‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘Well, words to that effect. Piss off and leave me alone. I’ve had a rough day.’
‘Nice to have you back to yourself. I always know you’re feeling better when you start telling people to piss off.’
‘If you’re not careful, I’ll march right in there and tell him that up until a few weeks ago, your nickname was The Dateless Wonder.’
If there’s one thing I love about our Barbara, it’s her ability to bounce back. From deep despair to wisecracking in the space of one short walk. She’s amazing.
Anyway, one big hug later and in I go, with our watches synchronized, like in an espionage thriller. The lunchtime rush is well over and I immediately spot a lovely bright table in a corner so quiet and discreet, it might as well have a sign hanging over it saying ‘suitable for first dates’. Right then, I text Peter, to say I’m here, as per our arrangement, then whip a colouredy folder out of my briefcase and pretend I’m studying it intently while I wait for him. Oh, and re-apply lip-gloss while I’m at it. Approximately four minutes later, the door opens as someone comes in, I look up and there he is.
Pro.
Oh my God, so much handsomer than I remembered. Dark hair, lovely piercing green eyes, and he’s dressed in casual teacher gear: blue shirt and chinos. Put it this way, if I was a student in one of his classes, I would definitely have a crush on him. No question.
Another pro.
He’s straight over, full of chat and how am I and how was my lunch meeting? It’s all very easy and relaxed, then, as he goes up to order for both of us, Barbara’s words come back to me. Shut up going on about myself and concentrate on him.
Slight con.
The minute I ask about how work is going for him, he starts talking about Clare. The ex-girlfriend. Turns out the school the two of them run together teaches those English as a foreign language TEFL courses, so this is probably the busiest time of the year for them. His conversation is peppered with ‘Clare was just saying’, and ‘Clare had this terrific idea’, and at one point we even had a: ‘You just have to meet Clare. You both have lot in common.’
Definite pro.
Turns out they were together for seven years. SEVEN years. That beats the longest relationship I’ve ever had in my entire life. By about, ahem, six years to be exact. Anyway, isn’t it a healthy, emotionally mature thing that they still run the business together and get on so amicably? Course it is.
After a bit more of Clare this and Clare that, I eventually pluck up the courage to ask the one question that’s been burning me up. There’s a slight lull in the chat so I go for it. ‘So, Peter, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you and Clare break up?’
‘Oh, you know how it is, we just grew apart,’ he replies, stirring the froth around his cappuccino. But he’s smiling at me when he says it. And me like . . .
Biggest pro of all.
Barbara calls me precisely forty-five minutes later and, although I’m glad to see her back in messing mode again, I can only hope Peter doesn’t overhear any of what she comes out with.
‘Hi, Paris Hilton here,’ she says in a faux-LA-valley-girl voice. ‘There’s an emergency and you have to come back to the office right NOW.’
‘Oh, what kind of emergency?’ I ask, acting all pretendy-concerned, purely for Peter’s benefit, you understand.
‘Well, I was photocopying my arse, and my G-string got stuck in the machine, and I’m having afternoon tea with my godmother, the Duchess of Cornwall in half an hour, so you’d better get back here with sharp scissors right now or else Auntie Camilla will set the corgis on you.’
‘I’ll be right there,’ I say, snapping my mobile shut immediately, so Peter can’t hear the raspberry she’s now blowing down the phone.
Then, just as we’re getting ready to go our separate ways, he lets slip, ‘Actually, it’s no harm to cut our date a bit short and leave now. I’d better get back to the school fairly pronto, or else I’m in for a right slagging.’
‘Why’s that?’ I ask innocently.
‘Because I told Clare I was meeting up with the first gorgeous woman I’ve met since we broke up – and if I’m gone any longer, she’ll think I’ve run off with you.’
All this delivered with this cute, broad, slow smile he has.
Yummmmmm . . .
I wait till I’m safely back in a taxi before I ring Barbara.
‘I don’t want to jinx it,’ I say excitedly, ‘but I think we might just have a keeper on our hands. Now I ask you, when is the last time you heard me say that?’
Chapter Fifteen
The Butterfly’s next meeting. June.
