The Time of Our Lives

by Jane Costello

  ‘David . . . I’m not sure I can do that.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have this, Imogen. Not when so much is at stake with Getreide,’ he laments. ‘MOTHER OF THE BRIDE! This would happen the week you’re away.’

  ‘I know . . . there was just no way I could’ve known anything like this would happen.’

  He pauses long enough to pull himself together. ‘Of course you couldn’t. I’m sorry, Imogen. Everyone needs a break. I’m shocked about the story, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got one of the best PR agencies in London looking after us and I’m sure they’ll manage the situation brilliantly,’ I say, reassuringly. ‘Plus, Roy is there on the ground – I know that he’ll want to grasp this issue with both hands and deal with it. As soon as I can get hold of him.’

  ‘You haven’t even spoken to him about it?’

  ‘I’m on the case. I promise you, David, I’m on the case.’

  Chapter 11

  There’s a long walk back to the hotel. I know that much, without looking at my map.

  I step out of the police station, wincing every time my shredded feet make contact with the ground, and work out the direction of Las Ramblas. That leads to the harbour, then the boardwalk, which in turn stretches out endlessly to our hotel.

  I text Nic to tell her I’m on my way, then set off, determined to be philosophical. After five minutes, I become vaguely aware of someone adjacent to me, ten or so feet away. I look up. It’s Harry.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, with a grin.

  ‘Hi,’ I reply awkwardly, stepping up my pace.

  A few seconds later, he’s still there.

  So I stop. Then he stops. ‘Can I help? I ask.

  ‘Don’t think so. I’m walking back to my hotel. It’s in Barceloneta.’

  ‘Oh.’ I carry on walking.

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  I wonder why he makes me so uneasy. ‘I’m in that direction too.’

  ‘Oh, great – where? I’m at the B Hotel.’

  I swallow. ‘Great.’ I’m not going to tell him I’m there as well. No way. Except, if I don’t tell him, what happens if we bump into each other at breakfast? Oh, bollocks. ‘I’m there, too.’

  ‘Really? That’s a coincidence! I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘Great,’ I repeat. Only I don’t feel great. And not just because my toes are starting to bleed.

  ‘There’s a chemist up here if you want to get some plasters.’ He gestures to my feet and I redden furiously. ‘I can come in and get you some antiseptic cream if you like. I speak Spanish.’

  ‘No! I can manage. Why don’t you go on ahead?’ I suggest.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll wait.’

  Oh, must you? I take a deep breath, nod and push through the pharmacy door.

  For someone whose previous experience of speaking Spanish has been limited to ordering drinks, my efforts to communicate are pretty good, if I say so myself. The assistant understands perfectly what I’m attempting to enunciate with only the help of a English–Spanish mini-dictionary, and hands over the cream with a courteous smile.

  When I emerge, Harry’s still there, as promised. I start walking.

  ‘Aren’t you going to put those plasters on? There’s quite a way to go.’

  I hesitate, before taking a seat on a bench, removing the antiseptic cream from the paper bag and lavishing it between my toes. I find myself resorting to small talk to cover my embarrassment.

  ‘I wish I knew more Spanish, but you get by when you have a knowledge of other Latin-based languages. I can speak fluent French and a bit of German,’ I witter, in a spectacular display of embellishment. ‘It was actually very straightforward in that chemist – surprisingly so. I suppose it’s all about confidence . . . sorry, did you want to say something?’

  ‘That stuff you’re putting on your feet—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s denture cream.’

  By the time I’ve returned to the pharmacy, purchased then applied the correct cream and set off on my way, I’d rather hoped to have shaken him off. But apparently not.

  Added to this, the entire forty-five minutes it takes for us to walk along the boardwalk to the hotel involves a repeated and increasingly uncomfortable scenario: we are being checked out. People are looking at us as if we’re a couple, and not in a good way. I keep getting knowing looks from fellow females that say, ‘Good on you, girl, for punching so far above your weight!’

  There’s something else that’s odd, too. After learning that Harry’s originally from Aberdeen, lives in London and is here for work, our conversation skips to the sort of banter you’d have with a friend after too much sangria. Given that I haven’t had any sangria, it’s a mystery how he sucks me into it.

