Do You Want to Know a Secret?

by Claudia Carroll

  The universe, it would seem, a bit like my Auntie Maisie, appreciates good manners. Anyway, Barbara gave it a lash and said she only thought she’d gone a tad too far when Evil Angie found her in front of the bathroom mirror, clutching a tube of Colgate and thanking the world and its sick dog for her best actress Oscar, her Tony Award for best Broadway newcomer and her Irish Theatre Award for: ‘best, hottest and generally all-around most amazing actress to have been employed by Serena Stroheim, ever in history, ever.’

  Laugh all you like, but these little things are what get us through times of great stress.

  Anyway, at the close of business on Friday, the long-awaited miracle came to be. I was holed up in yet another meeting at the Best agency (still no sign of Daniel coming back from the States, ho-hum), and had my phone off for most of the day. I figured I’d be done and dusted by seven-ish, but Sophie insisted on going through the first-draft scripts for all of the commercials with a fine toothcomb. Best’s have also selected a director for our first shoot, someone called Tom Howard, who I haven’t heard of but who apparently shot a highly successful beer commercial for them some time ago. ‘Wait till you see him,’ Amanda whispers to me. ‘V v v cutie. Hot hot hottie. We like.’

  Anyway, hours after the others have all deserted the place, Amanda and I eventually crawl out of the boardroom, both of us so wrecked and mentally exhausted from a full day’s brainstorming that we can’t even face the freebie Choca-Mocha kisses that are just lying there for the taking. We’d no choice, we had to work later than the others, as she and I are hatching an idea that’s, well, just a bit ‘out there’. And we’re not quite ready to announce it just now, as chances are the whole concept could get shot down before it even leaves the ground. Our strategy is to make this product skyrocket with a bang so loud you’d think the Space Shuttle Challenger had just been launched, but what we’re planning is risky and we need approval from the top. Which means Daniel. Who’s still in the bloody States. Which means conference calls most of next week, probably.

  ‘So what’s he up to, anyway?’ I ask Amanda, who’s great for dishing out info, as we both pack up our briefcases and call it a night.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. There’s two rumours doing the rounds about him, so take your pick. The smart money says he wants to expand the company and is looking at opening up in New York. Wouldn’t it be soooo amazing? Madison Avenue, if you don’t mind, in which case there’ll be a near riot to get posted over there, even just for a few months. Do you realize that they have sample sales over there where you can get Prada dresses WITH shoes AND bags for, like, two hundred bucks? If that rumour is true, then I’ll harass him day and night to be moved there. Could you just imagine the money I’d save in those discount stores? For God’s sake, Vicky, if you work in advertising or PR, they practically throw designer goods at you, for free. In fact, I’d say they pay you just to take stuff off them.’

  ‘So . . . Daniel’s most likely there on business,’ I say, faux-casual, fishing a bit.

  ‘Depends on who you talk to. Course the other rumour doing the rounds is far more interesting.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I say, thinking, shit, did that sound breezy enough?

  ‘Patti from accounts said she heard it from Megan in sales that Louisa in marketing definitely heard him say he has some girlfriend on the go over there. A buyer at Bergdorf Goodman’s, apparently. Apart from that, we don’t know much more, but it does make sense. I read that single women in New York go on, like, five dates PER WEEK, so can you just imagine how a guy like Daniel would go down over there? He’d be like—’

  ‘Like a Mars bar at fat camp,’ I say, finishing the sentence for her and trying not to sound too morose about it. I mean, for God’s sake, I tell myself sternly, how could he NOT be dating over there? The guy is the whole package: single, good-looking, a laugh, oh and lest we forget, a squillionaire . . . I’d hazard a guess that Manhattan minxes are, at this moment, impaling each other with their Manolo Blahnik stilettos just to get a crack at him.

  Anyway, it’s not like I’m the least bit put out about this or anything. I mean, tomorrow is my big night out with Peter, the PR dinner. Lovely, handsome, intelligent Peter, who I’m nursing high hopes for. He’s been calling and texting regularly, and basically is making all the right noises that he and I could really be on our way to couple-town. And while we’re on the subject of tomorrow night, may I add, ahem, ahem, watch this space. I have a whole day ahead of me of spray tanning, hair straightening, French manicures, the works. I’ll be so match-fit, the guy won’t know what hit him. And Barbara will be at the PR dinner with the friend who looks the image of Edward Norton. (Note to self: his real name is Charlie. Do NOT drunkenly refer to the guy as Edward Norton, or, worse, Barbara’s name for him . . . Baldie.) The point being, I’ll have on-site back-up. And I cannot wait.

