’re very difficult to get hold of. I must have tried you at your flat about ten times last night.’
So that was why there were an extra four messages when I returned to the flat this morning for a swift change after spending the night in Oscar’s spare bed. ‘I got back from Cumbria very late,’ I said, conscious that there were three other people within hearing distance who were staring at me with varying degrees of irritation and disapproval for having the nerve to take a personal call during a meeting. I glanced at them and cupped my hand around the receiver in a fruitless attempt to muffle my voice. ‘It’s too late, Robert. I’ve already seen the picture, Nick’s girlfriend took it out of the case by accident.’ Why was I trying to explain to him that I wasn’t guilty of prying? As if it really mattered. He began to speak, and I cut across him, not caring if the others overheard me. All I knew was that I couldn’t bear to listen to attempts at self-justification. I might find myself trying to believe them. ‘How could you do it?’ I demanded, furious to hear my voice wobbling slightly. ‘Tom and Janey are your friends.’
‘Have you told them about finding the picture?’ he asked, taking advantage of a momentary pause while I took a shaky breath.
‘Of course I haven’t! Because then I’d have to tell them how I got it, wouldn’t I?’
‘Nella, you don’t understand-’ he began.
‘No, and I don’t want to!’ I snapped. ‘And do you know what makes me almost angrier than anything else? That George was bloody well right!’ And I slammed the phone back down.
While everybody stared at me in surprise, Darcy stuck her head over the partition and said apologetically, ‘Sorry, Nella. Sue was minding the phones while I popped to the loo and I forgot to tell her you didn’t want to speak to him.’
Oh well. I would have had to speak to him some time. ‘That’s OK,’ I said, ‘no harm done,’ though Mark, the account director in charge of the session, looked as if in his opinion having his meeting disrupte
d by this sort of dramatic personal call amounted to a lot of harm.
He sighed audibly as the phone went again almost immediately with another call for me. I snatched it up and said fiercely, ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you quite incapable of getting the message that I don’t ever want to speak to you or see you again?’
‘But what have I done?’ asked a plaintive voice.
I was completely thrown, my mind blank, then I got that wanting to sink through the floor feeling. ‘Charlie?’ I said tentatively. ‘I’m sorry. I thought it was someone else.’
‘I was hoping that was the case - because I’d hate to get on your wrong side,’ he said. ‘We’re still on for that drink this evening, aren’t we?’
Soddit! I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand. The last thing I needed was to have to be social this evening, even with someone as relaxed as Charlie. But after the way I’d greeted him how could I possibly put him off? ‘Yes, of course we are.’ I tried to inject a bit of enthusiasm in my voice. I’d have to go home via the off-licence, and even if I hadn’t been back long enough to turn the flat into a tip, it still needed a tidy-up and the application of a duster. ‘Though I can’t make it too early, I’ve got lots of work on.’
Mark nodded approvingly; this was showing the right attitude, even if being constantly on the phone wasn’t.
‘I don’t mind, I’m just happy to see you at whatever time suits you,’ Charlie said enthusiastically.
Oh no, this was another thing I didn’t feel up to coping with right now. But, conscious of my increasingly impatient colleagues who, no doubt justifiably, didn’t see why this meeting should overrun into their lunch hour just because I was fixing up my social life, I told him to come round to the flat at half-past seven.
‘Great,’ he said, ‘and I’m sure that like me you won’t have had a chance to do any food shopping, so shall we go out for a bite to eat?’
‘Yes, that’d be lovely,’ I lied. ‘See you later.’ Oh well, unpacking would have to wait.
‘Is anyone else likely to ring you in the next hour or so?’ Mark asked with heavy sarcasm as I put the phone down.
‘Don’t think so,’ I said.
‘Good, then we can get on.’
I staggered up the shallow flight of steps to my front door that evening, even later than I expected I’d be, my arms aching from carrying several carrier bags loaded with bottles and other essentials. I set the bags down with much ominous clinking and fished for my keys. Oh hell, Charlie was due in twenty minutes. Maybe if I was lucky he’d be late then I’d have a chance to do a lightning dust as well as change out of my work clothes and replace the makeup that had worn off during the day. Otherwise it was a case of one or the other. Which was the most important? Being male, Charlie would be more likely to notice a sparkling and dusted female rather than a sparkling and dusted flat, so there wasn’t much of a contest, I decided as I dumped the bags on the kitchen table and shoved a bottle of white wine in the fridge.
I hadn’t even got as far as flinging my jacket off when the phone went for the first time. I heard Oscar telling the machine that he needed to speak to me urgently and if I was there, to pick up the phone. Probably only wanted to catch up on the day’s latest events, I thought, kicking my shoes off. I didn’t have time for a long gossip now. It went again as I was doing a quick flick through my wardrobe, quick by necessity as most of my clothes were either in the laundry basket or still in my suitcase. This time it was Janey, sounding on top of the world and saying she must speak to me about something important and to ring her back as soon as I got in. I wondered if it was anything drastic and if maybe I should speak to her for just a minute or two. Charlie was bound to be late, men always were. I glanced out of the window as I havered over the phone and saw him getting out of a Golf parked about halfway down the road. He wasn’t going to be late, he was bloody well early! My indignation changed into panic as I remembered that so far I hadn’t done anything, not even rubbed the mark off my knee where somebody had banged it with something filthy in the Tube.