  ‘Favourite character in a book or film?’

  ‘Hmm. Offred in The Handmaid’s Tale, Jo in Little Women or Princess Leia.’

  He nods slowly, turning this over in his mind. ‘Excellent choices. Okay – best feature?’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Yours, of course.’

  I frown and contemplate the possibilities, those bits and pieces of me that my friends compliment: 1) Eyes – which are in fact blue and boring; 2) Boobs – far too big, despite efforts to minimise with bras capable of restraining a subsiding building; 3) Waist – which is not in fact small. It only looks small compared with 2 . . .

  ‘My wrists,’ I conclude.

  He laughs.

  ‘What’s wrong with my wrists?’

  ‘Nothing. But they’re not your best feature.’

  This comment, accompanied by his distractingly handsome face, prompts a sudden and vivid insight into the kind of guy he is. Fun, yes. Flirtatious, undoubtedly. And someone who likes women just a little too much.

  That glint in his eyes reminds me of the cocky, conceited types at university, the ones who might as well have been holding up a sign saying: ‘I am gorgeous. I have a huge penis. I will show you a fabulous 24 hours then never, ever phone.’

  I could never work out how even the brightest of my friends fell for such dubious charms. Personally, I decided on the first day of Freshers’ Week to date only the sensitive, respectful, corduroy-wearing types, even if that wore thin on occasions. It’s difficult to fancy a man who thinks they know what it’s like to own a womb.

  ‘What’s your favourite fictional character?’ I ask.

  ‘Hmm. That’s a tricky one.’

  ‘But it’s your quiz!’

  ‘True, although I hadn’t finished with yours yet.’

  I sigh. ‘You’ve already asked me everything except my shoe size – what can you possibly need to know?’

  ‘It’s not a question of need. I’m just interested in anyone who holds Princess Leia in the same esteem as I do. And if you really want to disclose your shoe size, I’m not going to stop you.’

  I throw him a look. ‘Do I seriously come across as the kind of woman who’d discuss such a thing with a stranger she’d met for the first time today?’

  ‘We met yesterday when you threw your breakfast all over me, remember.’

  ‘Not quite all over you – I tried my best to get some cereal down the collar of your shirt, but failed miserably.’

  He laughs. ‘Well, if you’re not going to give me your shoe size, I’d better settle for your name.’

  ‘I . . . oh.’ I’d forgotten I hadn’t introduced myself. ‘Imogen.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He stops walking and we shake hands.

  The physical contact makes me feel uneasy. I pull away and start walking again as I think of a way to change the subject.

  ‘Do you often get to stay in places like the B Hotel?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m more used to a £39 Travelodge.’

  I’m about to ask if he won a competition too, when his phone rings.

  I try not to listen, but can’t fail to notice that he appears to be talking to his boss. He seems keen to get rid of him; glancing over from time to time as if he’s
worried I might overhear. I haven’t the heart to break it to him that I’m not remotely interested in anyone’s work issues other than my own.

  When he ends the call, he turns to me. ‘So, is your little girl with her dad while you’re here?’

  ‘No, he’s not . . . no,’ I reply as I reach for the necklace.

  And feel a punch of dismay when it’s not there.

  ‘You know, I hate to say it,’ he says, as we enter the lobby of the hotel, ‘but you probably need to forget about that necklace.’

  I freeze. ‘I can’t forget about the necklace.’

  ‘I’m simply saying,’ he continues, failing to notice my irritation, ‘I don’t get the impression they’re leaping to try and solve the crime.’

  ‘Well, I might phone them tomorrow to see how they’re getting on. You never know.’

  ‘Hmm. Good luck.’

  I suddenly despise him and his flippancy. As a dry, burning heat erupts in my throat, I want to be as far away from him as possible. ‘This isn’t just some wallet, you know. This isn’t something I’m going to fill out a form for, claim on the insurance, then go and buy a new one. Some things are more important.’

  He slows down, realisation and regret sweeping across his face. ‘I’m sorry.’