  The building is weirdly quiet and echoey and kind of spooky as Amanda and I clickety-clack down the glass brick staircase. She switches her phone back on and I do the same, all of a sudden realizing that it’s been off for most of the bloody afternoon. Oh shit. Eight missed calls and eleven texts.

  Immediately I figure at least two have to be from Eager Eddie, who I’ve been studiously ignoring, but seems to be one of those guys that becomes keener and keener the less interested you are. As if you’ll be so worn down by their persistence that eventually you’ll fall into their arms, probably out of sheer exhaustion from giving them the run-around, as much as anything else. At present, he’s averaging one call and several texts a day, and is living proof that the whole notion of ‘The Rules’ actually does work. On a certain type of fella anyway. Eejits, some people might call them.

  To my surprise, though, the first six messages are all from Barbara, escalating in tone from ‘mild hysteria’, to ‘I think I might be having a coronary, call an ambulance’, to ‘you’re only audible to dogs right now’.

  They went something along these lines . . .

  3 p.m.

  ‘Vick, oh Jesus, Vicky answer your phone. Quick, for the love of God, you won’t believe what’s happened . . .’ Beep . . .

  3.05 p.m.

  ‘VICKY!!!! Where the f**k are you anyway? And why is your bloody phone switched off!! This is a grade one emergency and I have to talk to you urgently . . . IMMEDIATELY!!’ beep . . .

  She’s shouting so loudly down my message minder that even Amanda can hear her loud and clear as we make our way past the dark, deserted office reception area.

  ‘Is your friend OK?’ Amanda asks, really concerned. ‘She doesn’t sound the best, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Not too sure, it’s a toss up,’ I say, a bit worried myself now, fearing the worst and skipping through message after message till I find one that actually has some hard info. No kidding, Barbara’s sounding so panic-stricken and out of control, I still can’t discern whether the news is unbelievably good or horrendously awful.

  And then I hear it. The message I’ve been waiting for. It came through at 5 p.m. and was from a very cool, crisp Serena Stroheim.

  ‘Vicky, Serena here, just to let you know I’ve finalized the casting on the show. Perhaps you’d like to ring me to discuss it further. Let me also set your mind at rest that your friend did a wonderful audition and I’ve offered her a role. I’m not certain whether she’ll accept it or not; there was a lot of squealing on the phone when I called her earlier, but I think that usually qualifies as a yes. Chat soon.’ Beep . . .

  I slump against a wall, suddenly exhausted as the tidal wave of relief sweeps over me. Thank you God, thank you universe, thank you law of attraction, thank you any divine force that made this miracle happen . . .

  ‘Good news, I hope?’ says Amanda, not too sure if I’m having an anxiety stroke or not.

  ‘Mmmm,’ is all I can nod.

  ‘Come on, you need a drink. You know, it’s Friday night Salsa night here, and all the gang are going dancing. A few tequilas and the sight of sexy men swaying and gyrating is just what
you need right now.’

  I smile at her. God, Best’s is just the coolest place. I’m only surprised the entire creative team didn’t do a conga line out the door the minute they all finished work, led by Sophie.

  ‘I’d love to, Amanda, but I really have to meet up with this friend, wherever she may be . . .’

  ‘Ok . . . well . . . you don’t mind if I go, do you? I mean, I didn’t get these blonde tips put in my hair for nothing.’

  ‘Of course not, and you look fabulous,’ I say as we step into the cool night air and start looking for taxis. ‘Go. Score. Enjoy. Have loads of gossip for me next week.’

  She and I hug goodbye, jump into our separate cabs, and I call Barbara. It’s really hard to hear her as she’s obviously in some packed, noisy bar somewhere, so I have to shout a bit.

  ‘IT’S BRILLIANT NEWS . . . CONGRATULATIONS!!!’ I nearly have to shriek at her. ‘WHERE ARE YOU? I’M ON MY WAY.’

