The Time of Our Lives

by Jane Costello

  Determined to get out and about to see more of Barcelona, Meredith, Nicola and I head to the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya. It’s described in my guidebook as ‘a one-stop immersion course on the world of Catalan art, from medieval church frescoes to chairs designed by Gaudí.’

  Nobody could ever accuse me of being an art enthusiast. I realise I run the risk of being seen as a philistine by saying that, but quite often when something is supposed to stir every corner of one’s soul, I’m left completely cold.

  I do books. I do music. I’ve even been to two operas, although admittedly that was in a fruitless attempt to impress Roberto’s mum. But when I hear people enthusing about works of art – even proper ones that don’t involve unmade beds – I never quite get it. Which obviously never stops me nodding sagely in fervant appreciation. I don’t want to look completely thick.

  Still, I need to do some sightseeing, or I’ll leave Barcelona having experienced only the same level of culture as if I’d spent the week in a high street establishment called Tanerife.

  The experience, however, is far from the promised ‘immersion course’, as the only thing in which I’m immersed is other people’s problems.

  ‘Imogen, I am beside myself after yesterday,’ Carmel, David’s wife, tells me on the phone as I peer at something I’m reliably informed is Romanesque. It’s very agreeable, although I wouldn’t have one at home. ‘You don’t mind me phoning, do you?’ she continues, failing to pause for me to respond.

  I’ve never considered us friends before: our acquaintance stems solely from the manifold social functions at which I’ve been seated next to her. But that doesn’t stop her now.

  ‘I am furious with David. Fucking furious. And, by the way, I never use the f-word, so this gives you a measure of how furious I am. I’ve just said it to the postman too. He dropped his bag in a puddle.’

  I don’t doubt that Carmel has never used the f-word. Everything about her is refined and sophisticated, from her cashmere wardrobe to the dinner parties accomplished enough to make Marco Pierre White hang up his apron. She was a midwife at an exclusive, private hospital before she met and married David, although it’s impossible to imagine her ever doing a job that involves quite so much mess. I saw her at 4.30 a.m. a couple of months ago, having picked her and David up from the airport to accompany him straight to a board meeting. Unlike the heap of a human being I represented at that ungodly hour, she was fragrant and angelic, with not so much as a crease in her Jaeger slacks.

  ‘It was a ridiculous mistake. I think David would be the first to admit that,’ I say, trying to be diplomatic, but conscious that my first loyalty has to be to my boss, arse that he is.

  ‘Ridiculous is one word. Treacherous. Reckless. Idiotic. Fucking idiotic. There. He’s made me say it again. Dear God, he’s turning me into Billy Connolly,’ she laments.

  ‘How are the children?’ I venture. I don’t know why I still refer to Michael and Lydia as ‘the children’ – as if I’m about to give them 50p for an ice cream – when one is sixteen and the other has just finished her A levels.

  ‘Oh, don’t ask.’ She exhales.

  ‘Okay, well—’

  ‘Lydia has gone out and spent a fortune on new shoes in case she’s “papped”, whatever that means, and Michael has been sitting in front of the television, refusing to move, for almost twenty-four hours now.’

  ‘He does that quite a lot anyway, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s an insidious glaze in his eyes now. And he’s watching This Morning. It’s extremely unsettling.’

  I open my mouth to speak, but she’s on a roll. ‘David has jeopardised his career for this, Imogen. And it’s not like he can claim his requirements weren’t being fulfilled at home. The man is unstoppable in the bedroom, a fact for which I’ve had to make considerable sacrifices, let me tell you.’

  I urgently want her to stop talking now.

  ‘He’s bent,’ she reveals. ‘You know, down there. Like Bill Clinton. And I’d probably have preferred to service him for the last thirty-four years rather than David, let me tell you. At least I’d have got a decent wardrobe and some world travel out of it.’

  Nicola taps me on the shoulder in an attempt to point out some wondrous piece of work, but I simply nod and press on with the call.

