by Lynda Renham
‘Time, my lovely,’ she had pounced on me as we reached the door and grabbed my arm with her bony hand. ‘I’m getting a message to warn you that time is important. Should I get the crystal ball?’
Tell me something I don’t know. I’m late for everything.
‘Look to the clock dearie. Don’t forget that. A few minutes can change the path of your destiny. A few minutes can make all the difference.’
Fifteen pounds difference in your case if you get your crystal ball. What a load of rubbish. I don’t know anybody whose name begins with a B and considering Issy let it slip that my boyfriend’s name is Toby was not surprised the initial T came up. I have no plans to travel, unless of course it’s for my honeymoon, and the last time I thought about changing my appearance was, good Lord, it was about an hour ago when Issy gave me her present. Oh well, one out of three is not bad for sixty quid is it? Issy is told she will meet her soul mate in the most unusual circumstances. Considering Issy finds herself in unusual circumstances much of the time I assure her that she will meet her Mr Right long before I do.
Issy hails a taxi and I lurch toward it and by lurch I mean, literally. My eye catches something familiar and I lose my footing. My feet skid on some ice and I fly arse over tit and land on my bum with legs flayed, and would you believe it, right at Toby’s feet. Good heavens, Madam Zigana truly is prophetic. I try to speak, but the breath is knocked out of me. Not from the fall, you understand, but from seeing Toby, and not just from seeing him but seeing him emerge from the sex shop. What is my boyfriend doing in a sex shop when he is supposed to be working? And what is that in the brown paper bag he is holding? And why does he smell very distinctly of Trésor? Oh God, my boyfriend is a pervert. This could only happen to me.
‘Libby,’ he exclaims, as though it had been us and not him that had waltzed out of the sleazy sex shop with suspicious brown paper bags in our hands. He doesn’t even attempt to help me up.
Issy takes my hand and with one strong pull, yanks me onto my feet.
‘Toby,’ she exclaims back, ‘fancy, bumping into you here.’
‘Yes,’ I say in a hoity-toity voice, ‘fancy seeing you here.’
‘Small world isn’t it?’ giggles Issy, and I shoot her my best dirty look.
Toby coughs, sounding like a strangled choke.
‘It is, isn’t it? I mean, who would ever have thought I’d see you here. What were the chances of that happening?’
Yes, Toby, what were the chances of your girlfriend catching you coming out of a sex shop?
‘I mean, what a coincidence,’ he continues, his voice rising by an octave.
Good Lord what is he on? He is talking out of his arse. Speaking of arses, mine is beginning to feel like it has frostbite.
‘It’s not so odd,’ I say flatly, while at the same time thinking how sexy he looks.
‘No, I know, but…’
‘I suppose the chances of us all being here at the same time…’ butts in Issy.
What is Issy saying? Is there something in the air which hasn’t hit me yet? Issy swishes back her long blonde hair in an elegant fashion and shakes her head in the direction of the taxi. I shrug and lower my eyes to the brown bag. Maybe he has bought me some sexy underwear for Christmas. Yes, that will be it. Good God, we will be romping for England all over Christmas. Well, that can’t be bad seeing as we haven’t romped at all in the past few months, well, not much anyway. The truth is, my old rusty vibrator has seen more action than Toby. I swear the quality time I spend with my vibrator is unhealthy. An uncomfortable silence is broken by the ringing of Toby’s mobile. We all stand freezing our bollocks off waiting for him to answer, but he just stands there with a foolish grin on his face.
‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ I ask through chattering teeth. It is freezing. I swear if we don’t all move soon they will be digging us out with a snowplough.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ he answers stupidly.
‘It might be work,’ I suggest.
‘I don’t think it is.’
