Something Stupid

by Victoria Corby

  You can be really spectacularly wrong, can’t you?

  CHAPTER 4

  I still hadn’t heard from Daniel by the middle of the week. You’d think that any normal man would have been at least slightly curious about why his girlfriend had stalked out of a party without him. With another man. He was a writer, for God’s sake. He was supposed to be interested in motivation. But I suspected that Daniel usually found his own motivation infinitely more interesting than those of others, and certainly easier to write about. I got precious little sympathy for my lonely plight in the office - Emma, fresh from her success with tall, dark and loaded, said that I didn’t have to worry, I’d hear from Daniel as soon as he ran out of clean socks.

  Liv was more understanding, but then she has to live with me so she knows what’ll happen if she’s too open in her criticism. The atmosphere in a shared flat can become mighty frigid even if neither party actually lays eyes on the other for days on end. It usually lasts until one of us needs to borrow something. But she’s hardly in a position to cast stones as her William isn’t exactly a shining example of a New Man either. When he undresses he lobs his shirt vaguely in the direction of the fireplace and assumes that someone (female) will eventually pick it up. He’s also been known to forget to call her when he said he would because he’s too busy communing with his pigs. While I could have done with boosting my spirits with a couple of in-depth discussions about Daniel’s better qualities over cheap red and a pizza I had to make do with lengthy telephone calls which, while comforting, Liv knows how to say all the right things, just weren’t the same. It also infuriated Darian who has an uncanny knack for appearing from her office just as I’m settling into the really juicy bits. You know, where you drop your voice and make it disas­trously clear you aren’t talking to a client.

  I was doing a pretty good job of getting up Darian’s nose generally. Her patience, never her strong suit, was severely tried by the way I jumped like a scared rabbit each time the telephone went and lunged for the receiver, sending papers flying. Also, she didn’t appreciate other people, especially other women, being the centre of attention and my fame over my escape from a man who was the natural successor to the Boston Strangler had spread well beyond the confines of the agency and done the rounds of our clients. When her favourite, a celebrity hairdresser who gave her a discount to have her hair done by one of his minions, asked how ‘little Maura’ was, she knew exactly where to point the finger of blame.

  Despite the misnomer, the fact that no one in possession of reasonable eyesight and in their right mind would call me ‘little’ and that I hadn’t spoken to him for a month, I was still accused of putting myself forward in a way that was severely detrimental to the agency’s success - quite how wasn’t explained - and several of my other failings were candidly outlined at the same time. Having vented her feelings in this satisfactory manner Darian dumped a bulg­ing file of work on my desk with instructions that I’d better get a substantial portion of it finished by that evening if I wanted to stay in PR, then swept out of the door dolled up to the nines in Donna Karan, on her way to a lunchtime meeting at Le Gavroche.

  I picked up the file and flicked through its motley collection of chores. It was as if she’d been compiling a punishment file on purpose. Number one was to draft a press release for a new brand of panty liner. Number two to think of ideas for a promotion in the trade press of an athlete’s foot powder. Time off for good behaviour - unlikely - might mean someone else got to do number six, despatching a sample of mint-flavoured waxed dental floss to everybody who had entered a ‘spot the celebrity teeth’ competition in a very local, local newspaper. I sighed. And some people thought PR was glamorous. When I’d been offered this job I had imagined exercising my carefully honed prose on slightly more exotic subjects than sticky side panels, comfort bands and embarrassing itching between the toes. I’d been so fired up with enthusiasm that I’d joined a writers’ group, thinking it would sharpen my writing skills. After the first session I realised everyone far preferred to talk about writing rather than actually pick up their pens and get on with it. They didn’t want any constructive criticism either. No criticism at all, in fact, otherwise there’d be a mass outbreak of artistic temperament. But they were a nice bunch, if a bit odd, and the sessions in the pub afterwards were great fun. Occasionally we got a ‘proper’ writer, i.e. one who had been published, to come and give us a talk about writing so we’d have a real excuse for yakking and not putting pen to paper. One evening the speaker was Daniel, who paid the rent by taking odd jobs like this while he was waiting for inspiration to strike so he could write his second novel. He was good; quick to sum up this motley bunch of bad poets and aspiring romance writers, and didn’t make his talk too intellectual. And there’s no doubt that it helps when a ‘real’ author looks like Lord Byron with two good feet.

