‘But you spent a fortune . . .’
‘Now don’t belittle this moment with your price-taggery,’ he says, waving at me to shut up. ‘I want you to enjoy yourself when the contract’s up and what better way? I thought all girls loved being dressed up like Egyptian mummies and then submerged in mud with cucumbers on their faces. Unless I’ve been misinformed.’
‘You’re spoiling me.’ I smile back at him. ‘Keep it up.’
There’s a split second where we’re just looking at each other, and no one says anything, and I’m just wondering whether or not I thanked him enough, and should I gush a bit more, when his internal phone goes.
‘On the way,’ he says to whoever it is. ‘That’s Amanda,’ he says turning back to me. ‘She’s waiting for us in the editing suite.’
‘Oh, you’re sitting in on this with us?’
‘Course I am. If I’m going to be an extra in one of these commercials, the least I can do is find out what the competition’s like.’
Definite sign he’s interested:
As we walk together to the lift, he presses the button and there’s another comfortable silence. Then he turns to me and says, in a very offhand manner, ‘So, that guy you were with the other night. Your boyfriend?’
‘Ehh . . . no,’ I say a bit too insistently, but then I can’t believe he just asked me that. ‘Just a date,’ I smile. Did that sound OK? Casual enough?
‘Just a date,’ he repeats as we step into the lift together. ‘Then, what about that other guy I met you with a while back? Scottish accent, reddish hair? You introduced me and I forget his name.’
‘Oh, you mean Eager . . . sorry, Eddie, it was Eddie,’ I say, hating that I’m blushing a bit now.
‘So then is he your boyfriend?’
Bugger, half of me thinks there’s no way to answer that without sounding like I’m some kind of multi-dating tart that’s out with a different bloke every night of the week, while the other, more rational half of me (which, let’s face it, I don’t hear from all that often), thinks, so what? Yes, I’m single, yes I’m actively looking for someone, and yes, I go on dates. Get over it.
‘No, just another date.’ Then I back-pedal a bit. ‘But one that didn’t really work out.’
Sign he’s not:
Nonchalant as ever, he just shrugs indifferently and says, ‘Atta girl. Sure, you’re only young once.’ Arms folded, body language as good as saying, ‘Yeah, right, whatever.’
Definite sign he’s interested:
As soon as we’re out of the lift and striding towards the editing suite, he turns to me again. ‘Vicky, do you have plans for the weekend?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact . . .’ I begin, and then realize, oh f**k it, the preamble’s no good, I’ll have to tell him the whole story. So I do. It all comes out. Everything. All about Serena Stroheim and how Barbara and I are producing a show, and it’s Shakespeare in the park and how, miraculously, it all seems to be coming together, but most of all, how exciting it all is.
‘Nice sidestep, but you still didn’t answer my question,’ he grins. ‘What are you doing for the weekend?’
‘Oh, did I not? Well, that was all a big build-up to my saying, meeting up with our costume and lighting designer and finalizing seating for the opening night. Plus working out guest lists, and you know what a nightmare that can be . . .’
Shit. Then I realize, I’ve fallen into the trap of coming off far too busy to squeeze in a date. That’s if he was indirectly asking me out. Which I’m actually not too sure of. Was he? Bloody hell, it’s really hard to tell with this guy. So I gamely plump for the damage-limitation option.
‘So I’ll be working most of Saturday and Sunday . . .’ I say, putting particular emphasis on the ‘day’ bit so he’ll miraculously cop on that my evening plan is to sit on patio furniture gossiping down the phone to Laura or Barbara if she’s not too busy making vowel sounds and fending off competition from Evil Angie. And all the while eating a de-luxe single-gal-size tub of Ben & Jerry’s. So in other words, come nightfall, I am the most available girl he could meet.
Sign he’s not:
In spite of my looking at him hopefully with a ‘why do you ask?’ faux-innocent expression, he totally sidesteps the whole thing and just says: ‘Fantastic about the show. Fair play to you. And if you’re looking for sponsorship, look no further.’
Oh. No invite out, then. Oh well. But I will most definitely take him up on the sponsorship offer. So, at least that’s something, isn’t it?
Yeah, of course it is. I just can’t help feeling a bit deflated. And like I f**ked up without even being too sure of what exactly I did wrong.