She probably wanted to tell me about Tom’s mortgages and how the insurance money would get them out of trouble. Except that they wouldn’t be getting any once I’d returned the poisoned chalice hidden behind my sofa, would they? It would go back on the wall where it wouldn’t be doing any good to anyone - and what would Tom do then? I wondered if I shouldn’t burn the bloody thing, except that Mr Peters, the green fascist from next door, would be bound to report me for having an illegal bonfire. He’d threatened to do Felicity under the Clean Air Act once for lighting a barbecue. Admittedly the sausages had been on the carbonised side of well done, but all the same...
I came back to earth to see Charlie walk along the pavement looking for my number. The bell went almost immediately.
‘I’m sorry, it’s unforgivable of me to be early like this, but it didn’t take nearly as long to get here as I thought it would,’ he said as I opened the door. He looked different somehow, and I felt a bit awkward. Maybe it was seeing him in a navy suit and white shirt rather than the baggy shorts and polo shirts he’d worn most of the time at the cottage. It wasn’t easy to imagine this sober businessman shimmying up and down the terrace doing a tango and making the women present have unsuitable thoughts, but then Charlie was rather like an iceberg; ninety per cent of him was below the surface. I smoothed down my skirt in the vain hope that somehow I might be able to stretch the fabric to make it magically cover the smudge on my knee. Of course all it did was draw his attention to it, I realised crossly as I saw his eyes rest on my legs.
I assured him that it didn’t matter at all, it was lovely to see him, then hesitated for a moment. ‘Look, would you mind if I settled you down with a drink for a few minutes while I change out of my work clothes and clean myself up?’
‘You look great as you are,’ he replied, with more gallantry than truth, I feared. ‘But go ahead. I know what it feels like when you haven’t had a chance to freshen up. In fact, take a bath if you’d like.’
‘Is it as bad as that?’ I asked in faint alarm, wondering if I had smudges in places I hadn’t noticed yet. I wouldn’t have dreamed of suggesting to someone who had only just arrived for a drink that I might go off and have a bath, but now he’d mentioned it, there was nothing I’d like better.
He laughed. ‘No, of course not. The truth is I haven’t seen Coronation Street for a fortnight and I’m suffering from withdrawal symptoms. I was just thinking that if you were to relax in the bath for ten minutes or so before we go out...’ he said, eyeing the telly in a longing manner.
‘Shame on you, Charlie! Didn’t I hear you telling Maggie one night that watching soaps was the visual equivalent of reading Enid Blyton when you’re grown up?’
‘She was being pompous about the social worth of EastEnders,' he replied, quite unabashed.
‘I thought it was Brookside that gave us an unparalleled look into the lives of real people. But which ever one it was, does that excuse you hiding your own extensive knowledge of the soaps?’ I said over my shoulder as I took the chilled bottle of wine he’d brought with him into the kitchen.
‘You’re excused anything when it comes to taking Maggie down a peg or two,’ he said with a conspiratorial smile, leaning against the doorframe while I found the corkscrew and the glasses. I appreciate men who have the common sense to realise when they ought to keep out of the way of somebody who is having a busy couple of minutes, especially in a kitchen that’s as small as mine. ‘I mean it, honestly,’ he went on. ‘Why don’t you take ten minutes out and relax, if that’s what you’d like to do?’
I looked at him, wondering if he was really that keen to see Coronation Street or if he was just being nice. Good manners and the desire to get clean fought a brief battle. Desire won. ‘If you really don’t mind, I won’t be long.’
‘Be as long as you want - until eight o’clock at least,’ he said. ‘But promise you won’t tell Maggie.’
‘I’m hardly l
ikely to be speaking to her, am I?’ I said.
‘No, I don’t suppose you will,’ he said with a grin. ‘Luckily for me.’ He was looking around with blatant curiosity. ‘This place is nice. I like the way you’ve done it up. Do you live on your own?’
‘At the moment. I’ve got a flatmate but she’s in New York on a six-month secondment.’ I found a little painted dish I’d picked up at a crafts fair and showed I wasn’t entirely deficient in the hostess graces by emptying a packet of peanuts into it for him to have with his glass of wine.
He smiled his thanks and we wandered back into the sitting room. ‘Have you heard from Janey since you got back?’ he asked.
‘Only a message to ring her,’ I said, looking for the remote control and finding it eventually on top of the bookcase.
‘I wonder if the Sydney’s been recovered yet,’ he said, settling himself down comfortably on the sofa. Not yet, I thought with an uncomfortable lurch of my stomach. Not officially anyway. ‘Did your pictures travel up OK, by the way? Didn’t get damaged or anything, did they?’
‘No, they’re fine.’ I was unpleasantly aware of the painting stacked a couple of feet behind his head. ‘Or at least I presume they are. I haven’t had a chance to look at them both yet.’
He nodded, his attention on the television screen. I took the hint, hearing the volume go up as I went down the corridor to the bathroom.
Five minutes later I was getting into a bath with enough bubbles in it to preserve the modesty of an elephant, when I realised to my irritation that I’d left my glass of wine on the kitchen table. I was tempted to leave it, but this bubble extravaganza was going to be a bit of a waste if I couldn’t complete the fantasy by having a chilled glass of wine. I shook the worst of the bubbles off, wrapped myself in a towel and opened the door very quietly, checking that the coast was clear. I didn’t particularly fancy showing myself off to Charlie in a striped towel and a silver butterfly hairclip. Reassured by the noises drifting down the passage, I tiptoed to the kitchen.
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