The Time of Our Lives

by Jane Costello

  ‘How much did you pay for it?’

  ‘Not much,’ he says unconvincingly. I narrow my eyes.

  ‘You’re scary when you do that.’

  ‘Good. Because you’ve got to tell me. I insist on paying you back.’

  He throws the warning look back at me. ‘And I insist you drink that drink and let me enjoy the limited time I have left with you. The clock’s ticking.’

  I’m about to argue but those last three words stop me in my tracks. ‘Harry, I know we’re going our separate ways. And I know that things never quite worked out as they were meant to. We didn’t even manage a proper holiday fling.’

  He laughs. ‘No. Half a fling, maybe. A bloody good half, I might add.’

  I hesitate. ‘I want you to know this. I think you’re one of the most fantastic men I’ve ever met. And if things had been different . . . well, who knows what would’ve happened if things had been different? It hardly matters in some ways. But I need you to know that . . . saying goodbye suddenly feels horrible.’

  He leans in and puts his arm around me, kissing me on the head. ‘I know.’

  I pull back and look at him. ‘I still find it impossible to stomach the fact that things ended before they began. That I’m never going to see you again.’

  He squirms in his seat and is about to say something, but takes a sip of his drink instead.

  ‘What were you going to say?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come on, say it.’

  He turns and his jaw clenches. ‘It was nothing . . . just . . .’

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Why do I want to kiss you every time I see you?’

  There’s suddenly only one thing to say to that. ‘So kiss me.’

  He hesitates, looking at me through those big, inky eyes as he takes me by the hand.

  As his mouth touches mine, I’m lost in the soundtrack of my dancing heartbeat, and all I can think of is how desperate I am to be alone with him.

  I pull away and decide that for the first time in a while I need to be the one to suggest something reckless. ‘How bad would it be if you missed your media night?’ I whisper.

  He looks at me and ponders the question. ‘Well, Delfina’s lost her job already so I don’t suppose I’d be getting her in trouble. However, I can’t imagine the hotel owners will be impressed.’ He looks up at me. ‘So I’d have to say: It’d be bad.’

  I nod.

  ‘How bad would it be if you missed your competition prize dinner?’ he asks me.

  I bite the side of my mouth. ‘That’s be bad too.’

  We utter one sentence in perfect unison.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll understand . . .’

  Chapter 56

  There are no distractions. The phone isn’t ringing. My daughter is safe. If I stopped to think about my work worries – or any worries – I’d no doubt whip myself up into another cyclone of anxiety. But I’m not stopping to think any more.

  I’d almost forgotten how vast and resplendently cool Harry’s suite was. Yet it’s not the champagne bar or plunge pool that I can’t keep my eyes off. It’s him.

  I gaze at him with a single thought dominating my head. A wish. That this could be more than a holiday romance. If we knew each other better, then the fact that he’s moving somewhere a ten-hour drive away wouldn’t be insurmountable. But it’s not like we’ve been lovers for a year. I can’t start a long-distance romance with a man who I hardly know – when I think about the implications of that, it makes my head spin and not just from my vertigo. He doesn’t know that I grind my teeth in my sleep. He’s never met my daughter . . . or, God help us, my mother. He doesn’t know that most of my underwear isn’t fit to wash the dishes with. He doesn’t know that I weep every time I watch Top Gun or that the one and only time I tried marijuana I fell asleep in the corner of a party and snored like someone was using my nostrils as bagpipes.

  But, considering it’s only been seven days, he knows some of the big stuff. He knows about me and Roberto, me and my job, me and Florence. He’s seen me at my most vulnerable and hopeless (because there’s no other word for someone who buys denture cream for their feet), and it still hasn’t put him off.

  I wish, to an indescribable extent that, after I fly into Heathrow tomorrow, Harry and I could continue what we started this week with a relaxed drink after work one night, or lunch on a Saturday afternoon. Then just see what happens. That’s all.