  I’d like to believe it was the beauty of my brown eyes that made him come and sit next to me in the pub afterwards but to be honest there were only two other women under forty in the group, and they were holding hands, so I didn’t have much competition. Anyway it was certainly the beauty of his brown eyes and all the other bits that bowled me over, though naturally I was interested in his mind too.

  I never went back to the writers’ group. I couldn’t face the speculation about what had hap­pened after I’d left the pub wound around their guest speaker. The most lurid conjectures would have been embarrassingly accurate too. Though there had been absolutely nothing to speculate about for far too long now, I thought sourly, hitting the keyboard with unnec­essary but satisfying violence.

  It’s true what they say in the best songs about the darkest hour; just as I was contemplating whether to go and drown myself in the Ladies’ Emma called over in a disapproving voice, ‘It’s him. Give him hell, Laura!’

  With a squeak I dived for the phone, sending my pot of pens flying to the floor, and of course I didn’t give him hell. I didn’t have the chance. Daniel didn’t refer to the party, the blonde, or why I’d gone haring off into the night with tall, dark and slimy. Instead he wanted me to share his triumph over the productive two days he’d had. He’d written three pages and had been able to salvage two and a half paragraphs. Naturally I was very pleased for him. Perhaps I could come around that evening, he suggested, and he’d show me what he’d done. Show me being the operative phrase. Daniel didn’t believe that I understand what he writes. He’s right, I didn’t.

  I stared at the telephone and wondered, not for the first time, if he and I came from the same planet. Did he have no idea that I had reason to be completely fed up with him? No idea at all, I decided, as in a surprised tone he repeated himself. Normally my yeses came out so fast he didn’t have time to finish his sentence. ‘That’d be nice,’ I said vaguely. Somehow it seemed a bit impolite to mar his pleasure at his impressive work rate with a carping ques­tion about how he came to ignore me at a party he'd taken me to, given by one of his friends. I’d deal with that later.

  ‘About seven-thirty, and will you be able to pick up something for dinner on your way? You’re so much better at choosing than I am,’ he said beguilingly.

  And so much better at cooking it too. Daniel doesn’t appear to mind what he eats, but I do. I’m not a fan of Daniel’s style of cooking: throw everything that doesn’t smell too bad into his one saucepan and boil for twenty minutes. I was about to fall in with his every wish when my eye was caught by the menacingly large folder of work sitting in the middle of my desk. Darian’s threats seemed to be banded across it in neon letters. I said there was no way I could take the time to slope off to the shops and I’d have to work late too. He took the news in remarkably good part, suggest­ing we meet in a local wine bar instead. Perhaps he did have the vestiges of a conscience, I thought in surprise after he’d rung off.

  Normally when I’m going out with Daniel I spend most of the day in a daydream and a frenzy of preparation, slipping off to the loos every five minutes to do yet another minute adjustment
to my make up or hair, but today I settled down straight away to work. It’s amazing how a threat to your livelihood aids concentration. I even read the whole file on the panty liner people before I started writing the release, not that I actually found anything useful to include which is why I don’t usually bother. Michelle, who works for one of the directors on the floor upstairs, took advantage of Darian’s absence to come down for a gossip under the guise of discussing the holiday rota for next July and August. As a rule I’m only too willing to be distracted but seeing my head bent over the keyboard she respected unwritten agency protocol and tiptoed past me with exaggerated care to go and perch on the edge of Emma’s desk. I’d about finished what I thought was a reasonable attempt on the first chore, one down, five to go, when Michelle called over.

  ‘Hey, Earth to Satellite! Call for you.’

  I looked up vaguely, my mind still on the ‘double protection zone’. She was waving a telephone receiver at me. ‘Who?’ I mouthed.

