The Time of Our Lives

by Jane Costello

  ‘Excuse me!’ I cough politely. ‘Could we possibly—’

  A waitress marches past carrying a coffee jug to attend to a couple who’ve already drunk so much they’ll be awake until a week on Tuesday.

  ‘She’ll be over soon enough. Maybe we should go and get something from the buffet,’ Nicola suggests.

  We wander into the adjacent room and gaze upon the most spectacular feast I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Maybe we can live without the coffee,’ I say.

  Nicola nods. ‘You could be right.’

  Despite the bountiful nature of the food, I resolve to show some restraint this time and not fall into the same trap as at the airport. I take only those items I really want: a modest slice of melon, a boiled egg, a piece of coconut cake and some dried prunes. Admittedly, I’d win no prizes for menu coordination.

  I’m just reaching over a big, silver bowl of chilled fruit yoghurt when my phone bursts into life from the back pocket of my shorts. With nowhere to put down my plate, I hastily balance it on one hand and attempt to retrieve my phone, but I’m so hell-bent on swiping the green button before it rings off this time that I promptly drop my phone into a cut-glass bowl of fruit salad.

  ‘SHIT!’

  ‘What have you done?’ hisses Nicola, appearing at my side.

  ‘Imogen? IMOGEN?’ echoes David’s voice from between a cluster of cherries and a chunk of mango.

  ‘You need to get that out quickly,’ says a voice.

  Before I can argue, my phone is being fished out of the bowl and I watch with a throbbing heart as Harry begins wiping it off with a napkin with his big, tanned hands. I am momentarily mesmerised, before grabbing the phone and shoving it against my ear, only then realising how sticky it is. ‘David? David?’

  The line’s dead. Harry looks slightly taken aback.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snatch,’ I say, providing the requisite response I expect from Florence in similar situations.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘That looked like one hell of an important call.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Worth marinating your mobile for, I hope?’

  I frown down at my phone as I hold it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. ‘Oh God, look at it!’

  He picks up some more napkins. ‘Turn the phone off and lay it on these while you open it up and get the battery out. That’s the most important bit.’

  ‘How are you such an expert? I ask, frantically dismantling the phone.

  ‘I did something similar once. Only worse.’

  ‘Not the loo—’

  ‘Fortunately not,’ he replies with a laugh. ‘Just a muddy puddle. I spent the night Googling solutions on my computer, none of which worked. But they might on yours. You got it out pretty quickly.’

  ‘You mean you did.’

  ‘Yeah, well, don’t call me a hero until you’ve got that melon juice off your sim card. Any news on your necklace, by the way?’

  It’s then that I realise that he’s striking up a conversation with me. Just like the first time, it unsettles me.

  ‘Not a word. So you can be satisfied that you were probably completely right.’

  ‘I take no satisfaction in that. Sorry if I gave the impression otherwise.’

  ‘You didn’t. The necklace is just a big deal to me, that’s all.’

  Harry looks at me. ‘You don’t seem to be having much luck on this holiday.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ I reply, lifting my sunglasses onto my head to get a better look at the phone as I start to put it back together.

  He tries to play down how startled he looks. ‘Oh . . . dear.’

  I put the glasses back on, self-conscious. ‘Hmm. Not a good look really, is it?’

  ‘Are you okay?’ He looks genuinely concerned, which only makes me feel like dying inside.

  ‘I’m fine. Hardly hurts at all, really,’ I lie. ‘So what are you up to today?’

  ‘I believe I’m off to the Picasso museum, then tonight I’m going to some big party here at the hotel.’

  ‘I thought you were here working?’

  The click of stylish heels interrupts our conversation and, as I look up, the woman Harry was with yesterday appears at his side. She looks even better close up, with flawless skin and a spectacular smile.

  ‘’Arry Pfeiffer!’

  If I spoke at that volume, I’d sound about as dulcet-toned as Dot Cotton mid-meltdown. Her voice, on the other hand, is forceful but melting, like she’s performing the final scene in Carmen.

  ‘We need to go!’ She grabs him by the arm.