  As soon as this thought filters through my head, another one crashes in behind it. This isn’t simply about me feeling ready for a romance on a general level, because the only romance I feel ready for is with him. I want us to go on our first, proper date in London. I want to invite him to dinner and to meet Florence. I want to stroll along the Thames and let this thing between us unfold at a nice, leisurely pace.

  But, given that we’re never going to get the chance, I push the thought away, determined not to dwell on something that isn’t a possibility and, instead, live for the moment. Tonight, for one night, I won’t plan and I won’t worry. I won’t think about anything beyond what’s happening in this room, right now.

  I push away my trepidation about heights and take a small, cautious step onto the balcony, gazing at the vast, twinkling sky. There I slip into Harry’s arms, submitting to his kiss, melting as his fingers sweep around my neck. As music drifts across the room I feel drunk on the moment, pressing my nose into his neck and kissing him gently as I breathe in the scent of his skin.

  I take a step back into the room and, without a shred of embarrassment, reach round to the zip on my dress. Lust rushes through me as I prepare to slip out of my clothes, unashamed for the first time in a long time of my body; a body I know that, for some odd and unfathomable reason, this man seems to appreciate every inch of.

  My zip is a quarter of the way down when it refuses to budge. I tug at it gently, imagining that seductive scene in Nine ½ Weeks, where Kim Basinger coolly strips and never stops pouting.

  I try not to stop pouting. But, unfortunately, decisive action is required and, as I yank at the zip, it’s stuck fast.

  ‘Okay, I’ll never get a job at Spearmint Rhino,’ I mutter.

  Harry struggles to contain his laughter. ‘Do you need some help?’

  ‘Would you mind awfully?’ I turn round and lift up my hair.

  He starts out gently, before realising that gently isn’t going to move this zip. ‘I don’t want to damage your dress,’ he says.

  But as I feel his hands against my skin, something takes over and I spin around, grab the zip and thrust it downwards, causing an almighty rip. ‘Shit! Oh well.’ I shrug.

  ‘I’m so glad I didn’t do that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t care,’ I declare, flinging the dress to the floor as I slide my half-naked body into his arms.

  I can’t tell you how satisfying it is to feel, against my stomach, exactly how much he wants me. In a burst of brazenness, I rub my hand against his crotch as he sighs with pleasure.

  I feel empowered, I feel wonderful; I feel like a goddess, ready to have the sex that, until this week, I haven’t had for five years. And, given the circumstances, may well not have for another five.

  This thought seems to spur me on as I unzip his trousers and he . . . freezes.

  I look up, trying to work out what’s gone wrong. I step back and study at his face. He’s clearly unnerved by something.

  ‘What is it?’ A moment of panic sweeps through me. ‘I’m sorry . . .’ I grab my dress and pull it around my chest.

  ‘Don’t be silly. I just thought I heard—’

  His sentence is stunted by an insistent rat-a-tat-tat on the door.

  ‘Did anyone order room service?’ he jokes.

  ‘Not me,’ I reply.

  He shakes his head. ‘Maybe they’ll go away.’ He falls into my arms once more, pushing away the dress and brushing his hands over my breasts as my body floods with desire.

  It’s only then that I hea
r the voice from the other side of the door.

  ‘Imogen!’

  I step back. ‘Oh, no. Please, no.’

  ‘You could always ignore it,’ he says, kissing my neck as I close my eyes.

  ‘IMOGEN!’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Not after what happened last time. I’m sorry.’ I step back and throw on my dress, holding it together like a defective hospital gown as I hobble to the door.

  The second I open it, I can tell from Nicola’s expression that something is wrong.

  ‘It’s Meredith,’ she manages breathlessly.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I think she’s in labour.’

  Chapter 57

  When I arrive at the room, Meredith is leaning against the mini-bar. ‘Ow,’ she says, as if someone’s just pulled an Elastoplast off her arm really fast.