What a lying, shagging, deceiving, two-faced little shit. He knows damn well it isn’t work. To think I made the two-timing little runt a cake too and stupidly considered having a gastric band fitted and a possible spine severing. Now what do I do? Of course, I should march off all defiantly but pride before a fall, as my mother would say. She says a lot of rubbish to be honest but right now keeping my pride seems a good idea. Anyway, I can’t possibly go to the Christmas party alone tomorrow can I? I know Issy will, but she has the kind of confidence to carry it off, whereas I have, well I have no confidence to carry anything off. So, right there, right then, with my nipples turning to ice I decide to stop wearing sturdy pants and roll on girdles that make me heave each time I breath in and finally go on a diet that works. I also decide to chuck Toby after the Christmas party. A few seconds after these great decisions are made he leans across and plonks his frozen lips onto mine, and I melt, that is my frozen heart melts. I find myself saying breathlessly,
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘I love you Libby. You do trust me don’t you?’
I nod. Issy sucks in her breath and mumbles something which sounds very much like ‘prick’ before bundling me into the taxi. Maybe I can give Toby another chance. After all, not answering his phone is not concrete proof he is seeing someone else is it? I really should stop jumping to conclusions all the time. Issy tells me the answer to all my problems is a good shag, and I don’t think she necessarily means with Toby either.
‘You’re not getting enough,’ she says knowingly.
How Issy ever got a job as an agony aunt is beyond me. I shake my head in despair.
‘Right, I’m taking you to Dirty Doug’s,’ she announces.
Don’t panic, it isn’t anywhere near as disgusting as it sounds. Issy is a bad advice columnist but not that bad a friend. Dirty Doug’s is the new ‘in’ place in town and not a male prostitute about to give me the shag of my life. I really don’t want to go, but all that awaits me back home is Gordon Ramsay and my rusty old vibrator, affectionately known as Orlando Broom. How sad is my life? So with that thought in mind, I agree. We fight our way through the throng to the bar. So here we are. A typical Saturday night where the girls are slinging back their Smirnoffs and Appletinis, while doing quick mirror touch-ups.
‘What do you want?’ Issy shouts above the deafening Christmas music.
To leave seems the best choice.
‘A red wine,’ I scream back, thinking I really should say ‘diet coke’.
I step back onto someone’s foot.
‘Shit,’ mumbles the man behind me, ‘and a Happy Christmas to you too.’
‘Sorry,’ I mumble.
‘Plenty of talent here,’ Issy observes, slamming the drinks down and flopping into a chair.
I sip from my glass and watch as droplets fall carelessly onto my white top. I watch Issy shove cheese and onion crisps into her mouth without any fear of retribution. I crunch a cashew nut and look for the toilets.
‘I’m going to find the loo,’ I shout above Wham’s Last Christmas.
After trudging up two flights of steps and along a narrow corridor I finally find it. Christ, no wonder no one else is about. It’s freezing up here. I quickly pee and dash straight out only to collide with the most handsome man. I feel like I have been hit by a truck, in more ways than one. I attempt to steady myself, fail miserably and rely on his strong arms to save me, which they do.
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.’
God, there’s enough of me. Which bit of me didn’t he see? He speaks in one of those clipped upper-crust voices. You know, public schoolboy type although I can assure you, he is not in the least schoolboyish. His voice is deep and as smooth as silk. He seems to have muscles where I didn’t know you could have muscles. It’s like he came out of nowhere and I’m beginning to wonder if I have come face to face with God himself, he is so perfect. Maybe I am having one of those epiphanies. Good L
ord, and I practically fell at his feet. Madam Zigana gets more impressive by the minute. Dishes like this don’t come my way very often, at least not the human kind. This dark haired, blue eyed one seems to have dropped from heaven. He hangs his jacket over one shoulder and his starched white shirt dazzles me, making me wonder if he has shares in Daz. I thought Toby was attractive in a white shirt, but this vision in front of me is irresistible. It’s all I can do to stop myself from ripping the dazzling shirt off him. What am I thinking of? I’m in love with Toby, aren’t I? He looks questioningly at me, and I realise I am staring unashamedly.
