‘The problem is, Ms Cope—Imogen . . . he phoned back to say that there was no answer at Ace and that he wanted to speak to someone urgently. And there just isn’t anyone. No one at all. I’m so sorry.’
‘This is about the press release we sent out on Friday, isn’t it?’
‘Oh . . . I actually didn’t ask that. Oh God, I should’ve found out . . .’
‘Laura, it doesn’t matter. Roy’s been briefed to handle any matters like this in my absence. All it needs is for him to get on the PR company’s case and make sure Julia follows up the call.’
‘Ms Co—Imogen, I don’t think you understand. I even got Graham to try and track him down on the office CCTV, but he spotted nothing except a potentially hazardous fire hydrant on the fourth floor.’
‘Well, I presume he’ll be back soon,’ I reply, getting a little exasperated.
She takes a deep breath, clearly unconvinced. ‘I’ll keep trying him on his mobile then, shall I?’
‘I’d appreciate that. Thanks, Laura.’
‘No problem at all. I won’t rest till I’ve found him.’
‘And . . . oh, it doesn’t matter—’
‘Anything at all.’
‘Well, could you phone the journalist back and reassure him we’ll be happy to help? It’s a straightforward press release. I’m sure all they want is some freebies for a taste test.’
‘Consider it done,’ she says, as I open my book, realize it’s time to get ready for dinner, and close it yet again.
That night we banquet on tapas at a buzzy little beach bar. A warm breeze dances through the air, and couples stroll along the boardwalk arm in arm.
I love this sort of food. It’s not just that picking at tiny plates lulls you into the completely false idea that you’re eating modestly; there’s also something deliciously unpretentious about it. Not that I mind the opposite now and then – on our last night we’re booked in, as part of our prize, to the hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant, where I’ll expect as much pretentiousness as possible, thanks very much.
Meredith spends the evening flirting with our waiter, but manages to resist his thinly veiled invitation for a ‘walk’ along the shore, while Nicola rolls her eyes extravagantly. After hearing nothing back from Laura and leaving my own (unreturned) messages for both the PR agency and Roy, the only thing for me to resist is the wine. And I can’t, as my large, consecutive gulps make plain to everyone.
‘Is something the matter, Imogen?’ Nicola asks.
‘Oh, nothing. Well, work stuff,’ I reply, tapping my fingers on the tablecloth.
Meredith frowns. ‘That’s so wrong. You’re on holiday!’
‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Not that that tends to stop me.’
‘In which case, the wine is probably a good idea. I suggest you carry on.’ Nicola smiles, sympathetically.
I do as instructed, so much so that, as we weave our way back to the hotel, I’m overcome by a desire to hit my bed. Thankfully I’m not the only one.
‘Pregnancy is exhausting,’ Meredith declares, as she links arms with me.
‘It is the way you do it,’ I point out.
‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Meredith,’ Nicola says. ‘There are rabbits on heat that don’t manage to pull as fast as you. And when you’re heavily pregnant, too. Amazing.’
Meredith shrugs. ‘I thought I was remarkably restrained. Did you see that waiter’s bum?’
‘Wasn’t he a bit young?’ Nicola asks.
‘Yep.’ Meredith grins. ‘Anyway, I know you were worried I’d spend every night wanting to talk, Imogen, but I’m absolutely shattered. I’ll be dead to the world before you’ve even finished brushing your teeth.’
We get into the hotel room and I quickly perform my ablutions, emerging to see that Meredith’s prediction was accurate. She’s lying fast asleep on her back with her mouth wide open, so I gently remove her flip-flops, pull the sheet over her and roll her onto her side. She’s not the type to read the pregnancy manuals that warn against lying on your back, but I pored over them so enthusiastically when I was expecting Florence I could’ve passed a degree in obstetrics.
I pull on my pyjamas and am about to climb into bed when I spot a notepad and pen on the desk. Addressing a sudden urge to put them to use, I pick them up before returning to sink into bed.
‘Amore mio . . .’