  She shrugged. ‘It’s taken me so long to touch base with you I’ve forgotten, if he ever told me.’ Belatedly she remembered to put the call on hold and hissed helpfully, ‘He’s got a really nice voice. It must be the boyfriend. He said it was a personal call.’

  Daniel was ringing to cancel. I knew it had been unrealistic to think he’d come out when he was in mid-creative flow. I’d have to make him feel he wanted to do nothing more than meet me in a friendly ambiance, like just around the comer. The trick was to Think Positive. I picked up the phone and prepared to ooze positivity with a dollop of sexy charm thrown in for good measure. ‘Darling, how lovely to hear from you again so soon,’ I purred. ‘I can’t wait to see you again. It seems so long. You haven’t forgotten where we’re meeting, have you? It’s Bruce’s at eight, just around the corner.’

  There was silence from the other end of the line. I had a nasty feeling that positivity and sexy charm had been a resounding failure. Then there was a laugh. ‘Darling?’

  I wanted to sink through the floor, curl up and die, find a cupboard in a dark comer and hide away. Most of all I wanted to throttle Michelle. Nice voice indeed! Must be a boyfriend! Why the hell was she so idle she couldn’t be bothered to take a caller’s name? I glared at her vengefully. She looked back. I saw her face change as she realised she’d just landed me in it, but instead of doing the decent thing and turning away she prodded Emma in the ribs. They both cocked their heads towards me expectantly and I had the added joy of knowing that they’d be listening to every word of my side of the conversation.

  ‘You know perfectly well I thought you were someone else,’ I snarled into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Darling, I presume,’ James said with relish.

  ‘What did you think you were doing, ringing up under false pretences?’ I squeaked, hearing my voice go higher and higher with rage. ‘Saying it was a personal call and refusing to give your name. No wonder I made a mistake like that.’

  ‘Personally, I make it a rule to hold off the endearments until I’m absolutely sure to whom I am talking. I said who I was, but I expect the girl who took the call was too busy gossiping to pay attention. She was deep in a discus­sion of Chanel nail varnish. She likes deep red but fancies their fuchsia too.

  ‘Do you address all your clients in such a friendly manner? It casts a new and interesting light on the meaning of “public relations”.’

  ‘I do not,’ I snapped, and rolled my eyes upwards, trying to find patience and forbearance somewhere on the ceiling. As usual breathing deeply and counting to ten worked better. After a few seconds I felt I had enough control of myself to be able to speak to him without resorting to yelling. ‘What do you want, James? I’m very busy and can’t waste time in idle chatter.’

  The sounds of inelegant snorting wafted over. I flicked Emma and Michelle a rude sign; it might have been the first time either of them had ever heard me utter such an unlikely thing, but still. ‘What a busy bee you are.’ It sounded as if he hadn’t believed it either. ‘Then I won’t waste your valuable time. Something’s come up which I’d like to discuss with you.’

  ‘What sort of thing? Is it your father? He hasn’t had another heart attack, has he?’

  ‘Don’t worry, the old codger’s absolutely fine, energetic­ally making life absolute hell for all the neighbours as usual,’ James said breezily. ‘It’s another matter. Shall we meet about seven this evening for a drink?’

  ‘I can’t,’ I said automatically. I don’t know why, I don’t think I’ve got any sort of sixth sense. ‘What about some­time next week? I’ve too much to do here to be able to get away until quite late.’

  ‘But somehow you’re going to manage to meet Darling at eight. Bruce’s. Isn’t that the wine bar in Fronton Street? If you’re so busy we could meet there at, say ... seven- thirty. Half an hour should be long enough.’

  I couldn’t think what James wanted to see me about that was so urgent. A natural antipathy to his assumption that I had plenty of time to spare at short notice warred with curiosity to know what this was all about. Of course curiosity won. Besides he was perfectly capable of turning up anyway - once Daniel had arrived. ‘All right then. If I must.’

  He laughed. ‘You might at least pretend to be pleased at the prospect of seeing me again. Don’t be late. Darling might not appreciate it if he arrives to find me still talking sweet somethings with you.’