  Which reassures me. Having been in labour myself, I know that if she was close to delivering the baby it’d feel like she was trying to squeeze a breeze block through her cervix. She’s clearly a long way from that. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  ‘This hurts.’ She frowns.

  ‘Well, labour does hurt, but . . . a little more than this. What makes you think this is it?’

  ‘I think my waters broke. But I’m not sure if it was just a . . . you know, bladder malfunction. Which never used to happen before I got pregnant, for the record.’

  ‘Are you getting contractions?’ I ask, rolling up my sleeves. I don’t know why exactly, as it’s not as though I’m going to have a root around in there, but it feels strangely reassuring.

  ‘Well, it does hurt every so often.’

  ‘Meredith, you’re not due to give birth for weeks. They’ll be Braxton Hicks,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve heard of those!’ she says proudly. ‘They’re practice contractions, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes. The key questions are whether they’re regular and, if so, how far apart are they?’

  She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. ‘I don’t know. Isn’t it the midwife’s job to time them?’

  ‘Well, it tends to be yours, first.’ I look at her. ‘I really doubt you’re in labour. But if, for argument’s sake, you were . . . well, the timing of the contractions is just to work out if we need a taxi because we’ve got twenty hours to go, or an ambulance because we’ve got twenty minutes.’

  Nicola inhales emphatically and steadies herself against the bureau. ‘That has got to be a joke.’

  ‘I honestly don’t think it’s imminent,’ I reassure them. ‘Like I say, she’s not due for weeks. Even if it was, labours take ages. At the stage when I felt like you do, Meredith, there were still another fifteen hours to go.’

  Meredith’s eyes widen and her face goes slightly red. ‘Erugghh.’

  I frown. ‘This is probably wind, you know. Everything feels uncomfortable at this stage in pregnancy. But maybe we should go to hospital just to be on the safe side.’

  I pick up the phone to the ‘Whatever your whim’ service to ask them to call the nearest maternity ward and warn them we’re on our way. It’s very apparent from the reaction of the young telephone operator that this is the first client whim of this nature he’s ever had to deal with.

  Meredith’s in pain again, just under five minutes later.

  ‘There’s really nothing to panic about,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going to time this now, but they don’t seem regular. I suspect the hospital will check you out and send you away again.’

  ‘But premature labours do happen. And I’m only thirty-four weeks pregnant, not forty, like you’re supposed to be. God, I’m really worried now . . .’ Meredith looks at me, as if seeking reassurance in my face.

  I take her hands. ‘Even if this was the big day, babies are fairly well developed by thirty-four weeks,’ I say. ‘You’re in the final stretch, so please don’t worry. Besides, I was born at thirty-one weeks, and look at me!’

  ‘Let’s just get to hospital, shall we?’ Nicola says failing to marvel at this miracle as much as I’d like.

  ‘What if they don’t speak English?’ Meredith says plaintively. ‘It’s bad enough giving birth early without it being abroad. I’ve already checked in the travel dictionary, and they don’t list the word for “epidural”.’

  ‘Meredith, you won’t be giving birth today, I’m certain,’ I repeat. ‘I’m happy to come with you to translate . . . if you want.’

  I spin around to notice Harry, who’s been holding my zip together to cover my modesty since we got here.

  ‘Would you mind?’ Meredith pleads.

  ‘Of course not. I’m not sure how much obstetrics I know in Spanish, but I’ll do my best.’

  We’re in the hotel lift when Meredith suddenly emits a squealing noise, like a wild pig that’s being threatened with a barbeque. I must admit it throws me slightly, despite being convinced that this isn’t labour. The sooner we get her to hospital to confirm that, the better.

  The lift opens on the fourth floor and my young Italian wanker steps in, holding hands with a gorgeous brunette in her late teens.

  ‘Ah, hello! It is the . . . Eeenglish lady.’ I note that I’m no longer ‘beautiful’, but realise I’m hardly in a position to complain, under the circumstances.