Anyway, on the plus side, all goes brilliantly in our casting session, and within the space of an hour, having sat through screening after screening, we’ve selected a shortlist of models for Sophie’s ultimate approval. All very exotic, leggy, glamorous creatures, 100 per cent in keeping with the femme fatale image we’re looking for. Then, Amanda (who’s appearing as a red-head today, by the way) and I get brave and decide to throw in the one idea we’ve cooked up between us that we never in a million years think Daniel will go for.
‘Look, there’s something we both need to talk to you about, while we have your undivided attention,’ is her opener, throwing a ‘back me up here’ glance my way.
‘Shoot, but allow for my short attention-span,’ he says, looking at both of us evenly.
Oh yeah, with his feet up on the seats. Suddenly I can’t help smiling at the instant flash I get of what he must have been like in school. The class messer. Always at the back of the bus. Most likely always in trouble. Most likely with loads of girls chasing after him.
‘We advertise the ads,’ Amanda pitches to him bravely. ‘In the print media. The time, date and channel that each commercial will be broadcast at.’
‘When Baz Luhrmann made the famous Chanel commercial,’ I chip in, taking up the baton, ‘the advertising agency took out ads in the trade press. Everyone sneered and said it was money down the drain, but their sales went up by 400 per cent. And that’s the kind of huge splash we’re aiming for here. Remember, our Original Sin commercials will be just like mini-movies.’
‘Ladies,’ he says, sitting back, arms behind his head and grinning, looking like he has all the time in the world. ‘You’ve convinced me. Loving everything you’ve both done so far, the Casablanca theme, the black-and-white smoke-filled bar, the whole femme fatale thing, the works. You’ve my full permission to pitch it to Sophie and tell her I think it’s a gem of an idea.’
Amanda and I lock eyes and glow simultaneously.
‘Just one suggestion,’ he goes on, now looking into the middle distance, like a brainwave is just coming to him. ‘The first commercial we’re shooting: Thou Shalt Not Covet . . .’
‘. . . Thy Best Friend’s Eyes,’ we both chime in perfect unison.
‘She’s getting ready to go on a first date,’ he says slowly, like he’s formulating his thoughts. ‘Think . . . perfect first dates. Think the excitement of . . . really liking someone, and that special first night out with them. That adrenalin rush you get when you walk into a bar and there they are waiting for you. They’ve gone to a huge effort for you and you for them. That’s the kind of vibe that would work brilliantly here.’
He’s right, it’s an incredible idea, and suddenly it’s like the missing piece of the jigsaw has slotted in. That’s it, of course, that’s why our model is coveting her friend’s make-up, she’s going on a first date and wants to be . . . fabulous.
‘So, in other words . . .’ I say, trying to see it in my mind’s eye. ‘The anti-hero becomes the hero. The one who’s envious is the one whose story we’re following. On her date.’
‘Now you’ve got it.’ He grins at me.
Second time today I’ve seen a slightly different side to Daniel: this time it’s the guy who, for all his messing, is shit hot at his job and didn’t get to be where he is today without sheer talent and ideas. In fact,
I’m strongly starting to suspect that the whole laid-back image is just one big front to lull people into a false sense of security.
Anyway, while Amanda’s waxing lyrical about what her ideal first date would be I go back to my storyboards and start scribbling his idea down straight away. Before I forget.
‘What about you then, Vicky?’ he says, looking straight at me. ‘You’ve gone very quiet. What’s your ideal first date?’
Shit. I don’t know is the answer. And I’m the one who’s supposed to be a hopeless romantic?
‘Emm . . . well . . . it would definitely involve margaritas . . .’ I begin.
‘Right, margaritas, Mexican vibe, I’m with you. Go on.’
He’s looking at me, arms folded, with that slightly teasing look he gets in his eyes sometimes, so I’m left wondering, is he messing or not?
Now Amanda’s looking at me expectantly, too, so I better come up with something.
Quick.
I rack my brains and something strikes me.
‘He’d tell me to meet him in a cocktail bar,’ I say slowly. ‘Hence the margaritas. And the only thing that I’d find a bit odd is that he’d ask me to bring my passport.’
‘Oooh, I love where this is going!’ Amanda squeals.
