Do You Want to Know a Secret?

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Let’s hope not, dearest, I am the defence. But, for the moment at least, I almost feel like a character in a sitcom. You know, where they say, ‘This is so wonderful and, for once, nothing can possibly go wrong!’

  So that’s the good news and now to the bad. Much later in the afternoon, I had to run over to Iveagh Gardens to meet with Serena Stroheim’s lighting designer, a sweet guy, absolutely lovely, tanned, toned and with a sensational body, which as we all know is girl code for . . . gay. He’s called Stephan, is brilliant fun and keeps making me swear to introduce him to the city’s gay bars, like I’m not having enough trouble at the moment among the straight community. Anyway, he’s so thorough about his job and makes me inspect the lighting rig so many times that the upshot is, it’s well after seven in the evening before I crawl back to the office, exhausted, but still with yet more work to do.

  I wearily let myself in and am almost knocked over by Paris and Nicole, both with their coats on, like they were only just waiting on me to get back so they could skedaddle. And not that I blame either of them, really.

  ‘Girls, I’m so sorry, my meeting ran way over . . .’

  The first warning sign I get is when Paris yanks me out into the office corridor and closes the door firmly shut behind us.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask, suddenly worried. The office is flooded? A random VAT audit? Some kind of rodent problem? ‘Give me the last sentence first.’

  ‘Vicky, I’m really sorry about this, but while you were out, this guy called and he insisted on waiting for you. I didn’t know what to do, I tried calling your mobile but it was switched off, so, well, the thing is . . . he’s in your office right now . . .’

  ‘Was he carrying chocolate?’ I say hopefully, thinking, please let it be Daniel, please let it be . . . but then the right lobe of my brain, the sensible side I’m so rarely troubled by, kicks in. Even if it were, what difference would it make? He’s off the market, so to speak, so the fat lady’s officially sung on that one. Not that there ever was anything to speak of really . . . sorry, I don’t know why his name just keeps slipping out.

  ‘He doesn’t have chocolates, no, but he’s got the biggest bunch of flowers. And he asked so many questions about you, quite personal stuff too, that . . . well, I just got a bit freaked, that’s all.’

  I soothe her and reassure her she did the right thing, but all the time I’m thinking . . . who’d be buying me flowers? Not to mention sitting in the office waiting for me? The girls, God love them, can’t get out of the place quick enough. We say our goodbyes and in I go.

  Oh shit. I really do NOT believe this.

  Eager Eddie, carrying a bouquet so huge, it almost dwarfs him.

  One of those ‘bird of paradise’ arrangements. Which is a large piece of floral irony if ever I saw it.

  ‘Vicky . . . this has gone on long enough,’ is his opener while I just stare at him, knocked for six. ‘You’ve been ignoring my calls and texts . . .’

  ‘How did you find out where I worked?’ I say hoarsely, eventually managing to interrupt him, when I’m over the initial shock, that is. You should just see my stance: arms folded, ‘don’t mess with me’ body language. At this precise moment, I’m even intimidating myself.

  ‘Phone directory.’

  Bugger. Oh well done, Sherlock, how else could he have found out? By hiring a private detective to trail me? Mind you, I don’t think for one minute I’d actually put that past him.

  Anyway, he thrusts the flowers at me with this stoic, ‘you’ve wounded me deeply but I’m bravely trying to rise above it’ expression, and all of a sudden it’s as if there’s two little angel voices in my head, one good, one evil. Like in a cartoon. On and on Eager Eddie goes about how I’d been the one who wanted to take things slowly . . . so he backed off, as I asked him to . . . but now enough time has passed, and he wants us to move forward . . . as a couple (my teeth actually gnash a bit when he comes out with that) . . . And what’s my problem anyway? . . . And why does this always happen to him with women? . . . I was all over him in the beginning and now, here I am . . . giving him mixed signals . . .

  EVIL ANGEL VOICE IN MY HEAD: ‘Ah, sure God love him. In his good suit, with flowers for you and all. Makes a change from Peter/Ex-Files, now doesn’t it? And it’s not like they’re exactly battering your door down for dates with you these days, now is it? Give him another chance . . . go on . . . you can do it . . .’