‘I’m a little shook up,’ I say finally.
That’s the understatement of this year. God, did I sound flirtatious? He smiles, and I feel my knees go weak.
‘Would you like me to escort you back?’ God, how does he manage to make it sound like an indecent proposal?
If you mean back to your place, I’m game. After all, a cupcake and an overused Orlando is all that awaits me at mine. I decide to go with the flow. Mother would like him very much. What am I thinking now? Mother will never meet him. It is Toby I am to marry, providing he says yes when I propose, of course. I nod and meekly follow and find myself desperately wishing I was three times slimmer, twice as tall and at least twenty times prettier. His voice is so deep and manly. He must be overdosing on testosterone. Every time he speaks it feels like a caress. There is a throaty sound to his voice and he has eyes only for me. Silly me, I must pull myself together. How stupid to think for one minute that this perfect specimen of a man came here alone. There is probably an equally perfect female specimen somewhere in the building and they probably go together like jelly and blancmange at a party. Trust me to think of food at a time like this. We seem to descend the stairs in record time. Blimey that was quick. He opens the door and we are back within the bosom of the heaving throng. Christmas music blares at me and I hesitate for a second, wanting to stay a little bit longer in his company. He does not move but waits patiently for me to go ahead of him. He holds out his hand and I take it with my sweaty one. His hand is cool and soft, and I savour the moment.
‘It was nice to meet you…’ he begins when another man equally posh and full of muscle but not as handsome approaches.
‘Hey, Ace, same again? I’m getting another round.’
Ace? What an odd name. I can’t even imagine what that is short for.
‘I’ll be with you in a sec, Harry,’ he replies while looking at me.
‘I’m Libby,’ I say quickly in case he disappears in a puff of smoke. I debate whether I should slip him my phone number. I don’t imagine it would occur to him to slip me one, his phone number that is. Although I would be happy with whatever he wants to slip me. Goodness, what is wrong with me? It’s as though I have swallowed a love drug.
‘Nice to meet you, for the second time,’ he smiles. ‘I’m…’
‘Ace,’ I say, tasting his name on my lips.
He smiles, and I nearly say I’ll do whatever. God, does he have this effect on every woman he meets?
‘So, what do you do Libby?’
I’ll do whatever.
‘I’m a literary agent for a publisher,’ I shout above the music.
‘You’re Libby Holmes?’ he says in astonishment.
Blimey, I am more famous than I thought. Maybe there is another Libby Holmes. It is not possible that he can know of me.
‘Mmm,’ I say, wondering if I should commit myself.
‘You work for Randal and Hobson right?’
Heavens, I actually am famous. Maybe I should ask for a pay rise.
‘Sorry, I’m confusing you,’ he smiles and lays his hand on my arm in such an over familiar way that I blush immediately and feel my legs turn to jelly.
‘I’ve just signed with Randal and Hobson. I do believe you’re my agent.’
I must have misheard him surely. I never have luck like this. There is so much noise that I am tempted to ask if he wants to go somewhere quieter. After all, there doesn’t seem to be a blancmange in sight. I can’t believe he is available. At that moment a very flushed Issy pushes between us.
‘Well I never, a celebrity in our midst I see,’ she says loudly, handing me my glass.
She obviously doesn’t mean me. Ace looks slightly embarrassed but flattered at the same time. God, don’t tell me, I just pulled the new Brad Pitt. Just as well I started the diet if I am to become the new Angelina Jolie.
‘So, what is a top journalist and world hero doing in this part of the country?’ yells an ever bold Issy.
I smile apologetically at him. Maybe now is a good time to invite him back for coffee. Get him away from the fans and all that. I wish I had tidied the cottage before leaving.
‘I was stationed here some time ago. I’ve been meeting up with some old friends and getting to know my new agent.’ He smiles at me.
Stationed? What is he, a soldier or something? I raise my eyebrows at Issy as the penny drops.
