The Time of Our Lives

by Jane Costello

  ‘I . . . I’m here to be as open and honest as possible.’

  I grab the loo roll and race out into the main room, chucking it over the top of the cubicle.

  ‘Well, perhaps you could explain then.’

  I feel like saying: ‘How can you never have heard of the term “third base”? Where have you been all your life?’ But I don’t. In fact, I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. I can only mouth silently into the phone for a few seconds, before the unbearable silence is broken by the flush of the toilet.

  It sounds as if we’re standing at the base of Niagara Falls during a tropical cyclone. Loud. Gushing. Relentless. I frenziedly spin around the room, desperate to escape the thunderous noise.

  ‘Boobs!’ I splutter in desperation, just as there’s a knock on the door and it opens. It’s the cleaning lady. She trundles in with a vacuum cleaner the size of a Sinclair C5. I attempt to wave her out. ‘He . . . he . . . copped a feel, that’s all,’ I splutter, as she shrugs her shoulders, bewildered. ‘That’s all it means.’

  Did I really just say that? Really? Live on air?

  Either way, Bryson clearly wishes he hadn’t asked. ‘I . . . um . . . perhaps we could move on to the ramifications of this incident.’ I frantically push the cleaning lady out of the door and she finally backs off, disgruntlement etched on her forehead. ‘Peebles shareholders aren’t likely to be impressed, are they, Ms Copeland?’ he continues, as I shut the door and focus on the question.

  To say they won’t be impressed is putting it mildly. And that’s without them even knowing the half of it.

  ‘Well, the actions of one individual don’t necessarily reflect that of the company as a whole,’ I reply.

  ‘But surely if the person in question is senior, it reflects extremely poorly on the judgment of those in charge of the company?’

  I take a deep breath and summon some inner strength. I cannot allow my sole contribution to defending the company’s honour be blurting out the word ‘boobs’ on national radio.

  ‘Peebles is one of Britain’s most successful businesses, a real UK success story,’ I say firmly, straightening my back. ‘It’s done tremendously well throughout a recession, when everyone else in this sector has really struggled. We’ve given an enormous amount to charity and—’

  ‘Thank you, Ms Copeland. That’s all we have time for.’

  At which point, I hear a click, and the producer comes back on the phone. ‘That was great, cheers,’ she says breezily.

  Given that my heart appears to want to leap out of my mouth and go for a swim in the Med right now, the contrast between her demeanour and mine couldn’t be greater.

  I put down the phone and lie on the bed as I fumble my mobile back together. It springs into life immediately.

  It’s a text from Mum:

  So sorry to bother you. Florence has swallowed half a lipstick. She seems okay, but am wondering if you think I should phone an ambulance?

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were on the phone,’ says Meredith, drying her hands as she emerges from the bathroom and examining the feast she’s ordered from room service. ‘Anyone interesting?’

  ‘You could say that,’ I reply, before burying my head in a pillow and yearning for a quick, painless death.

  Chapter 31

  It quickly becomes apparently that ‘half a lipstick’ actually means a fragment so microscopic you couldn’t complete a makeover on a budgie with it. I set about persuading Mum that Florence’s mishap does not constitute a full-scale medical emergency, that airlifting her to hospital will not be necessary, and that if she really meant the ‘So sorry to bother you’ bit in the text, then perhaps she might consider simply . . . not.

  I don’t actually say the last bit; I just think it, though her telepathic powers clearly start picking up on something.

  ‘You don’t sound very relaxed considering you’re on holiday,’ she notes.

  ‘No,’ I reply dully.

  ‘I never used to get stressed when I was a young woman,’ she continues. ‘If I was feeling like things were getting on top of me, I’d simply visit the masseur, twice or three times a week sometimes. The sheik used to pay for them for all the girls. All he wanted in return was a nice smile and a pleasant word. Well, mainly.’

  ‘Can I speak to Florence?’

  Mum hands the phone to my daughter.

  ‘Hi, Mummy.’