  ‘Sorry. I’m in demand, apparently.’ He shrugs playfully as he’s whisked to the exit by Clipboard Barbie, before he’s been able to pick up so much as a croissant.

  I gaze after them, at her slender arm linked through his and, for a fleeting moment, wonder what it must be like to be one of the Beautiful People.

  People with whom I have nothing in common.

  I’ve gone back to rescuing my phone when I see Harry unravel himself from the woman and weave back past two tables, before grabbing something from the surface of one. Then he makes his way back, catching my eye en route.

  ‘See you later,’ he says smiling, as I notice a copy of The Book Thief in his hand.

  Chapter 15

  The plan today is to visit La Sagrada Família, one of Barcelona’s most celebrated landmarks. I’ve read a lot about it in the guidebooks and it’s the place I’ve been keenest to see, given the monumental hype it attracts.

  According to what I’ve read, construction for Gaudí’s giant basilica started at the end of the nineteenth century and it still isn’t finished (which will be little comfort to the blokes over-seeing my mum’s kitchen extension, who threaten delay at their peril).

  The building, I’m told, is stunning, and I can’t wait. At least, I couldn’t wait, but, just as we’re walking through the hotel lobby, my phone springs into life. I finally manage to answer it without injuring myself, someone else, or dropping it in the healthy option on the breakfast buffet.

  It’s David. ‘Imogen – they’ve phoned me,’ he splutters. ‘The swines PHONED me.’

  ‘You mean the Daily Sun?’

  ‘Yes! YES!’

  I frown, registering that his voice has the same tinny quality as earlier. ‘David, where are you?’

  ‘Fourth-floor gents lavs. It was the only place I could get some privacy. Imogen, what am I going to DO?’

  ‘Okay, don’t panic,’ I say, as if I’m not doing so myself. ‘What did they say, exactly?’

  ‘They said they know who it is, Imogen. They know. FOR THE LOVE OF PETER, PAUL AND MARY! I tried to play it cool, I tried to bluff it out . . . but I think they might not be lying.’

  ‘Who is it, then? Did they tell you?’

  ‘No,’ he croaks.

  ‘Then they’re probably just calling your bluff. They must be. I’m sure they are,’ I say, in a supernova of wishful thinking.

  ‘Do you really think so? Oh, I hope so.’

  I’m suddenly not only furious with Roy and the PR agency for failing to respond, but genuinely, overwhelmingly concerned. It’s been two days since I first tried to get hold of them and the deathly, unprecedented silence can only mean something’s very wrong.

  ‘This could be the undoing of us, Imogen,’ David begins again, breathlessly. ‘All my hard work. Everything I’ve strived for. Oh, SPHERICAL OBJECTS!’

  ‘David, calm down!’ I snap, then bite my tongue. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . the point is, this is bad, yes. But, it’s one executive. We, as a company, can’t be responsible for that. We simply have to take action. Announce an internal inquiry, promise to come down on him like a ton of bricks.’ I can feel a plan coming together. ‘David, we’re going to be okay, so don’t be afraid of the Daily Sun. We just have to act like a responsible company and make sure heads roll.’

  ‘You mean sack someone, don’t you?’

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t know, I suppose so.’ I can’t actually believe I’m advocating making someone lose their job, but I’m struggling to see an alternative. ‘Look, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. I bet it’s someone fairly junior, whatever the journalist said. Nobody senior would be stupid enough; in fact, the more I think about this, the more convinced I am that we’ll be fine. As long as it’s not you, of course,’ I joke.

  He doesn’t respond.

  ‘David?’ I sit on the sofa, waiting for him to speak. ‘David? Are you there?’

  Meredith looks at her watch. Nicola mouths, ‘Are you ready?’

  I shake my head apologetically.

  ‘David, why are you not saying anything? Please tell me you’re not saying anything because you’ve dropped your mobile in the urinal and not because . . . because . . .’

  ‘Because what?’

  ‘Because . . . it’s you—’

  He starts making a noise like he’s woken up from an anaesthetic while having his tonsils removed. ‘My phone isn’t in the toilet.’