  ‘Vicky!!! My heroine!!!! The woman who’s turning my life around!!!’ She screams back so loud the taxi driver winces a bit. ‘The two of us are in the Dakota bar celebrating, so get your gorgeous ass in here RIGHT NOW!!!’

  ‘The two of us?’ I shout back, thinking, could she be with Laura? Unlikely so late on a Friday night . . . Nathaniel, the barman guy she has flings with from time to time? Maybe someone new that I don’t know about yet?

  ‘Yeah. Me and Angie. She got cast as one of the leads, too!!! Isn’t it fabulous?’

  Perfectly valid reasons why I can’t stand the bloody sight of Evil Angie.

  If user-ism were an Olympic sport, she’d represent the country and probably take home gold. It’s as though she’s ingratiatingly sweet to you in direct proportion to how useful she perceives you to be. Viz. when I meet her and Barbara a bit later in the Dakota bar, she’s so all over me, it’s actually embarrassing. Now that she sees me with a ‘producer’ hat on, I honestly think the girl will have to be surgically removed from up my bum.

  Barbara, high as a kite on champagne, lets it slip that I’m involved in casting for not one, but seven different commercials, and I’m not kidding, Evil Angie actually asks me who the casting agent is and if she can get seen? For God’s sake, even Barbara was only messing when she asked me that, and she’s miles more modelly-looking and she’s my best friend. Bad enough that all my hard work in getting A Midsummer Night’s Dream up and running could now actually benefit this self-serving cow, but now she wants to muscle in on the Original Sin ads too? Unbelievable, just unbelievable . . .

  A bit like the Queen, she never carries cash and is one of those people that’ll sit in a bar, order drink after drink, and let whoever she’s sitting with foot the bill. Without even a twinge of embarrassment, nothing. Even in the taxi the three of us share on the way home, she says to Barbara, ‘Babsie, darling, can you get this? I’ll sort you out when my next voiceover cheque comes in.’

  She lies about little things, and my theory is if you can carry off a lie about a little thing, then a larger one will be no bother to you. Oh and by ‘little things’ I’m referring to her ludicrous claim to be a natural blonde (when we all know perfectly well that there’s no such thing), a size eight (if she’s a size eight then I’m Caroline of Monaco), and that she just missed out on getting cast in the Keira Knightley role in Pirates of the Caribbean. Honestly, what does she take us for? The girl is an out-and-out fantasist.

  She’s one of those women who always, always have a boyfriend, and just seem to effortlessly flit from long-term relationship to long-term relationship. And for some bizarre reason, this annoys me more than anything else listed above.

  Barbara officially has the patience of a saint. If Evil Angie was my flatmate, there would be a bloodbath. Anyway, this is Barbara’s night and I don’t want to ruin it for her, so I’m forced to do a major attitude readjustment and focus on the fact that my girl attracted what she wanted into her life and, like the good book says, this is a major cause for celebration and saying ‘attitude is gratitude’ etc., etc.

  The only time I actually want to slap Evil Angie is when Barbara leaves us to go up and buy a round. The malevolent cow waits till Barbara’s well out of earshot, then turns to me and says, ‘So I hear you girls have this sort of club going, where you all project-manage each other. You know, so everyone helps each other to get what they all want out of life.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ is all I can mutter, momentarily furious with Barbara for telling her.

  ‘And you’re looking for a man, aren’t you?’

  Jesus, I hate her. I make a big show of pretending I hear my phone ringing and checking to see if there’s a message, just so I don’t have to answer the evil cow.

  ‘Cos you’ve been single, like just for ever, haven’t you?’

  I just sip my drink, willing Barbara to hurry back.

  ‘Although Barbara did mention that you’re taking some guy to a PR do tomorrow night, and she’s going with his friend, just to keep an eye on you. Must be a scream, having a chaperone . . . I mean, at your age!’

  I do my best to tune her out, and am half-wondering how unethical it would be for me to ring Serena Stroheim and ask/beg on bended knee for her to reconsider her decision to cast this evil, bloody cow.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Vicky, if I’d been single for as long as you, I’d definitely consider pursuing a dating open-door policy, like you’re doing.’

