by Lynda Renham
‘Yes, I did read your review of Life in a War Zone.’
He did?
‘I had hoped you may have changed your opinion of my book,’ he says lazily, seeming not in the least interested in my opinion.
‘No. I still think it is a useless piece of journalistic crap,’ I say, standing up and feeling the sanitary towel slide even further. I immediately cross my legs and feel sure I resemble a constipated duck or something. Jamie slams a coffee cup onto the table.
‘Randal and Hobson disagrees with you Libby. We are picking up Alex’s contract and will be handling his new book. The fact you rejected Life in a War Zone is history and Alex would very much like you to handle things from here on. After all, there are no mistakes in life, only lessons,’ Jamie says profoundly and looks quite pleased with his little speech.
‘Ooh, can I stitch that onto a pillow or something Jamie? Or do you have bookmarks already?’
Honestly, this is just too much. Having just split from Toby, I feel I cannot take much more.
‘Excuse me. There is so much testosterone in this room that I fear for my genitals.’
I am rewarded with another dirty look from Jamie. I really must go to the loo to sort out my sanitary towel. I shuffle to the door in the manner of John Wayne. I slam it behind me and rush to the loo. The sanitary towel falls limply to the floor and I feel like following it. Oh God, please don’t make me have to work with him. I was right to reject that book. I know I was. Why doesn’t Jamie support me? What does he mean Alex would very much like me to handle things. The truth is I have done nothing but ridicule his book, and he has done nothing but ridicule Toby’s work. Honestly, just because he is an award-winning journalist doesn’t mean he can dictate who handles his books. I bundle a wad of loo paper into my knickers and pull up my tights. I really should go back. A quick glance in the mirror confirms my fears. I look gross. I twist my hair up into a messy bun and pinch my cheeks to give them some colour. My lips have cracked from the cold, and the bottom one not only feels sore but looks it. Why can’t I look all sophisticated like Alex’s fiancée Penny? Honestly, couldn’t Jamie have given me some warning that Bryant was coming in today? I’m tempted to phone Issy for advice and then remind myself how disastrous Issy’s advice can sometimes be. No, it is best to follow my instincts on this one. There is no way I can work with Alex Bryant. I give my tights another tug and open the loo door, only to come face to face with him. What is it with this guy and the ladies loo?
‘Is this a hobby of yours, or just a bad habit you’re trying to break?’ I say, without thinking.
‘I’m having counselling, and I think it’s getting better,’ he replies, grinning at me.
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ I say, feeling myself blush.
I turn and begin walking back to the office.
‘I wanted to ask if you were okay after last night. I didn’t want to ask in front of Jamie.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say briskly, while feeling stupidly happy to think someone actually does care about my feelings.
‘We can have this meeting another day if it helps?’ He is scrutinising my face.
‘It’s fine, really,’ I say, wishing he would stop looking at me.
‘For what it’s worth, I think Toby’s an idiot.’
His arm brushes mine as he passes and it’s like a hundred volts shoot through me.
‘See you in a bit,’ he says softly.
I wait a few seconds, take a deep breath and follow him into the office.
Jamie looks unperturbed when I stroll in, and Alex barely glances at me.
‘Right, where were we?’ says Jamie, looking inside the folder desperately.
‘I really don’t think I am the right person to represent this particular author. I am sure Mr Bryant would benefit from having an agent that appreciates his work,’ I say as tactfully as I can.
Jamie opens his mouth to speak and from the corner of my eye I see Alex lift his hand.
‘I’m sure we can put personal issues to one side, Libby. What do you think?’ he says looking directly into my eyes.
I gulp.
‘I fly back to the States tomorrow to wrap everything up. I’ll be back the middle of next week. Why don’t you read the book in the meantime?’ He places the enormous volume, which makes War and Peace look like a novella, onto Jamie’s desk. Good God, surely that can’t be full of me, me, me, I’m the master of improvisation and how I fought off a grizzly bear with nothing but a cotton wool bud?