  My mouth opens, but I am completely devoid of thoughts about how to respond. It’s him. David. My boss and mentor is The First-Class Fondler.

  ‘Oh, David,’ I mumble, numbly. ‘Oh . . . David. Oh . . . David.’

  ‘If you say “Oh, David” one more time, Imogen, I may have to cry.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.’

  ‘It was a momentary indiscretion,’ he whimpers.

  ‘I thought it was a two-hour flight?’ I splutter.

  ‘Okay, it was a two-hour indiscretion. I’ve never been unfaithful to Carmel before. Well, not since . . . there was a woman in Johannesburg once, but she knows about that. And Cape Town, but that was years ago.’ He’s beginning to ramble now.

  ‘Do you specialise in the Southern African sub-continent?’

  He is silenced, and I remind myself that a) he’s my boss and b) whatever he’s done, he’s still been my greatest advocate at work in the last few years.

  ‘I’d come back from a terrible meeting – it had gone catastrophically badly. I was stressed out. And I found myself sitting next to an accountant who I swear looked like Nicole Kidman. And I’ve always loved Nicole Kidman.’

  ‘But why, David?’ I urge.

  ‘It was ever since Days of Thunder.’

  ‘I mean, why did you get it on with this woman?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know!’ he howls. ‘I was stupid. She was sexy. We got through three bottles of champagne and, before I knew it, we were under the complimentary blanket. Her top had gone the way of Shergar and she was experimenting with the recline button.’

  I’m glad he can’t see me wincing.

  ‘The thought of the kids finding out about this! Michael will be distraught,’ he continues.

  This is another reason to help David: his teenage son and daughter, God help them. Not that that brings me any closer to a solution.

  ‘Okay, David, you’re going to have to leave this with me. Just give me the journalist’s number and I’ll sort it.’

  ‘Will you, Imogen?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, hastily. ‘One way or another, I’ll sort it.’

  Our PR company is DEAD. When I finally get hold of them, I intend to tell them exactly that. But I haven’t got hold of them so, instead, I send Meredith and Nicola on their way and sit in the bar, making a series of phone calls, determined that, one way or another, I will not be ignored.

  I am half convinced that the pure fury I’m radiating down the phone is one of the reasons that eventually, miraculously, I get through to Roy.

  ‘Where are you? Oh my God, I’m so relieved to have got hold of you,’ I say, suddenly feeling guilty about my last text. ‘Roy, you’ve got SO much to do!’

  ‘What? Eh?’ His voice is drowned out by an almighty cacophony of screaming, which is very different from our usual office soundtrack, even after the half-day budget meetings.

  ‘DAD! Come on . . . it’s GO-INNNG!’

  ‘Really sorry, Imogen, I can’t stop and talk,’ Roy tells me.

  ‘Roy. You CAN stop. You MUST stop. Please, Roy, just STOP.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he replies, as the screams get louder and are joined by a strange clanking sound.

  ‘Didn’t you get my messages?’ I demand.

  ‘Messages? No, Janine hits the roof if I keep my phone on while we’re away. I only turned it on to check the cricket.’

  ‘What do you mean? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m on the Tower of Terror.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m in Euro Disney.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing there? You’re meant to be deputising for me!’

  ‘Well, I know, but Janine’s brother’s kids got severe gastroenteritis and, rather than their entire family holiday going to waste, they gave it to us. I know the timing wasn’t ideal, but I went to David to ask if he’d mind. The last thing I wanted to do was let you down, but David said that we haven’t got much on at the moment – apart from some top-secret thing that you personally are working on. So he said it’s fine and—WAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!’

  At which point my eardrums come close to shattering, and the line goes dead.

  Which is marvellous. Just marvellous.

  Chapter 16

  I take a seat in the lobby again and try to make sense of my muddled mess of thoughts. At which point, a gargantuan limousine pulls up outside as the concierge bursts into life to open the door.

  Meatloaf and Yellow Bikini Lady emerge in a billowing cloud of cigar smoke, like the dry ice in a Kate Bush video.