  ‘Have the media tried to get hold of you?’ I ask.

  ‘They’re camped outside here now.’

  ‘God, really?’ My hand flies to my mouth. ‘Are you trapped in there? Have you said anything to them?’

  ‘Of course! I offered them bacon sandwiches and told them if they were expecting us to come out and do the loyal-wife-and-husband bit, they would be inordinately disappointed.’

  ‘You said that?’ I groan inwardly and make a mental note to warn Charles Blackman of this new source of angst.

  ‘I did, but they don’t believe me that he’s not here. They obviously think I’m hiding him in the airing cupboard. Not that I’d let him near my bed linen these days, the grubby . . . fucker.’ The last word bungee jumps out of her mouth as if it’s the most liberating thing she’s ever uttered.

  I move through to the next room, trying to keep up with Nic and Meredith as they weave through the crowds. ‘Dare I ask if you’ve spoken to him recently?’

  ‘No, that’s what I’m phoning you for.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. There’s no reception at Great Aunt Janice’s caravan. I’ve tried texting him, but he’s obviously either ignoring me or there isn’t a signal.’

  ‘How do I fit in?’

  ‘I need you to pass on an extremely important message to him next time he phones you. Because I know he’ll phone you. He phones you more than he phones me.’

  My head starts to throb again. ‘Okay.’

  ‘It’s very important that you pass this on word for word, direct from me.’

  ‘Er . . . okay, let me get a bit of paper. I want to make sure I get everything down right.’

  I open my purse and remove an old receipt as I squeeze past the elderly German tour group in front of me and find the one and only free spot in the gallery.

  ‘Okay. Fire away.’

  She clears her throat extravagantly. ‘David. Fuck you.’

  Chapter 36

  My phone does not stop for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. The only respite I get is on the metro, where there’s no reception. So joyous is the experience that, if it weren’t for the raging heat in here, I’d consider staying on it and looping the city until morning.

  When we emerge up the escalator into blinding sunshine, more talks follow with Charles, who is trying to find out what the press is intending to quote Carmel as saying in tomorrow’s papers. He also tells me that they got David’s name from a police press officer.

  There are calls from a variety of radio stations, who seem to have acquired my number from the Afternoon programme, and who are phoning to see if I have anything to add. I direct them to Charles, who is at least capable of opening his mouth without some anatomical colloquialism spilling out.

  There’s a call from Elsa at work, begging me to think of some way she can help me. God love her, it’s an offer I’d love to take her up on if she didn’t work in Accounts and would be the first to admit she wouldn’t recognise a crisis management strategy if it hit her in the face.

  And finally there’s David, who phones as I’m traipsing wearily back to the hotel, resigned to the fact that, while I can technically tick the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya off my sightseeing list, I’m not convinced I actually saw much of it.

  ‘I’m in a phone box,’ he announces. ‘The reception here is terrible but, on the plus side, I’m very isolated. I think the only way to handle this is to pretend it’s not happening.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  He draws in a long breath. ‘I feel like I’m in that film The Road. You know, post-apocalyptic, but with a certain weary dignity.’

  ‘You haven’t seen th
e papers then?’

  ‘I’m not even looking. I’m just going to stay here, keep my head down and emerge when the new parliament opens.’

  ‘The new parliament?’

  ‘Charles tells me that August is silly season for the news industry. The press has nothing to write about because all the politicians are away in Carcassonne or wherever for the summer, so all I need to do is wait until next week when Cameron and his crew are back. They’re bound to do something stupid enough to knock me off the pages of the tabloids.’

  I note the use of the word ‘me’.

  ‘You know they’ve printed your name, then?’

  ‘It was inevitable.’

  ‘Have you had any contact with anyone from Getreide about this yet? I ask.

  ‘Yes, and it’s safe to say they’re re-considering their position.’

  ‘You mean the whole merger could be off?’ I ask.