OK THEN. OUR progress reports to date.
BARBARA. She is giving herself five out of ten, although personally I think she’s being a bit harsh and deserves a minimum score of at least eight. On the plus side, she worked her ass off on polishing up an audition piece for Serena Stroheim; she did Hermia’s forest speech from A Midsummer Night’s Dream and was stunning. Absolutely the real deal. And I should know, I only saw her rehearsing it about fifty times. In fact, I could probably recite the lines along with her myself at this stage.
Anyhoo, her audition was held yesterday, at the dance studios, in front of the mighty Serena and her casting director. I met her both before and after and for the agonizing thirty minutes or so while she was in there, I paced the corridors outside, willing her luck, happy thoughts, huge success, you name it. No kidding, there were probably expectant fathers in maternity wards at around the same time yesterday, in a calmer and more relaxed state than I was. The upshot is, I can report that she went in a bag of nerves (grade one snappiness, never a good sign with her), and came out even worse. All I could get out of her was that if her audition had been a natural disaster it would have been comparable with either: a) Hurricane Wilma, or b) Britney Spears with the shaved head. Any more info I patiently tried to coax out of her was rewarded with getting the face chewed off me, so I quickly gave it up as a bad job.
Oh yes, and the reason I’m deducting two points from Barbara’s overall score is because, in a moment of misguided generosity, or pure gobshitery if you ask me, she only went and told Evil Angie, flatmate from hell, about the whole Shakespeare in the park summer project. So of course, nothing would please said Evil Angie until she somehow managed to wangle an audition for herself.
I pointed out to Barbara that this was little more than an act of the most blatant user-ism on Evil Angie’s part, but Barbara’s having none of it. Plenty of parts for everyone and may the best girl win, is her incredibly generous and philanthropic answer. Now, the amount of work I’ve put into this, and the very real possibility that Evil Angie might get cast and Barbara won’t, kind of makes me want to be sick. Shame we’re not casting Macbeth, though, Evil Angie would be a natural for Lady M, albeit a bit typecast.
Anyway, the die is cast and there’s nothing for us all to do now but sit patiently and wait for The Call. And try not to attract negative thoughts along the lines of how much I want to kill Evil Angie. Which is a bit like trying not to breathe. On the plus side, Serena did say that she hoped to have the show cast ‘in a New York minute’ (her phrase, not mine), with the result that every time either my phone or Barbara’s rings, we both leap about six feet into the air, nearly giving ourselves full-blown panic-attacks just in case this could be The Call. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat properly until I know one way or another, while Barbara has upped her cigarette intake to I think about twenty. Every two hours, that is.
VICKY. OK, my progress can be neatly summarized thus. Number of phone calls from Peter since our coffee date, three; number of times I’ve actually seen him since said date, one; number of texts from Eager Eddie, twelve; number of phone calls from Eager Eddie, seven.
Oh, and number of sightings of Daniel Best on the two occasions I’ve been to his agency recently, big fat zero.
Let me elaborate.
Right then, Peter first.
Now, pers
onally, I think the amount of contact I’ve had from him is quite respectable, actually, given that he’s busy and I barely have time to wash my knickers these days, work has gone so crazy. However, Barbara, my personal PM and wise guru, claims his performance to date is classic borderline-interested, most likely to do with the fact that he’s just come out of a long-term relationship. I mean, we all know what most guys are like about switching allegiances from one football team to another, so imagine how much harder it is for them when it comes to contemplating a new girlfriend. Slowly, slowly, softly, softly will win the day, is her logic.
The good news is, Peter did ask me out to lunch last week, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but the bad news is: a) he never made a move on me afterwards (OK, admittedly, it was broad daylight and we were both racing back to our desks, but not a peck on the cheek, nothing); b) he does talk a LOT about Clare. Honestly, until I actually meet her, I’m beginning to feel like I’m stuck in a Daphne du Maurier novel, you know, along the lines of Rebecca. The unseen rival can be excruciatingly boring and overdone in movies or plays, but in real life it’s enough to make you start gnawing at the furniture with frustration. Is she thinner/younger/prettier/richer/funnier/just a better person than me – all the usual stuff is racing through my overactive imagination.