‘It’s a collection of dispatches from the time I spent in Cambodia. See what you think and let me have your decision when I get back. I really want to work with this agency. I’ve seen what you’ve done with some of your writers, and I really want you to handle this book and the film rights for Life in a War Zone.
He turns to Jamie.
‘I’d better run. I’m meeting Penelope for brunch before she flies back. Think about what I said. I really would like Libby to handle things, she has an impressive résumé.’
Surely he cannot be talking about moi. Jamie grins from ear to ear. I nod stupidly while wondering how much one can earn from waitressing. Jamie escorts Bryant to the door and he doesn’t even turn to say goodbye. What an arrogant man. I flop down in the chair again and wait for Jamie to return. He bounces back in with a whoop.
‘You don’t seriously expect me to work with him,’ I say petulantly, thumbing through the great tome.
Jamie studies his reflection in the wall mirror. God, what a poof. I have nothing against gays but Jamie takes the biscuit. He strokes his eyebrows several times and finally turns to me.
‘You look fab, but I really don’t think you’re his type,’ I say flippantly.
He laughs revealing his well-cared-for teeth.
‘Ah, but our next client most certainly is. What the hell was all that about your bloody vibrator by the way?’
I pull a face.
‘My electricity bill was huge. I can’t think what has shot it up so much.’
‘It’s your heating darling. It’s like the bloody Sahara in your cottage.’
He closes the folder and hands it to me.
‘Here is your homework. Everything you need to know about your favourite author. I know you don’t want to do it, but he is the biggest client we have ever taken on. He’s returning home to England, and we are lucky he wants us. The film will be huge. Just try for Christ’s sake. Every other woman is falling at his feet. He is a heart-throb for goodness sake. At least try and…’
‘He didn’t even say goodbye,’ I say crossly, picking up my bag. ‘Oh, can you give me an advance, just so I can pay the rent? I’ll bake you some rock cakes.’
He shakes his head, and I feel my face crumple.
‘Oh, okay, don’t start bloody crying. Just do me one favour, please don’t walk around my office again like you’ve got a stick up your arse. He must think you spend all your time sitting on your bloody vibrator.’
‘I probably will now. Toby and I broke up last night, so Orlando Broom will be my best friend.’
‘I thought you got engaged?’
‘Well, I almost did; in fact, I probably would have done if it hadn’t been for that arse Alex Bryant.’
Well, let’s face it, everything is his fault. If he hadn’t had caused such upset I wouldn’t have gone outside, and Toby would have stayed at the table with me. The whole Serena thing would not have happened. Damn Alex Bryant. I walk from the office. Jane looks longingly at the book in my hand, and I drop it carelessly onto her desk.
‘Here have it. It’s easier for me to watch Superman the Movie,’ I say scornfully.
‘Don’t you think he is just great?’ she says flicking through the pages and licking her lips. ‘He is so manly and brave.’
‘He is just a journalist,’ I reply flatly.
‘Matt Rudlin, on his chat show, called him a modern day hero, a man to inspire,’ she says dreamily.
I take a step back and look at her.
�
�Inspires you to do what? Fight grizzly bears? Anyway Matt Rudlin is gay. Come to think of it, gay men do seem to like Bryant. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if all that macho stuff is just a cover for his homosexuality,’ I say smugly.
‘Oh no, he has a girlfriend. She is lovely.’ Her eyes travel down my body before she adds spitefully, ‘And she is so slim. Really, she has a figure to die for.’
Don’t you just hate women? They are so unbelievably bitchy.
‘Really,’ I say sharply and grab the book. ‘Maybe I will read this after all.’
I ignore her gasp and march to my office deciding that waitressing is, in fact, a very good idea indeed.
Chapter Five
I remember twenty minutes before I am supposed to be there that I had promised to have dinner with my parents. Madam Zigana’s words have not had much of an impact because I’m obviously not looking at the clock enough, or my diary come to that. I had just laboured over a chopped salad and prized open a tin of tuna when I remembered. My mother is bound to have made some wonderful dessert, and she will, of course, expect a cake. I grab the ginger cake I had made for the milkman and jump in the car. I speed my way to my parents while my stomach rumbles at the thought of a roast dinner with crispy roast potatoes. I arrive breathless, late and starving.