  My jaw twitches. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I reply, and hurtle up the granite stairs before he can see the tears in my eyes.

  Chapter 12

  ‘When are you going to put down that bloody phone, Imogen?’

  Meredith thrusts a large glass of sangria at me as we lounge by the pool, as if this is going to solve all my problems. I am deeply, inconsolably upset about the necklace. In fact, if it wasn’t for what’s going on at work, I’d barely be able to think about anything else. So I don’t know if the fact that I’ve just sent my tenth text to Roy is a good thing or not.

  He’s having the Caps Lock treatment on this one – that’s how pissed off I am with him.

  Dear Roy, phone me soon or the first item on my to-do list when I return is to SET FIRE TO YOUR DESK. Lots of love, Imogen x

  I compose myself and instead focus on my surroundings. The wanton glitziness of the pool deck never ceases to amaze me. Tanned cocktail waiters in shorts of dazzling whiteness weave past canopied sun beds, while guests flick through copies of Harper’s Bazaar and dip their expensively painted toes into the infinity pool.

  I’ve been here a day and have yet to see someone actually swimming in it. Occasionally, someone slips in to hover temporarily at the side, refusing to remove their shades or, indeed, put down their champagne glass.

  This is a people-watching extravaganza, a recession-proof bubble where wealth fuses with glamour to produce smooth-skinned heiresses gliding around in a waft of Hermès, and buff forty-something men who are never off their phones.

  We are reclining opposite Yellow Bikini Lady (as christened by Meredith): a stick-thin woman who is smoking energetically, tanning herself to the shade of a conker and who appears to have had two Fisher Price play balls surgically implanted into her chest.

  Next to her is Meatloaf. Not the Meatloaf, obviously – this is his hairier, richer cousin – a man who’s ordered enough Cristal in the last half hour to fill his Jacuzzi.

  Then there are The Wankers, an undetectable-accented threesome of young, overtanned blokes who clearly believe themselves to be the most ravishing creatures to walk the earth and whose conversation hasn’t deviated from two subjects: their fitness regimes, and how many women they’ve bedded.

  And, as I look up from my phone – yes, my bloody phone – suddenly there is Harry.

  The first thing I notice is that he isn’t wearing the geek glasses he had on at the police station, and for some reason that makes me slightly disappointed.

  He strolls through the glass doors from the bar area and heads for the only free sun bed, before sitting on its edge and idly selecting a magazine from a nearby table. Yellow Bikini Lady perks up considerably, as does the woman to his right. And his left.

  I quickly turn onto my front and wonder if I should text David to check if he’s heard anything.

  ‘Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?’ Meredith asks. She puts down her copy of Company, holds a tube of factor 25 over her belly and squirts it like you’d adorn a hot dog with mustard.

  ‘Believe me, Meredith, I would love to put my phone away. But there’s a full-blown crisis going on at work and, whether I’m here or not, the buck stops with me.’

  ‘Do you know where my phone is, Imogen?’ she asks.

  ‘No, where?’

  ‘My phone is in the safe in our bedroom which, I discovered, is entirely soundproof.’

  ‘But you won’t be able to play Scrabble,’ I point out. It’s her obsession and she’s absolutely brilliant at it, the only person I’ve ever met who can batter her opponents in one move using only two obscure consonants and a vowel.

  ‘A small price to pay to get some respite from Nathan’s texts.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Nicola bites her lip.

  Meredith sighs. ‘The frustrating thing is that when we spoke this morning and he told me about his gig last night, I could only think how much I fancy him, even after all these years. I’ll give him this – he’s still hot stuff.’ She pauses, then grimaces. ‘It was all going well until he told me he’d bought me some nipple cream – and I’m talking about the stuff from Mothercare, not Ann Summers. I dread to think what he’ll be like when the baby’s born. As if things aren’t going to be horrendous enough.’

  I laugh. ‘Horrendous?’

  She looks at me, failing to join in. ‘All I hear from other mothers is sleepless nights, stretch marks and urinary incontinence. Sounds fairly horrendous to me.’

  ‘All a small price to pay,’ I reassure her.