Barbara for her part, has nicknamed Peter ‘Ex-Files’ and says I should just visualize Clare, the ex, as being the kind of woman who goes through Marks & Spencer saying: ‘Oh look at those lovely viscose slacks with the handy elasticated waistband, wouldn’t they be great to wear to the highlight of my social calendar, Bingo on Sundays? Hmmm, wonder if they have them in my size, twenty-four. Oh, have to dash, time for my mid-afternoon snack of pizza and a tin of Bulmers.’
Bless her, I think she’s trying to cheer me up.
I can’t be entirely honest with Barbara, because she’s so anti-Daniel Best and every time I as much as mention his name she instructs me to hold a mental picture in my head of him shagging models in the States, like billionaires are supposed to – at least in her vivid imagination. Although, personally, I think she’s seen way too many TV programmes about Hugh Hefner and all his bunny girls in the Playboy mansion, and they’re making her unfairly biased against wealthy unmarried men. Anyway, in Daniel’s temporary absence, I’ve decided I do actually, really, seriously fancy Ex-Files, sorry, I mean Peter, on the principle that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. In addition, I’m exhibiting all the classic signs of Woman with a Crush: a) I’m waxed everywhere, therefore am fully match-fit and ready for action, if you get my drift; b) I went out and bought all new underwear; c) every time my phone rings I secretly want it to be him, and am always a bit sorry when it’s not; and d) as well as reading my own horoscope every day, I now read his as well. Oh, and he’s Pisces by the way, which scores a very promising eight out of ten for compatibility with my sign, Aquarius, according to the iVillage website anyway, which is bloody well good enough for me.
The really good news is that the PR dinner is coming up. So, I was very brave and grown-up and I asked him straight out, and he said yes, and best of all, Barbara is all set to double-date with his friend, fab wing-woman that she is. It’ll be the first night-time excursion for Ex-Files, sorry I mean Peter, and me, so I’m expecting, ahem, a result of a physical nature, if you get my drift. Otherwise it’ll be a total waste of a Brazilian wax, and I did NOT put myself through that agony and torture for nothing. The thing I’m most looking forward to, though, is having Barbara on hand, right by my side for the whole entire night, to monitor the whole situation. Oh, and prevent me from downing one too many margaritas, never, ever, a good plan. So it’s all looking good, and the added bonus of having a chaperone on hand is helping my nerves considerably and making me feel a bit like a debutante in high society between the wars, circa 1937.
On a less positive note, however, I have to report that, as of about a week ago, Eager Eddie started calling and texting again. Now, in my defence and just so I can’t be accused of leading him on, I only answered one call, and the minute I heard the Scottish accent, my heart sank. I thought we had pretty much agreed to leave things be and that was the end of that, but it turns out his rationale is, ‘You said you wanted to take things slowly, so that’s why I gave it a few weeks before calling again. You needed time, so that’s what I gave you.’
Jaysus.
It so happened that I was in the office when he rang, so I had the ready-made excuse of phones ringing and the door buzzing to get off the phone as politely as possible. Then, that night, he calls again. So this time, I recognize the number and don’t answer, so he leaves a message. Asking me out. To, wait for it, Glasgow. And this is the best part, to go and support his brother who’s playing in the World Pipe Band Championships on Glasgow Green. Where he’s playing the bagpipes. In public.
Now, nothing against bagpipe players, but I’d be a bit more of a Snow Patrol woman myself.
Needless to say Barbara howled laughing at this, and now whenever Eager Eddie’s name comes up (which it usually does, but in sentences along the lines of ‘can you believe that eejit still hasn’t got the message, if I went on like that with a fella, he’d call me Glenn Close and have me arrested for being a bunny-boiling stalker . . . etc., etc.’), she launches straight into the chorus of ‘Mull of Kintyre’. She even has a joke she made up specially. Q: why do bagpipers march while they play? A: to get away from the sound.
Ha, ha, very funny.