Mother greets me dressed for a cocktail party. I greet her looking more like I am dressed for a painting party.
‘Good Lord, Libby, what are you wearing? And why are you so breathless, you didn’t forget did you?’ she says grabbing the ginger cake and slamming the front door.
‘I’d almost given you up for dead,’ she calls over her shoulder as she hurries to the kitchen.
The aroma of roast lamb reaches my nostrils. Guilt punches me in the stomach. I really should be tucking into my chopped salad and 50 grams of tuna and not indulging in a lamb fest. Oh dear, this will mess up the diet but I guess just one non-dieting day will not make much difference, I can start the diet in earnest tomorrow, although since I’ve split up from Toby there seems little point in dieting now.
‘We have some news,’ she announces as I approach the kitchen. Dad sits at the table fixing a tangled mass of wires and fairy lights.
‘Have you lost weight?’ he asks hopefully. ‘I must say you are looking jolly good.’
I shake my head miserably.
‘You can’t expect people to see your weight loss if you insist on wearing those baggy jumpers. You look like a beached whale in that thing,’ remarks mother as she delicately slices the lamb. ‘Do you have any ideas what you would like us to buy you for Christmas? Your father and I were just discussing it. Would you like one of those fancy weighing scales that do your BMW and stuff? We could also get you a voucher for Debenhams or something. Buy yourself some clothes. I could come shopping with you.’
She gives my jumper a dirty look.
‘Don’t you mean BMI?’ I correct, accepting the glass of wine my dad is offering while wondering if I can ask for fifty quid as an early Christmas present.
‘You do know there are about a million calories in a glass of wine?’ I say taking a gulp.
‘Have one less potato, that’s the idea,’ he smiles and walks into the lounge.
‘Or would you like us to pay for someone to staple your stomach?’ asks mother, accepting a small sherry.
Honestly, my parents. I swear someone should have removed me from them when I was five. Still, apart from a bad case of mumps, which mother insisted was a toothache and took me into school every day, I actually came through my childhood surprisingly unscathed.
‘What’s the news then?’ I ask, peeping into the fridge to see what dessert is on offer. ‘You haven’t drawn up a bucket list have you and are off to the Himalayas or something?’
Dad hovers in the doorway holding a jug of gravy.
‘That was a joke,’ I say quickly.
‘Who told you?’ asks mother crossly. I grab the lamb. If food was ever needed then this is the time.
Oh my God. My sodding parents are off to the Himalayas while I sit freezing all alone in my little cottage having myself a very miserable Christmas. Honestly, they could have timed it better.
‘You can’t go to the Himalayas. It is Christmas. Besides, you should think of the children.’ I gulp down my wine and pour some more.
‘You’re an only child.’ Father smiles at me indulgently.
‘All the more reason, because I don’t have siblings to comfort me.’
Jesus, can things get any worse. Why didn’t Madam Zigana predict this? I’ve a good mind to return and demand my money back.
‘Anyway, you can’t. Not at your age, it would be obscene.’
I take my plate and help myself to lamb. Mother shakes her head.
‘The way you dive at food is obscene. Anyway, we are not going to the Himalayas for Christmas.’
Thank God. I let out a sigh of relief.
‘We’re going to Kilimanjaro for the Kilimanjaro Christmas Extravaganza. We are going mountain climbing.’
I choke on a potato and hold out my glass for dad to top-up. Bloody hell, I need to put myself up for adoption.
‘But it’s dangerous.’
Dad laughs and squeezes mum’s knee. Oh gross. I mean, they are in their fifties for Christ’s sake. There is something almost pornographic watching your dad squeeze your mother’s body parts. Can’t he just peck her on the cheek or something?
‘That’s not all,’ says mother excitedly, getting up. Oh no, what now? Any news I had is going to be a bit mediocre after this. Shuddering with excitement she produces a brochure and drops it at the side of my plate.
‘Now don’t get upset, it’s only for a week.’