  Hearing her voice somehow makes everything vastly better. ‘Hello, sweetheart!’ I gush. ‘Gosh, I miss you. Lots and lots. I love you!’

  ‘I’m busy,’ she replies.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, wondering when my four-year-old’s schedule became too tight to fit me in. ‘Well, what are you up to?’

  ‘Trying on Grandma’s high heels. She’s going to buy me some of my own. And I’ve decided what I want to be when I grow up.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’ I ask, hoping she’s going to say astrophysicist.

  ‘A princess.’ She announces it in an I-can’t-believe-I-hadn’t-thought-of-this-earlier! voice.

  ‘Oh,’ I reply flatly. ‘Well, the only way to become a princess would be to marry a prince. And it’d be far better to do a really exciting job you’d got all by yourself – by being clever and working hard. Don’t you think?’

  She doesn’t even ponder this for a second. ‘Not really.’

  I frown. ‘But what if you fall in love with someone who isn’t a prince? You couldn’t still then marry someone else, even if he was a prince.’

  ‘I would,’ she replies defiantly. ‘Princes are the handsomest.’

  I grit my teeth. ‘Being handsome isn’t everything, Florence.’

  ‘No. They’re rich too,’ she replies.

  I decide to move on. ‘So, how did you end up eating Grandma’s lipstick?’

  ‘I don’t know. It tasted of cherries at first. Then it didn’t taste nice. Mummy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you know yet if you can take me to school on my first day?’

  I squirm. ‘I’ll know soon,’ I reply. Frankly, after my performance on national radio, I’m in no position to rock the boat work-wise.

  ‘When will you know?’

  ‘I’m working on it, I promise. But, you know, it’ll be absolutely fine if Debbie has to take you. She’ll hold your hand. And I can pick you up that day, definitely.’

  ‘It’s not the same.’ Her little voice wobbles.

  ‘I know, sweetie. I’ll do my best. I’ll do my very, very best. I love you, Flor—’ The line goes dead.

  I glance at my phone and realise that a message has been left while I was talking, from someone at the police station. It’s in an odd, Spanglish-type language, but I work out this much: there’s bugger-all news on the necklace, and they’d like me to desist from phoning them.

  I perch on the end of my bed, utterly dejected. I’m in this beautiful hotel room, supposedly miles from my troubles and with everything I could wish for, yet the simplest of things – relaxation – eludes me.

  Part of me wants to pack my bags and go home. Although that would involve showing my face at work and, after the performance I’ve just managed, it’s not a prospect I relish.

  Instead, all I can do is lie back on the bed, gaze at the ceiling and remind myself how lucky I am to have Florence, even if she is too busy with her grandma’s shoes to do anything other than grunt at my pathetic pleas for affection.

  It strikes me that Florence’s assertion of her personality seems to accelerate by the day, judging by her recent declarations that she’s now too sophisticated for most things, from Dora the Explorer to holding hands when we cross the road – she seems to think of the Green Cross Code as a quaint but entirely optional custom. I have no doubt that more surprises are in store, which is exactly how things have been from the beginning.

  When Roberto pulled me into his arms in the bathroom after I’d taken my five pregnancy tests, I was convinced it was the prelude to him saying goodbye. That, or trying to persuade me to
get rid of the baby. He had a forceful personality – not in a sinister way; he was simply someone who knew his mind and wasn’t afraid to express it. And he’d made his views perfectly clear.

  The thing I’ve since discovered about having children, however, but didn’t know then, is that they force you to change. You think you know yourself, but until there’s a tiny person in your life, totally dependent on you alone, you have no real idea of your capabilities, your potential, the depths of darkness and the highs of light you have within you.

  And, even before Florence was born, when she was no more than a few cells making magic inside me, she managed to effect the most fundamental turnaround in a human being possible.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated, over and over again, through numb lips. I’ve never been one for saying that word. My terminal reluctance to admit I’m wrong is one of my worst flaws, something Roberto could’ve complained bitterly about. But not that day. That day, I couldn’t say it enough.