‘Then,’ I say, warming up, ‘we’ll jump in a cab and I’ll wonder why he won’t tell me where we’re going . . .’
‘Yeah, yeah?’ says Amanda, eyes sparkly.
‘. . . but I’ll notice signs for the airport and slowly begin to cop on. Then we’ll go to check in but he still won’t tell me where we’re off to, he’ll make me swear not to look at the destination on the computer screen . . .’
‘. . . but you’ll cheat,’ says Amanda, really getting into this little fantasy. ‘You won’t be able to resist and you’ll peek up and it’ll say . . .’
‘Paris!’ the two of us chime together, then burst out laughing.
‘Where else?’ I say. ‘City of lovers.’
‘And he’ll take you to a fabulous hotel,’ Amanda goes on. ‘And he’ll have pre-arranged to have a bottle of champagne waiting for you when you arrive . . .’
‘. . . and your favourite meal pre-ordered. And then a show afterwards, maybe even an opera . . .’
‘Ohh, I love it!’ Amanda squeals. ‘So the lesson for you, Vicky, is to have all your waxing done before a first date. Oh, and of course the good matching underwear. Like the Girl Guides say, always be prepared.’
‘Right then, if we’re done here, I better go,’ says Daniel, abruptly getting out of his seat.
‘Oh, sorry, was it us talking about waxing? And underwear?’ says Amanda, puzzled.
‘Nope, gotta another meeting. Ladies, thanks so much and keep up the good work.’
And in a split second, he’s gone.
I continue scribbling away on my storyboards and it’s only after a few seconds I notice Amanda studying me.
‘What?’ I say, feeling her gaze on me.
‘You know, if you were to ask me,’ she says, slowly, very slowly, ‘I’d say Daniel likes you. Trust me, Vicky, I can smell a crush a mile off.’
‘What makes you think that?’ I say, my face the colour of Heinz tomato soup.
‘Oh . . . just, you know, woman’s intuition. Too bad he’s off the market though.’
‘Is he?’
‘All over the office this morning, honey. Why do you think he was in New York for so long, when we’re mad busy here? There were loads of rumours doing the rounds, but it turns out he’s moving in with the girlfriend he’s been seeing and apparently the trip was to go apartment hunting with her. Cathy from marketing heard it directly from Jason in accounts who got it straight from Lynda in personnel, which everyone knows is as good as the horse’s mouth, cos she’s like, really friendly with Daniel. He’s gone and bought some flashy penthouse on the Upper East Side and it only cost about, like, five million. Can you believe it?’
Chapter Twenty-One
GOOD NEWS AND bad news to report, so I’ll start with the good. But before I do I’ll just say this much: bloody hell, I wish this law of attraction came with an instruction manual, because all around me everyone’s getting what they want out of life . . . excepting yours truly. Which brings me first to the good news, concerning Laura, who continues to shine as our resident golden girl.
A couple of days later, and I’ve been at my desk since seven a.m. (No choice, I just have too much to do.) In fairness to Paris and Nicole, I don’t think either of them have left the office any night this week before eight in the evening and so, inspired by Daniel and his ‘keep employees happy by lavishing expensive gifts on them’ policy, I’m seriously racking my brains to come up with some kind of suitably glamorous reward for the pair of them, by way of a thank you. I’d go a long, long way before I’d find girls as well-connected as they are, prepared to work the hours we’re all having to. The girls have been taking care of the guest list for the upcoming opening night of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and have been majorly pulling out all the stops to make it as A-list as is humanly possible. ‘We’re going after glitterati, not glutterati,’ as Nicole says, and to be honest, Lynne Franks herself probably couldn’t have put it better. At my end, I’m up to my tonsils with the first Original Eyes campaign; so for all three of us, it’s twelve, thirteen, fourteen hour days all the way . . . we’ve no choice.
For the moment, at least.
Anyway, it’s during yet another one of these crazy, hectic mornings in the office when we’re all trying to juggle about ninety things at once that Laura calls.
