The Time of Our Lives

by Jane Costello

  I pulled myself together and ventured to the chemist to buy four more tests, before downing two litres of water and taking them all, one after the other.

  I don’t know how long I stood in the bathroom, staring at them as they lay in a fan on the loo cistern.

  ‘Hello!’ The door slammed and I scooped them up in a panic. ‘Imogen?’

  I didn’t answer, so Roberto tried to open the bathroom door and, finding it locked, gave three sharp knocks. ‘Is everything all right, amore mio?’

  ‘Yeesss!’ I croaked.

  He didn’t buy it. ‘What’s the matter?’ I didn’t answer. ‘Imogen, seriously, you’re worrying me.’

  Tentatively, I opened the door.

  He told me afterwards that my skin had been candlewax white, colourless from shock, as I produced five pregnancy tests from behind my back like I was doing a card trick.

  He walked in silently and perched on the edge of the bath while I flung them into the bin and washed my hands.

  ‘Imogen . . . does this mean . . .?’

  I turned off the tap and dried my hands, barely able to bring myself to turn around. When I did, I simply nodded as tears pushed their way into my eyes.

  Roberto’s views on this issue had been crystal clear, views I’d said I agreed with. Technically, we were both responsible; we instantly knew that. Just as we knew when it had happened: a few weeks earlier, when my Pill had run out and I was waiting for a repeat prescription. In the heat of the moment we’d ignored the risks and resorted to a contraception method as old as sex itself: you know, the one that involves jumping off the train before it’s reached its final destination. The one all the magazines tell you doesn’t really work, a fact that’s sometimes too inconvenient to believe.

  Well, it turned out Cosmo was right. Roberto’s sperm had reached its destination, alighted, and had made itself at home in the waiting room drinking a nice cappuccino, unbeknownst to both of us.

  While we were both technically at fault, I blamed myself. I’d been the one who’d grabbed his backside and pushed him inside me, overcome with desire. There was really only one thing to say. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  His eyes fluttered closed as he pulled me into his arms and squeezed me tight.

  At that moment, I felt things would never be the same between us again. And I was right.

  Day Four

  Chapter 26

  Harry is in my bed. The heat of his hands penetrates my bare skin as he kisses and caresses me, lavishing attention on every inch of my pulsating body.

  That I’m vaguely aware this is a dream does nothing to slow my racing heart. It’s the closest I’ve had to sex, either in slumber or in reality, for so long my endorphins can’t know what’s hit them. His kisses tingle on the skin behind my ear, before I pull him in front of me and look into his eyes. Lust shimmers in his pupils.

  ‘You’re beautiful, Imogen,’ he whispers, smoothing hair away from my face. ‘I want you like I’ve never wanted anyone before.’

  ‘Me?’ I laugh coquettishly.

  ‘Yes, you.’ He kisses me again.

  ‘But why me? You don’t only want me for my body, do you?’ I purr, gazing down at myself. It’s a magnificent sight. I have the slenderest of thighs and flattest of stomachs, both so firm they wouldn’t wobble at the seismic peak of an earthquake. Even more impressive are my breasts: so small, pert and delightfully manageable I could get a job modelling training bras. Oh God, I love them! And so, apparently, does he.

  ‘I want your body, I want your brain, I want every little bit of you,’ he murmurs, and begins devouring every inch of my skin as I writhe in the 400-thread-count sheets, noting how I suddenly appear to have been upgraded to a room with a plunge pool.

  I gaze at the ceiling as he peels off my knickers, smiles seductively, and parts my legs. I gasp as he disappears between my thighs, carnal waves rising inside me. Then he says something. It’s kind of muffled, so I prop myself up on my elbows. ‘Sorry to interrupt, when you’re . . . you know’ – I nod in his direction – ‘but did you say something?’

  He pauses and looks up. ‘I’m a journalist,’ he repeats, before plunging down to re-acquaint himself with my leisure areas.