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. The point is . . . The point is I don’t care any more,’ he wheezes. ‘Clearly I’m not saying that to the board, but it’s true. You know what I always say in situations like this, don’t you, Imogen? Be real. Be cool. Be yourself.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I manage.

  ‘Why aren’t you saying anything? Oh God, is it the papers? Tell me! Are they awful?’

  ‘No! I mean . . . I heard from Carmel earlier,’ I prattle.

  ‘I don’t think she’s very happy with me,’ he says dolefully. ‘I’m getting that distinct impression.’

  ‘She might come around.’

  ‘The last text she sent instructed me to trap my knob in the caravan door. I haven’t responded. What did she say to you?’

  ‘Um . . . it was a similar theme.’

  ‘I’m hoping she’ll come around. I think she needs a good holiday, if I’m entirely honest. I suspect we all do, eh?’ He laughs.

  I end the call before I say something I might regret.

  Chapter 37

  I start to get ready as soon as Meredith and Nicola leave for dinner, an hour before I’m due to meet Harry. I’m confident that that’ll be plenty of time. But, shortly after stepping into the shower, there’s a call from my gas supplier asking me if I’ve considered having my loft insulated; as I’m curling my hair, someone else phones asking if I’ve been mis-sold PPI; as I slip on my dress, the dry cleaner phones, threatening to incinerate a skirt I dropped off in 2011 and forgot to pick up. This, of course, is apart from Charles and David, both of whom seem incapable of allowing an hour to pass without hearing the sound of my voice.

  It’d be sweet if I wasn’t teetering on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  In short, as the time slips by and I make strenuous efforts to glam up without the aid of Meredith and her beauty emporium, my phone seems determined to scupper every tiny step, from applying foundation to spraying on perfume and applying my now well-worn concealer stick to my eye.

  Some of the calls are quick (Wi-Fi provider call-centre worker: ‘Is that Imogen Copeland?’ Me: ‘No.’); others, such as that from Charles, are not. And as I’m pacing around, performing a veritable circus act of multitasking – inserting earrings and applying mascara with my phone wedged in my shoulder – I’m aware that the clock is ticking without needing to actually look at it.

  Finally, when I am 85 per cent ready and therefore as ready as I’ll ever be, and I’m about to throw my bloody phone into the bin, it rings again.

  My hand hesitates over it, willing myself to leave it. Except it’s Mum and, therefore, while I’m 99.9 per cent certain it won’t be a genuine emergency involving Florence, the 0.1 per cent possibility wins the day.

  ‘You won’t be aware of this because you’re away,’ she begins, ‘but your company has been all over the news.’

  ‘Really?’ I drawl, frantically surveying the room for my key card.

  ‘Well, you told me to only phone you when it was an emergency. I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do about it from there, but I thought you’d want to know. That boss of yours is an absolute pervert.’

  ‘He’s not a . . . yes, I suppose he is.’

  ‘You’ve not done something like that on one of your business trips, have you?’ she adds.

  ‘Mum, it’s not company policy.’

  ‘Because, old-fashioned as it sounds, Imogen, a girl has to keep her reputation. It doesn’t matter what you’re up to behind the scenes, but you can’t do that sort of thing publicly.’

  ‘I’m not doing that sort of thing privately or publicly!’

  ‘You know I’m no prude, but you’ve got to have some class about these things. If there was one thing my time in the Moulin Rouge taught me, it was that.’

  I sigh. ‘Is this what you’ve phoned to tell me, Mum?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know about the papers, that’s all.’

  ‘Thank you. Seriously.’ I always add that word when I’m in danger of sounding disingenuous. Mum gets it a lot. ‘If that’s all, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Oh, did you—’

  I put down the phone, grab my key card and am about to leave the room, when for the first time since I entered it, I get a proper look at the clock.

  My breath feels as though it’s being sucked out of my lungs. I’d realised I was under pressure for time, but I’d been oblivious to the extent.

  It’s 9.15 p.m.