‘Why didn’t you say you were representing Alex Bryant?’ quips Issy excitedly. ‘Were you keeping it a secret or something? You never said a word earlier.’
Because, I’m sodding not, that’s why. How dare he deceive me into thinking his name was Ace. I can’t believe this. I really can’t. How could this gorgeous, lovely man be that awful Alex Bryant?
‘You’re Alex Bryant, the journalist? The stuck-up arse who thinks he can criticise and slaughter other people’s work without even discussing it with them first?’ I shout.
Issy cringes. The music stops and I feel all eyes on me.
‘Don’t do anything rash,’ hisses Issy.
What on earth does she mean? So this is Alex Bryant, the Alex Bryant with the huge penis. Don’t think about that. Too late and before I can stop myself, my eyes are lowered to his crotch where I can just make out a small bulge.
‘Do you want to be a bit more specific in your accusations,’ he responds, his tone hardening.
Well, as long as it only his tone that is hardening. I pull my eyes away and blush.
‘Is Toby Mitchell specific enough for you? Toby Mitchell, my fiancé to be more specific,’ I spit angrily.
Issy attempts to manoeuvre me towards the door.
‘Ah, that Toby,’ he says nonchalantly, taking a swig of the beer that Harry has just handed him. ‘I didn’t realise you were intimately connected.’
‘Nor did I,’ says a shocked Issy. ‘Engaged? Shit, you only went to the loo.’
‘Hello ladies, can I get you both a drink?’ asks Harry.
‘This is my agent, Libby,’ smiles Alex Bryant.
Issy looks at me expectantly. I roll my eyes. She surely isn’t expecting me to introduce her.
‘Oh, thank you,’ replies Issy. ‘I’ll have…’
‘No thank you,’ I snap giving Issy a piercing look.
I really didn’t believe I could fume any more.
‘Toby is an excellent writer,’ I persist turning back to Bryant.
‘Bollocks. You’re getting carried away now,’ chips in Issy.
‘We’ll have to agree to differ on that one,’ he says, seemingly disinterested.
‘Absolutely,’ agrees Issy. Honestly, she is supposed to be my friend.
‘I would never work with you, never. Anyone who offends Toby offends me. Never insult an alligator until you've crossed the river,’ I snap.
‘Jesus, what did you do, swallow the Guinness Book of Quotes?’ quips Issy.
I ignore her and march out of the pub. What was I thinking? I should have known someone like him was too good to be true. I've got a good mind to go back to Madam Zigana to demand a refund.
Chapter Three
‘You have to help me,’ I cry down the phone, while frantically searching for tissues. Such was my dedication to Rosemary Conley, that when I went to Tesco I was so focused on cottage cheese and tuna that I clean forgot the basic essentials needed for wiping one’s arse and nose. How did I get to this point? I don’t mean out of tissues and loo ro
lls. How did I get to be single, fat and alone at twenty-nine? Well, not strictly alone of course, if you count Toby. That’s my whole point, can I count Toby? I don’t know what came over me last night, being so forgiving to him and yet so unforgiving with Alex Bryant. Still, Bryant did make me look something of a fool. If he thinks I am representing him, he can think again.
‘I thought you were wearing that thing you bought at Jigsaw,’ replies Issy.
‘Thing?’ I object. ‘I paid fifty quid for that thing, and now it won’t go over my sodding hips. What am I going to do? I haven’t got time to buy something new, and I haven’t even done my hair yet. What am I going to do? I can’t go.’
‘Not go to Hobnobs party, are you mad?’
I do wish Issy wouldn’t call it Hobnobs. It always makes me think of food. This is terrible. Whenever I get stressed I want to eat, and so far I have consumed three tangerines and two apples and trust me, they just do not work the same way as a Yorkie bar. I find myself staring longingly at the freshly iced anniversary cake I’d made for my neighbour. No, I must not, what on earth am I thinking? I exhale and bite into a carrot.