  GOOD/SANE ANGEL VOICE IN MY HEAD: ‘You’ve two choices. Call the doorman right now and get him thrown out of here, or else turn on your heel and walk out. Obsessives tend to adhere, and this kind of OTT behaviour must be nipped in the bud right NOW. Go on, show him you mean business. Once and for all. Go on . . . you can do it . . .’

  It’s a see-saw. I’m just about to cut him off in the middle of a speech he’s delivering, which is actually sounding suspiciously rehearsed to me, about how he has a table booked at a bistro down the road and can’t we just discuss this over a bottle of wine? For a split second I waver. But at the next thing he comes out with, good/sane angel wins.

  ‘You know, Vicky, you can play at this hard-to-get crap all you like, I’ve dated women like you before. The ones who want to test some poor sap by giving him the perpetual run-around. Game-players, that’s what you all are.’

  He’s smiling, but the tone is cold. Cutting. Nasty.

  Right, that’s it. Enough. Good/sane angel wins this round. After all, I’m not a psychiatrist, and I’m just not qualified to deal with all of this shite.

  ‘Eag . . . Eddie, you need to leave. Now, please. We’re not in a relationship, I don’t know where you got the idea that we ever were, and right now, I’d like you to go.’

  He looks at me like I’ve just slapped him across the face.

  ‘You know something, Vicky? Before you came back, your assistant told me you hadn’t had a serious boyfriend in years, and that you’d probably be pleased to see me, so you needn’t come off all hoity-toity like you’re not actually delighted I’m here.’

  ‘Eddie, you’re not hearing me. Please just GO.’

  ‘Single women in their thirties. Desperate bitches the lot of you. You should be down on your hands and knees thanking me for showing the slightest bit of interest in you . . .’

  He’s very close to me now, and is starting to shout. I’m cornered, he’s physically blocked the door, my phone is on my desk just out of reach, and now I’m starting to get a bit panicky. Shit, shit, shit, why didn’t I ask Paris and Nicole to hold on for a bit?

  ‘I mean, how old are you anyway, Vicky? Thirty-four, thirty-five? You’re doing really well to have someone like me ask you out. Face it: I’m the best offer you’re going to get. I’m the one in the buyer’s market, remember. I could go into any club tonight and pick up a girl half your age and far better-looking than you. Easy.’

  Yeah, as long as she’s in a strait-jacket, I’m thinking, really frightened now. The guy is deluded, and I haven’t the first clue how I’m going to get him out of here . . .

  Then my phone rings. He looks around but I make a dart for it and grab it.

  ‘Hello, oh hi, that’s perfect timing,’ I say, my voice shaky. ‘Look, how far are you from my office? That close? Fantastic. Quick as you can, then . . . yes. Oh, just I’m having a bit of a problem with an unwanted visitor and I know you’ll sort it out for me. No, I’ll stay on the line till you get here.’

  Then I turn back to Eager Eddie, who’s looking at me, pole-axed.

  ‘It’s my brother on the phone,’ I say, as coolly as I can, and I’m only hoping he hasn’t clocked that my hands are trembling. ‘On his way to . . . emm . . . rugby training. He’ll be here in no time, so if I were you, I’d take this opportunity to leave. Now.’

  I look as him as evenly as I can, and after staring him down for what seems like an age, he eventually nods and makes to go.

  Thank God, I’m thinking, thank God, thank God . . .

  He’s just at the door, and I still have the p
hone clutched to my chest, when he turns back again. ‘You know something, Vicky? I think you really have a problem, you know that? You’re a pathetic person, and if you ask me, you really need help.’

  I don’t answer, let him get the last word in if he wants, I really don’t care, I just want him gone. And a second later, he is. I take the precaution of locking the door before I go back to the call.

  ‘Mother of Divine Mercy, are you OK? What was all that about?’

  ‘Sorry about that, Laura. I just . . . I came back to the office and . . .’ I tell her, in glorious Technicolor. And she’s amazing and, typical her, starts listing off all these legal test-cases and precedents about harassment that show how the law is there to protect me from headers like this one. And about how I could easily take action if I wanted, and that barring orders were practically invented for the Eager Eddies of this world.