  OK, now I’m actually wondering if it’s insensitivity or just plain stupidity that has her interpreting my sullen silence as: ‘Oh, you’re just so interesting, Angie. Please, please continue humiliating me. I’m loving it and I just can’t get enough.’

  ‘Anyway, Vicky, as regards this all-girls freemason’s thing you have going on,’ she prattles on, with me staring furiously into space. ‘Well, the thing is, I’m doing a lot of work on myself right now, I’m becoming an awful lot more self-aware and focused. I mean, I even went out and bought a book by Deepak Chopra and . . . well, I was kind of wondering, could I come along to your next meeting?’

  I have to physically bite my tongue from snapping, ‘No, you cannot, you evil cow. Gandhi was self-aware and focused; you just want to use other people as stepping stones to get what you want.’

  Note to self: strangle Barbara and make it look like an accident.

  My last and final word on the subject is that if Evil Angie gets better reviews than Barbara, lands a better agent out of this, or, God forbid, upstages her in any way (which I wouldn’t put past her), then she’ll have me to answer to.

  Right then. End of rant. For now.

  Chapter Eighteen

  SATURDAY NIGHT AND we’re all systems go for the big PR dinner. I’m actually starting to feel like Peter and I are well on our way to dating exclusively, and am loving every single wonderfully romantic minute of it. This is it. Finally the relationship gods have smiled down on me, and, let’s face it, not before time. Peter called not once but twice today to arrange for him and his friend Baldie . . . sorry, Charlie, to meet Barbara and me in his local, conveniently close to the Radisson Hotel, where the do is to be held. He seems keen, keeps saying ‘we’ a lot, and seems to be looking forward to the night as much as I am. So, in a nutshell, all the signs are good that tonight could be the night when we ‘seal the deal’ if you’re with me. I’m excited and buzzy, brimming with confidence that this is it; this really could be The One.

  The only teeny fly in the ointment is, all going well, then where exactly do I lure him afterwards? Useless Builder started sanding my wooden floors upstairs, then did his usual trick of half-finishing the job and buggering off for the weekend, leaving the top of my poor little house looking like a desert sandstorm just hit it. Laura sensibly suggested that I just treat it all like a big joke and, should Peter agree to come back to my place, just make sure I have champagne chilling in the fridge (check), fabulous underwear on (check), and crisp new bedlinen (check). I’m a great believer in bed karma, i.e., unmade and messy is not the way to get a result, if you’re with me. So, o
ne flying trip to the homeware department of House of Fraser later, and I’m ready to rock and roll and my bed is now a field of dreams. (‘Build it and he will come, is that your cunning plan?’ as Barbara quipped, har, har, har.)

  Well, except there’s been one glitch. I forgot to shut the bedroom door before Useless Builder got at the sanding machine, so now my ferociously expensive, fab new Frette sheets resemble something Lawrence of Arabia would have slept on. In a tent. With a camel parked outside. In the Sahara.

  Anyway, I have come to the mature decision that if anyone judges me on the state of my living space, then it’s a sad reflection on them, not me. So in a way, it’s a test of character, and if Peter has a problem with sitting on my mother’s patio furniture drinking champagne out of plastic cups, that’s his problem and not mine. Not that he would, she sez, brimming with the pre-date confidence of someone who got two calls from him so far today, not even counting texts. He’s just too much of a gentleman. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. Woman’s instinct and all that.

  Six thirty p.m. and I’m ready for action. I’m wearing my ‘serial result’ good Karen Millen LBD, plastered in fake tan to hopefully take the glare off my natural skin tone (which is a pasty blue), nails done and with my hair straightened from here to France. Just as I’m rushing out the door to my taxi waiting outside, I stop and pick up the law of attraction book, sitting on top of a handbag in the hallway. It’s become almost like a lucky charm with me at this stage. When I’m nervous and jittery before a big occasion like this, my little routine is to flip open a page at random and see what message the universe has to send me. Something life-affirmingly positive that’ll act like a fantastic omen for the night ahead. With a bit of luck.

  Negative feelings will inevitably attract yet more people and situations which will continue to draw you into a spiral of negativity. Just like a vicious circle.

  Eh, no, not quite what I was hoping for. I try again as the taxi beeps the car horn impatiently. Oooh, here we go, this is a bit more like it.