‘I know you’re busy, dearest,’ is her opener. ‘So I won’t labour this with a preamble. Fantastic news, which I HAD to tell you right away, oh . . . hold on . . . sorry about this . . . just cover your ears for a moment. JAKE AND EMILY, WHATEVER THE PAIR OF YOU ARE DOING, YOU CAN STOP IT RIGHT NOW . . . oh for goodness’ sake, sorry about this Vicky. CAN’T THIS FAMILY GO ONE DAY WITHOUT A RIOT?’
The yelling is so loud that I actually have to hold the phone at arm’s length for that bit, and even Paris winces over at me from where she’s standing by the photocopier.
‘I really do apologize, dearest, God above, I must sound like Sharon Osbourne. Are you still there?’
‘Ehh . . . just about.’
‘There’s usually only a two-minute delay between my having to holler like that and them ripping each other apart again, so I’ll be quick. I have the most wonderful news and I had to share it with you right away.’
Then, clear as crystal, I can hear Emily shouting downstairs to Laura: ‘MOM, YOU DON’T GIVE ME THE RESPECT I DESERVE.’
Then Laura hollers back up to her, ‘YOU KNOW WHAT? YOU’RE ABSOLUTELY RIGHT! I GIVE YOU TOO MUCH.’
Anyway, while this little one-act radio play is going on, my mind races. Oh my God, it’s to do with Desmond Lawlor. Has to be. That’s it, he’s asked her out, to some piano recital or similar, I bet . . . don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled for her, of course I am, but a tiny part of me is feeling . . . well, a bit deflated, to be brutally honest.
I mean, I’m the one who wanted to attract romance into my life, so what’s Laura doing right that I’m getting so hopelessly wrong? And am continuing to get hopelessly wrong.
And why does Daniel have to buy a bloody penthouse anyway?
Sorry, that just slipped out.
‘REMEMBER WE TALKED ABOUT NOT USING OUR HORRIBLE VOICE?’ Laura pulls me back to our phone call, screaming upstairs to Emily, then she’s back to me again.
‘Wow, way to guilt her,’ I say.
‘Thanks, it’s what I do. So sorry, dearest, I really can’t apologize enough for that outburst. It’s just that if I don’t implement a zero tolerance with the little madam, there’s always a price to pay.’
‘So, tell me the news,’ I say, trying to sound bright, and half-wondering what Desmond asked her to, although my money’s on a cello recital somewhere. Or else an obscure one-act play in German by some writer I never even heard of maybe . .
. you know, something classical, cultured and very, very posh.
‘I’ve been asked to take a case!’ Laura squeals in a voice so ecstatic, so utterly and totally over the moon that now I feel like a complete heel for my, ahem, little flash of jealousy. ‘Can you believe it?’ she goes on, barely pausing for breath. ‘After all this time, a friend of my father’s who’s a solicitor just called me now and offered me the brief.’
‘Oh, sweetheart, I really am thrilled for you . . .’
‘. . . now, it’s no great shakes, it’s just a minor offence, only district court, so we’re not exactly in The Winslow Boy territory here, but . . .’
‘That is so fabulous! So what’s the case?’
‘Absolutely black and white. A clear violation of paragraph two, subsection four, of the 1961 Road Traffic Act . . .’
‘Give it to me in layman’s terms.’
‘Idiot client forgot to pay his parking fines.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, honey, who cares about what the case is? The fact is, it’s court! You’re back!’
There’s just one tiny question that’s burning at the back of my mind . . . but, typical Laura, she beats me to it.
‘And of course, I’ll have to donate pretty much every penny of my fee to buying a huge gift for my mother who, astonishingly, has agreed to child-mind, may God have mercy on her.’
‘Wow, fair play to her,’ I say, a bit stunned, to put it mildly.
Laura’s mother is all right for doing the odd Saturday night, probably out of guilt more than anything else, but always adamantly refused to take care of the kids so Laura could go to court, claiming that daytime babysitting, school runs etc., would interfere with her tennis/bridge/searching in forests for eyes of newts to put in her potions/broomstick practice/whatever the hell it is she does get up to in her spare time.
Oh well, maybe the old she-witch is mellowing with Botox.
‘Well, I for one couldn’t be prouder of you,’ I gush, still feeling a bit guilty for jumping to conclusions about her love life. ‘I know you’ll get that wig and gown on you, stride into that courtroom like you were never out of it, and shear the defence like Delilah.’
Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 25