It was Roberto who first used the Italian for ‘My darling’, in a text exchange we had soon after we moved in together:
While you’re at the supermarket, could you pick up some bin bags? *xxx* I promise my next text will be more romantic!!
I should hope so! xxx
And some toilet paper xxx
Er . . . what happened to romantic?! xxx
Apologies. And some toilet paper, AMORE MIO xxx
Ho bloody ho!
Somehow, despite previously considering pet names the preserve of half-wits and the stars of 1970s sitcoms, it stuck.
I don’t write to Roberto regularly but, sometimes, usually when I’m drunk, the need engulfs me. I know it’s stupid – it’s not as though it makes me feel any better about what happened. And I try not to think about the fact that I never actually send them.
‘I’m writing while on my first full week’s holiday since the last time you and I went away with each other. It hasn’t exactly got off to a relaxing start.
I must admit it feels odd being away without you. It’s so different from our last trip together. You have to admit that the Greek Islands were blissful, even if you were initially pissed off that my burgeoning overdraft prevented us from going long haul. I’d just assumed that Thailand could wait until the following year – which goes to show how presumptuous I was, even until the end . When I fell pregnant I knew things would change, but I had hoped that we would simply go on family holidays from then on – you, me and Florence, together. Clearly, that wasn’t meant to be.
I sound bitter, don’t I? I know I do. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since I last saw you; I can’t shake the feeling that you should still be in our lives, bringing up Florence with me.
I never wanted to be a single mum, Roberto. Not because I can’t cope on my own, but because, quite simply, everything would’ve been better if I was doing it with you. Is it totally pointless for me to say that I’m certain we could have had an amazing life together? Probably.
My hand hesitates over the page as I contemplate my next words. He’s never going to read them, so what does it matter?
I still love you, Roberto. Rightly or wrongly, I always will.
Imogen xxxxxxxxxx
I swallow back a lump in my throat and fold away the letter. Then I glide between my beautiful sheets, desperate to submit myself to slumber.
‘GNNGH–herrr–GNNGHHH–herrr . . .!’
My eyes ping open as Meredith’s snores reverberate around the bedroom with such force that the cocktail shaker vibrates.
I close them again and try to block out the sound.
‘GNNGH–herrr–GNNGHHH–herrr . . .’
I get out of bed, pad over and gently nudge her until she makes a few gerbil-like noises before stopping.
I get back into bed. I close my eyes. A minute passes.
Tension drifts away from me as I descend into a rapid, deep and blissful sleep.
‘G N N G H – h e r r r – G N N G H H H – h e r r r GNNGH–herrr–GNNGHHH–herrr . . .’
It suddenly feels like it’s going to be a long night.
Day Two
Chapter 8
I finally stumble into sleep some time after 5 a.m., having spent most of the night attempting to block out Meredith’s snores by lagging my ears with two torn-up panty liners.
In the process, my mind drifts to the issue of the Daily Sun and those unreturned phone calls. Having relaxed about it while I was tipping red wine down my throat, by the early hours of the morning I have whipped myself into a mild panic.
What if they�
�ve found out about the merger and want to run a story about it before anyone’s ready?
The irony of my failure to drift off while lying in the world’s most comfortable bed is not lost on me. In fact, it irritates the hell out of me. Which only keeps me awake longer. Worse, I know full well that neither Roy, the PR agency nor a phone call from a journalist qualifies as matters that should be vexing me so badly. The most that should tax my overworked brain on this holiday is deciding between a Cosmopolitan or a sangria.
I wake up just after ten, having missed the hotel breakfast. Meredith is still asleep and, for the first time in ten hours, not emitting the sort of snores you’d expect from an 18-stone truck-driver after a binge-drinking competition. I am briefly contemplating attempting to go back to sleep when my phone rings.
ROY!
I sit bolt upright and maniacally scrabble around my bedside table until I find something phone-shaped. I start jabbing at buttons, desperate to finally make contact, at which point I am assaulted by a pyrotechnical array of activity: the curtains fly open, then close; the television bursts into a medley of flamenco music; Meredith’s bedside light flashes on and off.