  We didn’t discuss it for hours. We carried on as if nothing had happened – went out for a walk, then came back and curled up on the sofa in front of back-to-back movies. But that whole time, throughout that enforced, unnatural silence, a storm was building inside me. Inside both of us.

  Roberto cooked his signature dish that night, risotto ai carciofi, but I could hardly touch it. And when I went to clear up the dishes, he gently took hold of my wrist.

  ‘Imogen.’ I was convinced his eyes said everything. ‘This baby . . .’

  I didn’t want him to say the words I knew he was going to, the ones he had every right to say: We can’t keep it.

  Only he didn’t say that.

  ‘I want us to have it.’

  My stomach twisted in shock. ‘Really?’

  ‘I know what I said. I know what I told you. But now it’s happened, I feel different.’ He picked up my hand and weaved his fingers between mine. ‘I want us to have a family together.’

  And that was it. The day everything changed. The day we thought our lives together – me, Roberto and our child – were mapped out.

  Which goes to show that nobody ever has any idea what the future holds.

  Chapter 32

  ‘Imogen, relax. The interview can’t have been as bad as you think,’ Nicola says, picking at a bowl of patatas bravas.

  We’re at a tapas bar at the end of the beach where, despite the warm swish of evening breeze and mouth-watering food, I feel queasy for reasons that can’t be blamed on a dodgy scallop.

  ‘Nicola, I said the word “boobs” on national radio. How could it possibly have been worse?’

  ‘Tits?’ offers Meredith.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You could’ve said “tits”,’ she repeats. ‘Or arsehole, or fanny or—’

  ‘Thank you,’ I interrupt. ‘The point is, it was so bad that I couldn’t even bear to go to the business centre to look at the newspaper websites this afternoon.’

  ‘I can get them on my phone if yours still can’t get online,’ Meredith offers.

  ‘No,’ I shake my head determinedly. Then, ‘Oh . . . go on then.’

  ‘NO!’ Nicola interrupts. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it now anyway, so please just try and relax.’

  I put my head in my hands. Stacey texted from work earlier to tell me that everyone in the office had heard the interview and they all wanted to offer me their support. When I replied asking if that meant it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was, there was a half-hour delay while she thought of a diplomatic response, before I received another:

  Well, we all just think it was really unfair for you to have been put in that position without having had the proper training. P.S. Keep your chin up – I will bring cake in on your first day back! : ) Hugs xx

  Another text then arrived seconds later, which read:

  P.P.S. I take it you are coming back?

  ‘You’re probably tired too,’ Meredith says. ‘I know I haven’t helped with that. Did I snore again last night?’

  ‘Hmm, kind of.’ I quickly change the subject. ‘I dread to think what the newspapers’ full editions will say in the morning.’

  ‘Why don’t we shuffle around tonight? You and I can share,’ Nicola suggests to Meredith. ‘At least then Imogen’s guaranteed a half-decent night’s sleep.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ I say dismissively.

  ‘No, I insist,’ Meredith replies.

  ‘Well, thank you. But, honestly, don’t worry about me. In fact, let’s not talk about me. I’m sick of even thinking about my catastrophes. Can’t we discuss your problems instead?’

  ‘We’re meant to be on the holiday to end all holidays,’ Meredith points out. ‘I’d hoped we’d labour under the delicious falsehood that none of us had any.’

  ‘Fine. Let’s talk about things that are going well, then.’

  Meredith thinks for a second. ‘Nicola, how’s Jessica?’

  Nicola looks up. ‘Jessica’s great. Jealous as hell that we’re sunning ourselves while she’s having to work, but apart from that, wonderful. I spoke to her just before we left the hotel.’

  ‘You two are so good together,’ Meredith says. ‘I’m in awe.’

  ‘We’re not perfect.’

  ‘You never argue.’ Meredith widens her eyes without having to spell out that you couldn’t apply this description to her and Nathan.

  ‘Not often,’ Nicola concedes.

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever get married? Oh, go on, do! I love a good wedding. I haven’t been to one for ages.’