  She rolls her eyes and looks entirely unconvinced.

  A waiter dressed like a Wimbledon finalist appears at our side clutching a small, round tray. ‘Anything more to drink, ladies?’

  ‘Yes, keep supplying sangrias until this woman becomes so inebriated that she loses her phone,’ Meredith instructs. He looks perplexed.

  ‘I think we’re okay for now,’ Nicola reassures him.

  Meredith shakes her head. ‘You’re being very restrained considering you’re allowed as much booze as you want – unlike me, who can’t touch a drop.’

  I suddenly wonder if I am being a bit over the top about this work issue. The Daily Sun hasn’t phoned back. Surely, if they were serious about the story, they’d have been on this nonstop, but when I spoke to Laura half an hour ago, they hadn’t been in touch today. Maybe they’ve lost interest. Or been put off the scent. Then there’s always the possibility, heaven forbid, that I’m being neurotic . . .

  I sit up to take a sip of sangria and notice that Harry has company. The woman standing above him is holding a clipboard. She has a pretty, heart-shaped face and defiant eyes that hint at a feisty streak, a combination that makes her both beautiful and interesting. Her hair has that dark, glossy swish unique to women of Mediterranean origin, while her heavenly curves appear to have been poured into her slick, white pencil dress.

  It’s clear from her body language that she’s attracted to him – the liberal use of laughter, the tossing back of hair, the tilt of her perfect chin. Then she does something I’d never have the balls to do: clicks her fingers at a waiter. I didn’t know people did that in real life. He arrives seconds later with a bottle of champagne and a glass for Harry, which he at least has the good grace to look embarrassed about accepting.

  It’s as Harry engages the waiter in conversation that I register the effect he has on men and women alike. They linger on his every word, are generous with their smiles and obviously, quite simply, enjoy being around him.

  I pull down the straw hat I grabbed hastily from Debenhams last Tuesday lunchtime and try not to look.

  ‘Isn’t that the guy you crashed into at Heathrow?’ Nicola asks, propping herself up on her elbows as she lowers her sunglass
es.

  ‘It IS!’ Meredith hoots. ‘Did you know he was here?’ She turns to Nic.

  Nicola shakes her head. I say nothing. Then they both look at me.

  ‘Did you know he was here?’ Meredith demands.

  ‘He was at the police station.’ I shrug, nonchalantly. ‘We walked back together.’

  They exchange glances. ‘And you chose not to mention this?’

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ I open the first page of The Book Thief. ‘Here is a small fact . . .’

  ‘So what did you find out? Spill the beans!’ Meredith demands.

  ‘Nothing much. He’s from Aberdeen, lives in London.’

  ‘Is he loaded? I’ll bet he is – lots of people here are. Oh, Imogen, I bet he’s a billionaire playboy like Christian Grey. He’d be perfect for you!’

  ‘Because he’s like Christian Grey? I haven’t had sex for five years, Meredith. I think a butt plug on my first go might be a little ambitious.’ I open my book. ‘Here is a small fact . . .’

  ‘He has the air of a millionaire about him. I can spot it a mile off.’

  ‘He said he was more used to a £39 Travelodge than here,’ I point out. ‘That’s a direct quote.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever read a Mills and Boon?’ Meredith continues, unconcerned. ‘At the beginning, the heroines are convinced that the hero is a taxi driver, then they turn out to be running a multi-million pound empire and appear in Tatler every other month. Why don’t you go and have a chat with him?’

  I lower my book momentarily. ‘I’m not going to do that.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you?’

  ‘More to the point, why would I?’ I retort.

  ‘Because he’s GORGEOUS,’ Meredith splutters.

  I humour her in the only language she comprehends. ‘He’s not my type.’

  ‘Imogen, you haven’t had a type for nearly five years,’ Nicola pipes up.

  I frown at her. ‘Don’t you join in.’ Trying to bully me into getting a man is normally Meredith’s domain; Nicola has always understood.

  Only, now, she bites her lip, hesitating. ‘Well, I can’t help it. I agree with Meredith. It’s time, Imogen. Don’t you think?’