She leaps up in wild-eyed bewilderment, her hands to her bird’s nest head. ‘Answer the bloody phone!’
I glance at my hand and register that I’m holding a remote control that seems so omnipotent, I’m half wondering if I’ve inadvertently launched a missile somewhere in the mid-Atlantic.
I chuck it onto the quilt before locating my phone under the bed and hitting ‘Answer’.
‘Ms Imogen! Copeland! I mean . . . Imogen!’
Groggily, I wipe my eyes and clear my throat. ‘Oh, Laura.’
‘That reporter’s been on the phone again,’ she says breathlessly. ‘He left a message first thing. No one got back to him yesterday from the PR company.’
My blood runs cold. ‘What about Roy?’
‘He said not. I’m so sorry to be bothering you with this – I feel awful. It’s just that they said that the story’s going in tomorrow, at least they think so, and they need a quote from us.’
‘Right. And it’s about Teeny Pops?’
‘He didn’t mention them.’
‘What did he say it was about, then?’
‘I don’t know quite how to put this. It’s . . . kind of X-rated.’ I check my ears for residue from the panty liners, but they remain disturbingly clear. ‘What did you say? X-rated? In what way?’
She swallows. I can hear the mortification in her voice as she speaks. ‘I’ll read to you my verbatim note of what he said.’ She clears her throat. ‘“We’re running a story that’s been picked up by one of our agencies about a senior Peebles executive being thrown off a flight from Stuttgart after getting frisky in first class with the woman next to him, another executive.”’
‘“Getting frisky”? Tell me they mean he was doing aerobics.’
‘“Fellow passengers reported witnessing the executives drink copious amounts of champagne in the first-class lounge two hours before the flight. Then, on the plane, laugh and flirt hysterically before reclining their seats to the lie-flat position and disappearing under their complimentary blankets.”’
‘How do you “flirt hysterically”?’
‘“A series of loud and inappropriate noises was heard to come from their direction and, when questioned by an air hostess, it was discovered that the female executive had at some point during the course of events become topless.”’
‘This has got to be a joke.’
‘“They were both asked to refrain, but seemed to consider the whole thing to be extremely funny, until the plane landed and they were arrested and charged with being drunk and disorderly and indecent exposure offences.” Then the reporter asked if he could have a comment. So, without putting too fine a point on it . . . can we?’
‘Shit a brick.’
‘Wow. I’m not sure what they’ll make of that.’
‘That’s not my comment!’
‘God, of course. So sorry.’ My head spins as I contemplate the consequences of a front-page story like that. We’d be the laughing stock of the industry. All our nice, reassuring adverts featuring wholesome families with 2.4 children would be mocked mercilessly. And with plenty of time left for Getreide to put the brakes on the merger, who would blame them for wanting to disassociate themselves from a company whose reputation has become suddenly and dramatically sleaze-ridden?
‘I need to think about this,’ I mutter, hyperventilating. ‘I need to look into this. I need to find out if this is true. What am I saying? It can’t be true. It sounds like a load of nonsense. What on earth made them think it was anyone to do with Peebles?’
‘One of the passengers heard him bragging that he was a big cheese in this company.’
‘Did this journalist have the name of whoever he thinks was involved?’
‘I don’t think so because he asked us for it. He said we’d be doing him a big favour, although I don’t know why he thought we’d be inclined to do him any favours. You don’t think it was Gaz Silverman, do you?’ Gaz Silverman is our deputy accounts director, though I have no idea why Laura would think it was him.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Is Roy not in the office yet?’
‘Well, I’ve just noticed that his coat’s here, so he must be in a meeting.’
‘At least he’s in the building then. Please try and track him down, Laura. And the PR agency. Let’s both of us get on to them.’
‘Okay, Ms—boss.’
I’m about to insist she calls me Imogen when I realise ‘boss’ doesn’t sound too bad at all.