  I flop down and try to get back in the zone. But this isn’t a mere passion killer, it’s a mass murderer. I push up on my elbows again and cough politely. ‘Ahem . . . one other thing, if you don’t mind?’ He pops up his head and grins. ‘When you say you’re a journalist, could you clarify who it is you work for?’

  ‘The Daily Sun, of course. This is my little thank-you for helping me with my enquiries. This story is going to make my career.’

  My jaw drops. ‘You don’t mean . . . you’re not working on the story about Peebles? Is this why you were asking so many questions last night—’

  My voice trails off as dark thoughts assault my brain and I see that the smile I once thought devastatingly gorgeous has developed a sinister, demented quality, his eyes seeming to boggle like those old film posters advertising The Shining.

  He is poised to dive down again, but I have other ideas.

  I lift up my leg and welly him hard on the chin, then watch with cartoon eyes as he soars across the room, crashes through the window and plunges twelve floors down until he explodes into the sea.

  Then I wake up. Or rather, I spring up panting like I’ve been left in a car on a hot day with the windows closed. My brain is throbbing as I glance around the room. I haven’t been upgraded, there is no plunge pool and the window is mercifully intact.

  But the question remains of why I dreamt that Harry is a Daily Sun journalist. I replay the events of last night and recall in hazy detail our conversation veering not just once, but several times, to my job, to David, to my PR crisis. I have a hideous feeling that I basically told him everything . . . and he was only too happy to listen intently.

  I look over at Meredith, who is sleeping silently for the first time in about eight hours, just as my phone rings. I answer it immediately, mercifully without incident.

  ‘Imogen Copeland,’ I manage.

  ‘Charles Blackman here.’

  I have never met an army colonel, but decide that Charles Blackman sounds exactly as I’d expect one to be: brusque, efficient, domineering and slightly intimidating. All of which make me feel as though we’re in significantly better hands than with Cosimo, who was about as domineering as Peppa Pig.

  However, my newfound happiness turns out to be shortlived.

  ‘Do you have any news?’ I leap out of bed and tug on a dressing gown as I head into the bathroom. The contrast between my businesslike manner and my hair, which looks like something you’d feed to a Shetland pony, is acute.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the Daily Sun,’ he announces. ‘It’s all under control. I’ve drafted a response from a company spokesperson, which I’ll be emailing now.’

  I swallow. ‘They’re running the story then, for definite?’

  ‘No getting out of that, I’m afraid. What is unclear is whether they’ll be naming David.’

  ‘Does the journalist know it’s him?’

  ‘I think so, but he hasn’t got enough hard proof to get their lawyers off his back. They’re trying their level best to get that proof and, from what I can tell, the paper is throwing serious resources at this story. Don’t be surprised if they phone you again to try and get it out of you. Or, indeed, if you’re approached by a stringer out there.’

  ‘A stringer?’

  ‘A freelance journalist.’

  ‘You mean in person? They’d try to track me down out here?’

  ‘You’re the one contact they’ve managed to speak to from inside the company. They’d much rather deal with you direct than a PR like me.’ His voice hardens. ‘Why? Have you had any approaches from a journalist while you’ve been there?’

  ‘Yes. No. I mean, I don’t think so. Not about this, anyway.’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way. They’re tricky buggers, sometimes.’

  N
ausea swells in my stomach. ‘Are they?’

  ‘We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed, keep our heads down, and manage the situation.’

  ‘I think David was rather hoping the story wouldn’t appear at all.’

  ‘Not an option, at this stage. This is now about damage limitation. Which is why I’m trying to get hold of the . . . ahem, lady in question. If she talks, we’ve had it.’

  ‘I understand,’ I reply, although I’m not sure David will. ‘Well, hopefully the story will appear tomorrow, we’ll take the temporary pain and embarrassment, then all move on with our lives the day after,’ I say optimistically.

  ‘Hmm, it won’t be quite that simple. I’ve had a call from News Morning.’

  My heart sinks to my stomach. News Morning is Britain’s hardest-hitting radio programme. ‘Please tell me it was about our new flavour of Teeny Pops.’

  ‘They’re on to the story too, and they want a spokesperson to appear on the show.’

  ‘I take it you said no?’