  He rang off before I could think of a suitably crushing reply, which to be truthful would probably have taken me five minutes at least. I put down the phone and settled for an easier target. She was just sneaking out of the room. ‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ I roared in best pantomime fashion. ‘Explain how you came to make me make an absolute fool of myself.’

  I ignored Emma’s ‘When did you need anyone’s help?’ in a dignified fashion.

  Michelle turned around and spread her hands in an apologetic gesture. ‘I’m sorry. You’re always saying what a sexy voice Daniel’s got, along with all his many other attributes.’ Did I detect a note of sarcasm here? ‘And when this man comes on the phone asking for you with the sort of voice that makes my toes curl, I made a very natural mistake. It’s easy to confuse the names, they sound very alike.’

  ‘There’s no resemblance whatsoever between James and Daniel.’ I said frostily.

  Michelle thought for a few seconds. ‘They’ve both got an “a” as a second letter.’

  Even Emma found this weak as excuses go, but then turned towards Michelle, eyes dancing. ‘You know this is the bloke Laura ran to when she was in danger of a fate worse than who knows what the other night? She never mentioned that he’s got a toe-curling voice. What do you say to having a drink in Bruce’s after we’ve finished tonight?’ I stared at her in horror, thinking of the last time Emma had happened to drop by to spy on my latest male interest. Not that James was that, of course, but that wasn’t the point. In her defence I suppose I have to say she doesn’t normally drink that much and I didn’t fancy him much anyway. But the office gossip afterwards was really embarrassing.

  ‘No,’ I said sharply. ‘Keep out of there!’ There followed a free and frank exchange of opinions in which Emma declared her absolute right to have a drink in whatever wine bar she chose, and I eventually had to concede that right but affirmed mine to kill her if she so much as came over to my side of the room, let alone spoke to my companion. This was eventually agreed to as being quite fair, and the new entente cordiale was cemented by a close examination of the fashion pages in the latest edition of Marie Claire.

  Even with that not-so-brief hiatus, I managed to leave an impressive, for me anyway, pile of work on Darian’s desk for her to criticise witheringly the next morning. I even had half a report in the computer waiting to be finished. My toe had recovered to the point of being able to wear normal, not too tight shoes and I had one of my better and newer suits on so it didn’t look too tired or stretched across the seat. One of the advan­tages of working for an agency with a cosmetics company for a client is that the
re are always loads of samples to nick, so I was completely re-made up and felt that I didn’t look too bad. In general I was feeling pretty pleased with myself until as I was going in at the door of Bruce’s it suddenly occurred to me that in my hurry to go and paint my face I’d switched off the computer before I’d saved the report. Oh, God, was I going to have something to explain to Darian tomorrow.

  Bruce’s was pretty full, most of the tables already occupied by workers celebrating the fact that the end of the week was in view. Sort of. It’s just around the corner from the agency so it’s the natural place to congregate when we want to unwind or complain about the management. Unwinding usually involves the latter. We started coming here when a down-at-heel pizza restaurant converted itself into Jimmy’s Wine Bar, com­plete with lots of stripped pine, blackboards on the wall listing the latest offerings from the kitchen and cellars, a few large plants and posters of 1930s movie stars. A few months later Jimmy, who was actually Giovanni from the pizza restaurant, was made an offer he couldn’t refuse by the health depart­ment. The new owner had the bonzer idea of being really original and having an Australian wine bar. We’ve still got the stripped pine, the plants, the blackboards and posters, but now the posters are of Australian notables such as Dame Edna, Kylie, Crocodile Dundee and a koala, and the blackboards feature Australian wines and beers with names that would bring a blush to your mother’s cheeks. Emma and Michelle were tucked in a corner about as far away from the main action as was possible. It almost certainly wasn’t by design. James, looking unusually formal in a grey suit, was already at a table on the other side of the room. James stood up as I approached, he’s always had the most meticulous manners, and said, ‘Congratulations, Laura,’ I couldn’t think what he was talking about. He smiled. ‘I think this is the first time I’ve known you be even remotely punctual, you’re hardly late at all.’