  ‘You know what, hon?’ I say, wearily slumping down at my desk. ‘I’m just glad he’s gone. Sorry for casting you as a rugby-playing brother, best I could think of under pressure.’

  ‘All right, dearest. Although I did smirk at the thought of either of your beloved brothers wearing rugby kits on their way to training.’

  I don’t blame her one bit for that either: my middle brother’s idea of exercise is to pick up a snooker cue, while the youngest one’s idea of an intensive workout is prising the lid off a tin of Carlsberg. And the thought of either of them coming to my rescue almost makes me smile a bit, too, the joke in our house used to be that, if anything happened to me, they’d step over my rotting corpse just to get at my car keys.

  ‘Sure you’re all right? You’re very welcome to come over here, you know.’

  Oh dear God, spare me. No offence, but after a shaky experience like this, a pleasant soirée chez Laura with all the kids there would have me reaching for the horse tranquillizers.

  ‘Thanks so much, but I’ve a bit more to do here, and then I really just fancy an early night. Another time, maybe?’

  ‘Like when they’re all at college? Don’t worry, dearest, I understand.’ And I can almost hear the lop-sided smile. ‘Actually I was ringing you with some other news, which I couldn’t tell you earlier, because of little ears. But I think it’s safe to speak now as the baby’s gone down and the others are probably all out rioting on street corners, most likely.’

  ‘Laura!’

  ‘Summer months, what else can I do? Call social services, I’m a crap mom. So, anyway, to cut to the chase . . .’

  ‘The case?’

  ‘No. Desmond Lawlor.’

  Oh.

  ‘Dearest, I am aware that I haven’t spoken these words to you in over fifteen years, but . . . I think I might like him. Really like him.’

  ‘Oh, hon, that’s wonderful.’ And I do mean it. Honestly.

  ‘He’s been calling quite regularly,’ she says, her voice dropping several notches, as if the baby will suddenly wake up and miraculously understand this conversation. ‘And I thought nothing of it. Mostly it’s been work-related, about the column and such, but then it did strike me that he did seem to be showing an excessive amount of interest in it. Then earlier, he rang and asked me to . . . now, promise you won’t laugh?’

  ‘I promise, but as I have just dealt with a deranged stalker, the laugh would probably do me good.’

  ‘I’m meeting him this Saturday . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ To go to some Brahms concerto in the national concert hall, I’ll put money on it. Isn’t that where all . . . emm . . . suitors who are, shall we say, a bit advanced in years, would take someone like our Laura?

  ‘. . . to have afternoon tea with his mother.’

  And I’m so shocked, not at Desmond asking her out, but at the fact that his mother is still alive . . . for the first time today, I can’t think of a single thing to say.

  Hours later, and I decide to walk home, glad I left my car there and badly needing to clear my head. Fresh air and a bit of healthy exercise, that’s just what I need right now. This virtuous state of mind only lasts for about two blocks, and then I think, oh bugger this walking lark, I’ll ring Barbara and see if I can talk things over with her instead. Yeah, miles better idea. She’ll put the whole rotten Eager Eddie fiasco into perspective for me and who knows? Maybe even get me laughing again.

  ‘KA, KA, KA, MUM, MUM, MUMMMMMM, BA, BA, BA, BA, MMMM . . .’ Honest to God, is all I hear as she answers.

  ‘Barbara? Please tell me that you haven’t been sucked into some kind of mind-controlling cult?’

  ‘Hi babes, sorry. Voice exercises. Look, I know I haven’t been in touch, but it’s just all been mental here. How are things with you? On the man front, I mean?’

  And so I fill her in. Everything. The works. I’ve been dying to tell her, and I don’t leave a single thing out. And then, I don’t know why, but out of nowhere I start to get a bit teary. Exhaustion, disappointment, the fright I got earlier, everything just seems to come on top of me at once. And going home, alone, to an empty house, yet again, doesn’t help matters much either.

  ‘Vicky, are you OK?’

  ‘No. Yes. I dunno, tired. Fed up . . .’

  ‘Look, why don’t you call over for a drink? A nice bottle of wine and you won’t give a shite about being lonely. Trust me.’

  I waver for a bit, then decide, yeah, that’s just what I need right now. Not to be alone is a very good idea.