  ‘Of course not. The story’s out there – it would be disastrous to look like we’re hiding under a stone now.’

  ‘But I’d like to hide under a stone,’ I whimper.

  ‘Not an option.’

  ‘Oh, poor David . . . I mean, he’s in such a state already, going on the radio would be a nightmare for him.’

  Charles snorts. ‘We can’t possibly put David on the radio. At the moment, there’s still a chance nobody will find out he’s at the heart of the story. Putting him on News Morning would be like throwing him to the lions.’

  I flop down onto the bed. ‘Who are you putting on then?’

  He chortles.

  ‘Why are you making that noise?’ I ask.

  ‘Sorry. Did you really want me to answer that question?’

  ‘Yes,’ I manage.

  ‘It’ll have to be you, of course.’

  Chapter 27

  Today we are visiting the magnificent, world-renowned Park Güell. Or rather, we’re supposed to be visiting the magnificent, world-renowned Park Güell. But having been instructed by Charles to stay near a landline because News Morning wants to talk to me in advance of the programme tomorrow, I’m again stuck here at the hotel while the others go off and enjoy themselves.

  ‘Imogen, this is so unlike you,’ Nicola says, as we head out of the restaurant after breakfast. ‘You’ve read that guidebook from start to finish. I thought you’d be the first to want to explore the city.’

  ‘Believe me, this is not how I imagined this holiday,’ I mumble, grabbing an extra pastry for later when my sugar cravings take hold, as they always do when I’m stressed. ‘I haven’t had a week at work this horrendous since I started . . . and I’m not even there.’

  Nicola frowns and tries to change the subject. ‘Any news about your necklace?’ She realises her error as soon as the words are out of her mouth.

  ‘There’s been a stony silence about that. Oh, this is so depressing!’ I wail, taking a massive bite out of the pastry.

  ‘On the plus side, you can relax about my shoe,’ Meredith tells me, reaching into her beach bag and pulling out a snakeskin heel. ‘I grabbed one of the waiters earlier and he was more than happy to go looking for me.’

  As I look up guiltily to thank Meredith – I had completely forgotten about her shoe – I see Harry on the phone at the far end of the lobby. When he spots me, he stops talking, and I experience a rush that’s very different from last night.

  This isn’t desire. This is danger. He might as well be covered in flashing red lights.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Nicola asks.

  Harry narrows his eyes, ends his call and starts walking towards us as panic ripples through me. I need to get out of here. But it turns out that moving with any speed when you’ve stuffed three-quarters of a pastry into your cheeks isn’t a good idea. Rather than darting off like a gazelle, I am brought to a devastating halt by a choking fit that forces me to bend forwards, then back, then forwards again. With bulging eyes, the blood vessels in my cheeks pulsating, I try to dislodge the offending blobs of pastry from my windpipe. I succeed only in catapulting crumbs across an unfeasibly wide radius.

  It’s only as I’m a florid shade of magenta that something hits me, literally – the thump on my back is delivered with the force of a battering ram attempting to break through the door of a fortified citadel. ‘Don’t worry! I can do the Heinrich manoeuvre!’ shrieks Meredith and, although I note hazily that she hasn’t got the term quite right, certainly delivers it like a psychopathic Nazi. It’s only as she has her arms tightly around my ribcage, bump pressed into my back that by some miracle of godly intervention I manage to stop choking.

  ‘Works every time!’ she says with a grin, as I woozily check for dislodged pieces of cartilage in my spine.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Nicola asks me, as Harry stops in front of us.

  ‘I was about to ask the same.’ He sounds concerned, but I refuse to be taken in while so much is unclear. ‘Why don’t you come and take a seat?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I reply, still feeling an urgent need to get away from him. I turn to the girls. ‘I need to speak to you both. Bye!’

  I fling a wonky smile at Harry before grabbing my friends by their elbows and striding to the lift. I push the call button, cross my arms and wait for it to arrive with spontaneously tapping fingertips.

  Nicola leans over. ‘What are we doing?’ she whispers.