  I’ve stood him up. I’ve actually gone and stood him up.

  Running in 31-degree heat is difficult. So is running in Meredith’s shoes, the ones that never actually fitted me in the first place. This cocktail of challenges becomes even trickier when you’re dodging a group of lackadaisical pensioners, a rollerblader with a death wish and three blokes carrying canoes that are each the length of an Orient-Express carriage.

  ‘Excuse me!’ I pipe up, to no avail.

  I pull up from my frantic dash right behind them. ‘Excuse me! Con permiso!’ I try, and they turn round simultaneously, at which point I realise my error.

  I attempt to dart as if dodging a bullet, but fail to move with sufficient speed to avoid being thumped on the temple with the hard edge of the vessel. I am propelled off the boardwalk and land face-down on the beach, marinating my tonsils in sand.

  ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ The owner of the canoe, who looks to be in his fifties, drops his boat and rushes to my aid.

  ‘It’s fine!’ I spit dirt out of my mouth as I spot my opportunity and leap up, pull off my shoes and attempt to sprint across the sand, a surface that proves about as suitable for the task as a tray of freshly made toffee.

  With sweat snaking down my face and the wind howling into my meticulously tousled hair, I turn the corner to the beach bar with a racing heart and scan the tables.

  There are couples, families, groups of friends. But not Harry.

  I crumple with disappointment as several facts become apparent. I actually liked this man. I fancied him. I enjoyed his company. I wanted something to happen between us.

  For most women this would be no a big deal, these commonplace bubbles of attraction that, with no opportunity to grow, will simply float away and be forgotten. But for me there’s nothing commonplace about meeting someone I like. Until this week, I believed 100 per cent that when Roberto died, a light bulb shattered inside me that could never be pieced together.

  Only, it appears that it has been. And I appear to have stood up the man who made that happen.

  I gaze out to sea, wondering what Harry must make of this. I am unable to decide whether he’ll be in his hotel room weeping into his sangria, or sticking pins in a voodoo doll. Both scenarios make me feel horrible.

  But not quite as horrible, it turns out, as the reality.

  As I’m turning to leave I spot them, on the beach together, looking like something from a late 1990s Davidoff advert.

  It’s Harry and Clipboard Barbie. They’re in each other’s arms.

  Chapter 38

  A small part of me tries to look on the bright side. My hair is matted with sand and sweat and, I di
scover, when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window of a Seat Ibiza, I’ve managed to rub mascara down my cheek, enhancing the jaundice-yellow effect of my black eye.

  I slump back to the hotel, desperate to talk this through with the girls, only to discover texts saying that Nicola has gone to bed with a migraine and Meredith, having had another exchange with Nathan about coming away in her third trimester, is sampling some local hotspot with the waiter she met on the first night.

  The thought of being in the hotel room with a ringing phone all night is too much to bear, so I do what seems to work for all dejected women in the movies and order a Scotch on the rocks while I perch at the bar, wondering if a friendly-and-wise bar-tender will invite me to share my troubles.

  In fact, it’s a woman who serves me, and she doesn’t seem inclined to stretch her job description beyond slapping my glass down on a coaster in front of me.

  ‘It is you! The very beautiful Eenglish lady! May I join you?’

  It’s the guy from Florence – he who is fond of wanking.

  I muster up a smile. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Are you having a stimulating time so far?’ he asks, climbing onto the stool next to me.

  He’s sweet, if a little lacking in the English department. Not that my Italian’s great (and as someone who lived with an Italian, I’ve got absolutely no excuse).

  ‘Very stimulating, thank you,’ I say, suddenly horribly aware of my appearance. I rake through my hair with my fingers, but it’s like trying to groom an Old English Sheepdog with a dessert fork. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes, although I am looking forward to going to Firenze again. I miss the pussy,’ he explains mournfully.

  I blink. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, everywhere I look here, there is beautiful pussy, wanking in the street, or the beach. It reminds me of my baby at home. You want to see?’