  ‘Well, do you mind? I know you’ve your big dress rehearsal coming up and I don’t want to disturb you if you’re . . . emm . . . doing voice stuff, or anything.’

  ‘Not at all. Get your gorgeous ass around here right now. I was just saying to Angie, we need to take a breather, too. Hang on, ANGIE? WILL YOU NIP DOWN THE OFF-LICENCE FOR SOME VINO?’

  Oh bugger. In the whole of my health, I’m still not able for Evil Angie, but the way I’m feeling tonight, there’s a good chance I might just knife her if she starts her ‘so what have you done for my career lately’ crap on me.

  ‘Ehh . . . actually, Barbara, on second thoughts, I think I might just call it a night.’

  ‘Oh. Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure. You and Angie enjoy your wine and I’ll chat to you tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ she says, a bit worriedly. ‘Call you after rehearsals tomorrow, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I sigh, wearily clicking off the phone and walking on, past the summer evening revellers, sitting at pavement cafés, all enjoying the long, balmy evening.

  Couples everywhere, that’s all I seem to see. Hand in hand, laughing, enjoying life. Like you’re supposed to.

  And I get to thinking . . . there’s Laura, moving on with life, back in court with a man asking her out. I mean, OK, he might not necessarily be my type, but she seems to like him and that’s all that matters. Then there’s Barbara, slaving away, on the verge of what I really believe will be the big break she truly deserves. And then there’s me. On my way home to face yet another long, lonely night. And it’s not like I haven’t tried, put my heart on the line, really made an effort. God knows I’ve done the groundwork, and where has it got me? Being threatened by a lunatic obsessive in my own office who then has the gall to tell me that I need professional help, that’s where.

  Maybe there’s just something I need to face up to.

  A little amendment that needs to be made to the law of attraction book.

  Yes, anyone can get anything they want through sheer force of will, is what it should say . . . except for love. Because how do you make someone love you?

  I mean, a penthouse for f**k’s sake.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  BELIEVE ME, IT wasn’t my intention to guilt-trip Barbara when I got a bit teary on the phone that time, honestly, but I think it must have had that effect on her because right after work, the next Thursday, she calls me and tells me we’re going out. No arguments, no discussion, we’re just doing it.

  ‘But what about your big dress rehearsal this weekend? Don’t you want to stay home and, I du
nno, run lines and make those weird howling noises all the time?’

  ‘I promised you a Thursday night on the trawl and I’m not taking no for an answer. You’ve worked so hard on this show for me that it’s the very least I can do. As your project manager, I’m officially telling you it’s time to put past disappointments behind you and move on. Like I always say, if you want to get over someone . . . get under someone. Over and under. Simple as that.’

  Which is how I find myself in Major Tom’s bar and lounge, sipping a glass of white wine that frankly could double up as acid for a car battery. Not that I’m ungrateful to Barbara for taking time out to hook me up (she sez hopefully), but, for about the tenth time tonight, I find myself asking her, ‘Why here?’

  I have to shout, mind you, because there’s a match on and wouldn’t you know it, the only seats we could get are right under the giant plasma TV screen.

  ‘Look around you, dopey,’ she says, drinking beer from the bottle and looking effortlessly sexy, even though she’s come straight from work and is in leggings and a baggy sweatshirt. I, on the other hand, am in the good Karen Millen work suit and might almost pass for her financial adviser. And I don’t mean that in a good way, I mean it in an older, prissy, spinsterish-looking way. Oh Christ, all I need is Dame Edna glasses and a blue rinse to complete the effect.

  ‘It’s a well-known sports bar, therefore, for our purposes, a target-rich environment. If this place was a TV show, it would be . . . you know, something presented by Jeremy Clarkson and Richard Hammond.’

  ‘Don’t get it.’

  ‘A guy magnet. Trust me, within another round, someone will have chatted you up.’

  She’s right, someone does, but it’s a woman called Dixie (no, really, that is her name), who’s wearing flat shoes and no make-up or bra. She’s chatting away, only pausing to holler and thump on the table whenever her team scores, almost sending our drinks flying. Not even Barbara is being approached, which is highly unusual, but then just about every pair of male eyes here is glued to the match. I’m presuming things will pick up once it’s over, but Barbara doesn’t give my theory much of a chance.