Chapter 9
I know I should be enjoying our day trip to Las Ramblas; it’s my sort of place: a majestic, tree-lined pedestrian avenue that’s abundantly atmospheric and flanked with bustling shops and restaurants.
It’s one of Barcelona’s biggest tourist attractions and visiting was one of my top priorities. So why is it currently playing second fiddle to my preoccupation with work? That, and the fact that my new flip-flops appear to have an integrated cheese grater between the toes.
‘Imogen, why do you look so worried?’ Nicola asks, linking my arm with hers as an intense sun beats down on our shoulders.
‘I don’t,’ I protest. ‘I mean, I’m not worried.’ I pause. ‘Okay, maybe I am. I can’t deny I’ll feel happier when I’ve got hold of Roy or the PR agency. Unless I hear from them soon I’m going to have to tell David what’s going on, a prospect I am not relishing. I can’t understand why neither of them are returning my calls.’
‘Isn’t that someone else’s problem while you’re on holiday?’ Meredith asks. She’s in Daisy Duke cut-offs and from behind she doesn’t even look pregnant, a phenomenon I’ve noticed is particularly unsettling for those with aspirations to chat her up.
‘You’d think so—’ I am halted mid-sentence by a hot, damp sensation that splashes onto my shoulder with an ominous plop. I do a double take, realising to my horror that a bird has ‘done its business’ on me. Though a description of such benign modesty hardly suffices – whatever creature emptied its bowels as it passed overhead has clearly been feasting on the same grub as King Kong. ‘Oh, noooo!’ I shriek as the offending pulp trickles down my arm with all the resistance of a Cornetto in front of a three-bar fire.
Meredith’s eyes grow to three times their usual size. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘What does it look like?’ Nicola mutters as she roots around in her bag for a tissue. But someone beats her to it.
‘Déjeme ayudarle.’ The voice is gruff but barely audible, even if I could speak Spanish. Its origin is a tall, craggy-jowled man with eyebrows that could remove rust from a haddock trawler. To my alarm, he begins wiping my shoulder with a tea towel, attempting to get rid of the debris.
I smile awkwardly, not wishing to appear ungrateful, but uncomfortable with physical contact from a complete stranger.
‘Gracias! Gracias!’ I announce, nodding in that B
ritish way we reserve for pronouncing languages we know we’re crap at.
I am about to direct the girls away when an array of recently learned facts click into place, and I freeze.
I can’t believe I fell for this. IT’S THE BIRD-POO DUPE!
I quickly scrutinise the ‘poo’ again, and from its consistency and colossal volume deduce that there’s absolutely no way it’s real. And am I seriously expected to believe some bloke would happen to be strolling along Las Ramblas with a tea towel at the ready, prepared to leap to the rescue of recently shat-on maidens?
As these thoughts flood my brain, I open my bag and register that my purse is gone. I glare at the man.
He freezes and glares back, the eyebrows twitching nervously. He knows that I know.
‘I’d like my purse back, please,’ I hear myself saying.
‘Que?’
‘I said I’d like my purse back.’
He shrugs and puts on a flimsy display of bewilderment as Nicola starts spluttering. ‘Imogen! What makes you think he’s got your purse?’
‘Oh, he’s got it,’ I reply, coming over all Cagney and Lacey.
‘Are you sure?’ Meredith scrunches up her nose as she looks at me.
‘I’ve read all about this,’ I snarl, refusing to break eye contact. ‘This is a tried and tested trick, isn’t it?’
The man shakes his head and backs away.
‘You’ve messed with the wrong tourist. Give me my purse back. Now.’
‘Imogen, you’re being hasty,’ Nicola protests.
At which point, the guy turns on his heel and attempts to make his getaway. But I’m too fast for him – before he’s taken four steps, a queasy wash of adrenalin races through me and I leap through the air like a novice long-jumper, landing on him in a demented piggy-back. He attempts to push me off, but I squeeze my legs around his waist and tug at his neck, grappling him to the ground. We are a violent jumble of legs and arms as he attempts to wrestle me away but, despite his size, I manage to grip on, hard.
The Time of Our Lives Page 6