  Nicola shrugs. ‘Things are still tricky with Mum and Dad, to be honest.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll ever agree to meet Jessica?’ Meredith looks at her sympathetically.

  Nicola bites her lip. ‘I’d like to think one day they’ll thaw enough to do so. But at the moment, I can’t see it.’

  ‘How does Jessica feel about it?’ Meredith asks.

  Nicola takes a deep breath. I know at that moment that Jessica couldn’t be more pissed off about this bundle of issues if they came tied up with barbed wire and were delivered by a man with dog poo on his shoes.

  ‘We had an argument about it just before I came out here,’ Nicola confesses. ‘I feel terrible about it. Even though my mum and dad are wrong, they’re still my parents and I love them. But I know this whole thing makes Jess unhappy. And me, for that matter.’

  ‘Maybe you should try talking to them about it again?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ Nic shrugs. ‘The thought of it brings me out in a cold sweat, but you’re probably right.’

  That night my room is so silent I have to cough every so often to check I haven’t gone inexplicably deaf. I pull the duvet around my shoulders, turn off the lights and prepare to sleep. With only the faint amber glow of the loo-roll light to subtly illuminate the designer surfaces of the room, it couldn’t be more relaxing.

  All, in fact, would be perfect, if an explosion of thoughts hadn’t infiltrated my mind about Florence, her school, my job, Harry, my radio performance . . . oh, and what tomorrow’s papers are going to make of their latest big scoop.

  Day Five

  Chapter 33

  I have my answer at 6.40 a.m., when I wake after four fragmented hours’ sleep, tug on my dressing gown, grab a key card and lope groggily to the business centre to view the online versions of the papers.

  The first story I stumble across is about a tragedy somewhere in South East Asia in which hundreds of office block workers were killed in a fire. It’s a dreadful piece, one that makes me count my blessings as I read it. All those poor people . . . this must be more newsworthy than our predicament surely? Then I spot the first article about David.

  It isn’t good. It couldn’t be further from good if it’d taken a one-way ticket to Bad, changed its identity and vowed to never come back.

  PEEBLES CHIEF IN MID-AIR SCANDAL

  That, it turns out, is one of the tamer headlines.

  FIRST-CLASS BOOB: CEO arrested after he ‘copped a
feel’ of topless woman on flight

  MILE-HIGH MAESTRO: Police step in after Peebles boss gets frisky on flight

  David is identified in all but one of them. He’s thoroughly, one million per cent busted, as is the woman – a sinewy redhead with inflatable lips who works for a small-sized clothing company. As she’s nothing like as high profile as David, she gets off fairly lightly.

  I scan through article after article in a desperate attempt to unearth some redeeming feature – my quote about our charity work for example, or a mention of our exceptional performance throughout the recession. But they’re nowhere. Instead, in every tabloid and broadsheet is a line that goes something like this:

  Imogen Copeland, a spokeswoman for Peebles, confirmed that a senior executive at the company had been involved in what she termed, ‘funny business’, adding, ‘He got to third base.’

  Did I really say that?

  Ms Copeland confirmed that the executive had – in her words – ‘copped a feel’ of the woman in question’s ‘boobs’.

  I am overcome by an urgent desire to fall to my hands and knees and cry until my eyeballs have shrivelled up.

  As I stare out of the window across the vast blue of the sea, I tug my dressing gown tighter with one hand while a question pounds through my brain: how did they find out it was David? I didn’t mention him in the interview, and the subsequent official quotes provided by Charles certainly didn’t. Someone as slick as him wouldn’t have blurted it out . . .

  I pause. I think. And another hideous wave of recognition sweeps over me. I might not have blurted it out on national radio, but I blurted it out somewhere. My last conversation with Harry comes back to me in blood-curdling technicolour.

  ‘I am on holiday. If you people want to interview me, or find out anything you like about David Hartnett and his . . . misdemeanour, then please do as everyone else has done and phone my PR company.’

  Oh God. I’ve been completely stitched up.

  As Meredith scrutinises the breakfast menu, Nicola seems to be failing to grasp the gravity of the situation.