  Another besuited staff member sprints over to attend to them. ‘Mr Venedictov! How is your stay so far?’

  Mr Venedictov manages a lackadaisical grunt before heading in the direction of the pool deck.

  This strikes me as a very good idea. If I’ve got a major PR crisis to tackle from just under a thousand miles away, I might as well do it while basking in sunshine. So I grab my belongings, follow him outside and find a sun lounger, before ordering a cranberry and orange juice and spreading out the series of notes I’ve made this morning.

  I probably don’t need to spell out the fact that nobody else is doing this – every other guest is sunbathing, reading, relaxing . . . activities that are all within my grasp if only I can box off this issue and then try to forget about it.

  With a tightening chest, I pull up the PR agency’s number on my phone. I go to press ‘Call’ at the exact moment that the handset rings and ‘Mum’ flashes up on the screen. I let out a spontaneous groan.

  ‘So sorry to phone, Imogen. Bit of an emergency,’ she announces wearily, sounding very unlike someone about to put out an SOS call.

  ‘Oh, dear. What happened?’

  ‘It’s Spud. There’s something wrong with him. Very wrong.’

  My eyes widen. ‘Don’t tell me he’s been run over?’

  ‘It’s impossible to explain on the phone, Imogen. I need to show you,’ she replies ominously. ‘Why don’t we do Skype?’

  ‘Mum, I’m worried now,’ I say. ‘What’s happened to my dog?’

  ‘This is a visual matter, Imogen – you need to see it. It’s a full-scale, multi-sensory issue, if the truth be told . . .’

  I sigh as inaudibly as possible. ‘Give me ten minutes, and I’ll find the business centre here so that we can Skype. Is Florence around, too?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ll put her on when you Skype us. At the moment, all I’m concerned with is Spud. This dog needs help. And so do the rest of us, frankly.’

  I end the call and head into the lobby, passing models, businessmen and a sheikh with an entourage bigger than the Red Army during the Battle of Kursk. It strikes me that I’ll never feel anything but out of place here, although obviously the black eye doesn’t help.

  A sign next to the lift tells me that the business centre is on the second floor, so I press the button and am poised to step in when my phone rings again. This time, it isn’t my mother’s numbe
r. It is Madeleine Bowers. The Madeline Bowers. My PR hell is over! I abandon the lift and answer the phone.

  ‘Imogen Copeland,’ I simper, hearing the relief in my voice.

  ‘Imogen, sweetie,’ Madeleine drawls.

  It’s difficult to describe how pleased I am to hear her voice, except to say that I suppress an urge to cartwheel across the lobby, flick-flack onto the pool deck and finish with a reverse dive into the infinity pool.

  Madeleine is a director of Ace Communications, a PR giant who has been in the business for at least thirty years. She’s one of those women whose oversized personality and sheer presence silences people simply by walking into a room. Although perhaps that’s just her dress sense – nobody rocks a peacockfeather-trimmed trilby and gingham ra-ra skirt quite like she does.

  On a day-to-day level it’s always been Julia, a junior account executive, with whom I’ve dealt, and I’d been impressed with her until she decided to disappear off the face of the earth.

  Still, in Madeleine, the PR company has brought out the biggest of their big guns. Although I suppose when you’ve got the Daily Sun threatening ruination, nothing short of her phenomenal power will do.

  ‘I had a message you rang,’ she continues. I can picture her in her vast office, clicking her fingers to summon her army of PR lackeys, poised to spring into action.

  ‘I did. Thank you so much for phoning back. You’ve probably worked out from my messages that we’ve got a major crisis on our hands. I’ve got the phone number of the journalist who’s on our trail and, well . . . Madeleine, I’m just so grateful that you’re now on the case. I was hoping you’d assign someone senior to this but never dreamt—’

  ‘Imogen, let me stop you there. Please.’ It’s then that I realise she doesn’t sound quite the powerhouse I’d come to know. Au contraire. She sounds as though she’s had the weepy bits in Marley And Me on repeat all morning. ‘You’ve obviously not heard that at Ace Communications, we have some issues of our own.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. I have no idea why I feel chastised, but I do.