I feel the breath knocked out of me. Oh good God, have they gone mad? Their gas fire must be letting out some kind of toxic fume that has totally scrambled their brains. Heavens, they really have no idea what they are doing. I may need to wheel them down to the solicitor to get power of attorney before they go completely gaga.
‘A naturist holiday,’ I stammer, pushing the brochure away with my little finger. God knows where they got the brochure from, and heaven above knows who may have handled it before them. They are going on holiday with a load of perverts. I wonder if I should call the police.
‘Come on darling, do eat. If you have been dieting all week you must be famished.’
Yes, well my mother always was encouraging.
‘You can’t possibly go on a holiday where people are naked. You’ll have to be naked. And won’t it be a bit cold, a bunch of nude old people climbing up Mount Kilimanjaro in the middle of winter?’
‘Don’t be silly darling. It’s for when we get home. It’s in Weymouth, and we won’t be going until later in the year.’
‘But you’ll be naked,’ I say again.
Mother nods and rubs her hands together excitedly. I push my chair back.
‘I won’t have it. What if the photos get on Facebook and what about Christmas?’
‘You said you wanted a quiet romantic Christmas with Toby, so we started to plan our bucket list, didn’t we dear?’ says mum, leaning seductively across the table and stroking dad’s thigh.
Christ, I swear my parents do it more than I do. Although at the moment everyone will be doing it more than I do, considering I am not doing it at all. I down half my glass of wine to drown my sorrows.
‘Yes, well we broke up didn’t we?’
‘What? When did that happen?’
‘Last night. I saw him kissing Serena Lambert.’
‘What a knob,’ says mother angrily.
Yes, a knob indeed.
‘I know, a real prick,’ I agree miserably.
‘Oh dear, and he seemed a jolly nice chap for an architect,’ chips in dad in his usual preoccupied way.
‘A journalist, you remember? He’s a writer.’
‘Oh, jolly good.’
Oh jolly hell.
‘Let’s not get maudlin,’ scolds mother. ‘Have more vegetables other
wise you’ll get constipated, and after dessert I want you to get me onto that bird thing. Everyone at the Health and Beauty club is on it.’
Sounds like a class ‘A’ drug. Maybe I should get on it too.
‘I think you mean Twitter don’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s it, and then I can chirp away.’
‘Tweet away.’
Good God, are people their age allowed near computers? It really ought to be illegal. Perhaps I should set up some kind of parental control. Otherwise, before I know it, they will have their gross nude bodies all over the Internet. What a thought! I can’t believe my parents are jetting off to God knows where, and over Christmas too. I debate telling them about Alex Bryant and his God-awful book when I spot it sitting on the coffee table. Dumbstruck, I point at it and splutter something incoherent, almost choking on my vegetables. My parents are not only abandoning me to go mountain climbing but they have betrayed me and bought the enemy’s book.
‘Oh yes, I meant to ask you about him,’ says dad, leaning forward to retrieve the book.
‘George at the bowls club said he heard that Bryant was signing with Randal and Hobson. Jolly good show. He’s an ex-military man you know. Excellent book.’
I am stupidly speechless.
‘Quite the heart-throb,’ says mum, leaning over dad and literally drooling over the photo of Alex Bryant. ‘Now, he would be a good catch for you…’ she trails off after giving me a fleeting look.
I stand up.
‘If only I wasn’t so fat, right? Well, Alex Bryant is an egocentric know-it-all and he is not fit to wipe my arse. He is nothing but a wanker,’ I fume, remembering the upset he had caused the night before.
I storm from the room.
‘I can’t think what possessed you to buy his book,’ I call over my shoulder.
‘Libby dear, we didn’t bring you up in Essex you know,’ exclaims mother.
‘Oh dear,’ groans dad.
‘They have obviously signed him at Hobsons then,’ says mother loudly as I crash around in the kitchen.
I hack at the strawberry pavlova imagining it is his head. I storm back in with three dishes.
‘I’m thinking of waitressing,’ I state bluntly, slamming the dishes onto the table. Mother winces and dad mumbles, ‘Lovely dear, you’ll look nice in one of those aprons with the frills.’