  ‘Just get in the lift with me,’ I reply through clenched teeth.

  ‘But we’re going to Park Güell, aren’t we?’ Meredith asks.

  Unable to suppress an urge to see if Harry has gone, I glance behind me. He is still there, immobile and looking a bit perplexed. He starts walking towards us as I slam my hand on the button again.

  When the lift arrives, with Harry still approaching, we fall into it and I press the button for our floor. It refuses to spring into life, so I repeat the exercise. Then again and again, augmenting speed and force until I’m mildly berserk, sweat beading on my brow.

  ‘You need your key card to make the lift work!’ Meredith urges, equally frantic but clearly not knowing entirely why.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ I rifle around in my bag, pulling out lip balms, nail files, a shower cap I appropriated from our bathroom on the first day and a whole raft of up-market miniature toiletries I brought with me from the plane.

  ‘HERE!’ Meredith leaps in, producing her card.

  The door closes just as Harry is steps away and I hit a button – any button, as long as it gets me out of here.

  I sigh with relief and flop back on the wall of the lift.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ asks Nicola as the lift starts its ascent.

  ‘Harry is a journalist,’ I tell them both.

  They look at each other, bewildered.

  ‘And the thing I’ve been dealing with . . . you know – the crisis at work . . . a journalist is trying to get hold of me.’

  Nicola frowns. ‘So? The journalist who phoned last night was in London, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve been told they’re probably using a stringer and last night . . . oh God, I blabbed. Seriously blabbed. He convinced me he was just being a good listener. What a f—’

  A loud ping interrupts me as the lift comes to a halt on the top floor. Meredith goes to step out.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ I ask.

  ‘You were the one who pressed the button,’ Nicola points out.

  ‘Did I—’

  ‘Oh, come on, can’t we have a look at the view now we’re here?’ says Meredith enthusiastically, but I grab her by the sleeve and yank her back.

  ‘I’m terrified of heights,’ I remind her. ‘Besides, Harry told me last night he was up on one of these top floors. I’m trying to escape him.’

  I press the button and the doors close.

  ‘You’re not seriously suggesting he’s working on that story? Wouldn’t that be a bit of a coincidence?’ Me
redith asks.

  ‘It’s not a coincidence,’ I reply, as we reach the third floor. I press the button again. ‘It’s anything but a coincidence.’

  ‘You think he’s following you?’

  ‘At the risk of sounding paranoid . . . yes. Although . . . maybe no. Oh, I don’t know!’

  ‘Why can’t you just accept that he fancies you and that’s why he’s interested in talking to you?’

  I hesitate. For a flicker of a moment, I want it to be true. Then I remember how much of the conversation last night was dominated by my work, how much I ended up telling him, and how suspiciously interested he was. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, I do!’ Meredith says staunchly. And, after a circular conversation that goes on for another sixteen floors – both up and down – I realise I’m getting nowhere, and have to send them on their way.

  I spend four hours incarcerated in my room. Four hours of praying for my phone to ring . . . and praying it won’t.

  I try reading my book to relax, but typically fail to get beyond the first line. I scan the room service menu and cogitate on what I’d eat if calories were not a consideration and my state of intense hypertension wasn’t now so bad that it’s killed my appetite anyway. I watch a Spanish version of Bargain Hunt and conclude that daytime telly is the fastest route to brain rot the world over. Then I lie on my bed, staring at the silky blankness of the ceiling, before deciding enough’s enough. I am supposed to be on holiday, not in Wormwood Scrubs.

  I throw on my bikini, pack my beach bag, pull on my oversized glasses, and head out, torn between anxiety that I’ll bump into Harry and a certainty that I’ll lose my mind if I stay in the room any longer.

  I convince myself there’s every chance he won’t be around today; I have a hazy recollection that he said last night he’d be out on an excursion. And, even if I’m wrong, all I need to do is avoid him.

  Easy enough, surely?

  Chapter 28

  I head for the private stretch of beach right outside the hotel, after sending Charles a text to tell him that if he or News Morning wants to reach me, they should try my mobile first and I can be back in my room in three minutes.