When she eventually stops laughing at my misfortunes, she does, however, remind me that, irritating as his persistent calls and texts are, I should just smile serenely at each one and tell myself that this is prima facie evidence that the law of attraction is actually working. And she’s right. I may not be getting quite the result I want, but I have to remember that a only few short months ago, I used to wonder if my complete lack of success with guys was some Darwinian way of weeding me out so I wouldn’t be able to propagate the species. At this moment in time, however, the sands are beginning to shift and that’s good enough for me. Right then. End of my moaning. Onwards and upwards. Ex-Files . . . sorry, I mean Peter . . . here I come, baby.
LAURA. OK, so I admit, I was saving the ‘best girl in the group’ award till last. You just won’t believe this, and I can barely believe it myself, but prepare to relinquish your breath. About a week ago, Laura got a phone call from the features editor at Tattle magazine to say that not only did they all roll around laughing at her short story but that she’s actually been selected as a finalist in their competition! Cue massive whooping, punching fists in the air and screaming jubilantly at each other, and that’s just me and the girls in the office. Even though I secretly had a feeling she’d do well, it’s still lovely when you get confirmation like this from the universe that, yes, occasionally, good things do happen to good people. Barbara almost had a heart attack when she heard the news, and even Laura herself is playing it down, but secretly pleased, I think. I always know whenever she does that lop-sided smile thing.
She maintains her kids reacted as if she’d been chosen to go on Who Wants to be a Millionaire? and she had about a half-hour of blissful peace while they all ran upstairs to write their lists of what they wanted with their share of the cash she was going to win. In vain she tried to point out that if she won, the prize wasn’t by any means life-alteringly huge, and in any case would be used towards taking them on a summer of cultural excursions around the city. The National Gallery, the Museum of Natural History, the latest exhibition of da Vinci Codex sketches, that type of thing. Under pressure, though, she did admit that their lists were just too funny.
Emily’s was: ‘1. Yacht. 2. Two weeks in EuroDisney. 3. Lexus jeep for Mom. 4. Remainder to be put in secure bank vault so when I’m sixteen, can get boob job.’
So as not to ruin their fun, though, she did break her hard and fast rule of only healthy organic food at mealtimes and let them order a family bucket of KFC chicken nuggets, fries, coke, the works. Ordinarily, Laura has a strict
ban on allowing any of her offspring to eat anything that comes off on the end of a coronary heart-scraper, as she puts it, but that night and for one night only, they were allowed forbidden food to mark this rare and special occasion.
She said that celebration alone was miles better than any magnum of champagne.
Chapter Sixteen
LAURA’S BIG DAY and we’re all here for her. Tattle magazine are very generously (believe me, I know how much these promos cost), hosting a morning coffee reception in the fabulously posh Merrion Hotel, in a function room they’ve hired especially to announce the competition results. Kick-off is at 11 a.m., perfect timing for Laura, as the kids are at school, and because it’s a very special occasion, she’s splashing out and dispatching baby Julia to a local crèche. This is unheard of. Ordinarily, I’m always trying to encourage her to leave the baby just for a few hours in the mornings to give herself a bit of head space, but she point-blank refuses, on the grounds that: a) the fees are so extortionately expensive, she’s always saying you’d swear you were forking out to put a child through Harvard medical school; and b) her children would get ‘insufficient stimulation’, they learn far, far more at home, under her watchful gaze. Which, given that she’s so brainy, and was playing championship chess from the age of six, is probably true.
Anyhoo, just this once, she caves in, and, under great duress, reluctantly drops baby Julia off. I then take full advantage of this and drag her off to my hairdresser’s first thing, to get a blow-dry and a manicure, my treat. Just to let her know, whatever today’s result, how proud I am of her. By the time we’re done, she’s looking fabulous in a very Laura-like way: neat, scrubbed, immaculately and elegantly turned out in the same, grey ‘going to court’ good outfit she lent Barbara for our ill-fated lunch a while back.
We jump in a cab to the Merrion Hotel and miracle of miracles, the perennially late Barbara is actually there before us, smoking a fag outside and finishing it in two drags, a Very Bad Sign with her. She’s in white jeans and one of those white netting tops that look a bit like see-through curtains, and she looks so tense and stressed that, honestly, your heart would go out to her.
Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 19