  ‘Hello, how are you?’ I smile.

  Meredith starts panting exuberantly and he glances at her, alarmed.

  ‘Your friend’s ass – it seems very bad.’

  ‘My ass?’ Meredith frowns, touching her backside.

  ‘She wees . . .’

  Meredith’s eyes widen as if trying to work out if she’s had another ‘bladder malfunction’.

  ‘Wees?’ I ask. A chord of recognition chimes in my head.

  ‘She wheezes! Ah, no, it’s not asthma – she’s having a baby.’

  ‘You really think this is it, then?’ Nicola asks nervously.

  ‘No, I’m sure this is a false alarm,’ I reply.

  ‘Ah, congratulations!’ The Italian grins as the door opens on the second floor and the Russian guy and Yellow Bikini Lady get in. I shift nervously into the corner of the lift, hoping he doesn’t recognise me as the woman who disturbed him while his wife was dyeing her upper lip.

  ‘Owwww!’ says Meredith.

  ‘You must be orgasmic!’ Italian guy adds.

  ‘I might be in labour,’ Meredith explains to the Russians, apparently unconcerned about their Mafia connections. ‘It’s my first time.’

  When we step out into the lobby, I can only describe the reception we receive from the staff as being comparable to the arrival of royalty. As Nicola phones Nathan to let him know what’s happening, they are all over us, rushing to provide Meredith with cold towels, then hot towels, then help her down the steps like she’s a geriatric. ‘Is there anything at all we can get you?’ asks the concierge.

  Meredith thinks for a second. ‘Ooh, champagne would be nice.’

  ‘Madam’ – a young female staff member with cropped black hair and an air of organisational efficiency that would rival Alexander the Great takes me to one side – ‘we have phoned the maternity hospital and they’re expecting you imminently. I have ordered you a car, but if time is of the essence, there is an alternative.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mr Venedictov heard about your plight and has offered that you take his personal limousine and driver.’

  ‘Really?’ I answer anxiously. What exactly is the protocol when one of the world’s most infamous crime lords invites you to use his personal car when your heavily pregnant best friend needs to be seen by a doctor? Clearly, offending him is something I’d rather avoid, although we’ve got enough to worry about without thinking we might need to divert somewhere on the way to go and chop off someone’s fingers one by one.

  ‘The hotel’s car should be here soon, but Mr Venedictov’s limousine does have the benefit of being outside now. It’s entirely up to you.’

  I grab the assistant by the elbow and pull her to a quiet corner. ‘Is it . . . safe?’
r />   She looks perplexed. ‘Is what safe?’

  I twitch awkwardly. ‘You know, the car. Given that it’s owned by . . . Alexander Venedictov.’

  She looks at me blankly. ‘Alexei.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Alexei Venedictov. The well-known Russian businessman and philanthropist.’

  I blink. ‘Not . . . mafia boss?’ I hiss.

  She stiffens, looking like I’ve just accused her mother of working the streets. ‘Absolutely not. We are not that kind of establishment. Mr Venedictov is a highly reputable and successful businessman, a deeply religious man who is totally devoted to his wife, Iarena. And their nine children.’

  I glance over at Yellow Bikini Lady and what I’m convinced is her fourteen-inch waist. ‘Nine . . .?’

  She nods. ‘He’s entirely respectable,’ she reassures me. ‘But the choice is yours.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, and go to put this proposition to Meredith.

  ‘It wasn’t the red-carpet treatment I’d imagined,’ she pants, ‘but why the hell not?’

  Mr Venedictov’s limo is insane. In some ways, it looks like something out of a very bad porn film, but I can see how you could get into the swing of things in different circumstances. I’m scrutinising the mini-bar when Meredith’s next pain arrives and she lets out a shriek that threatens to shatter the champagne glasses.

  ‘I will take to hospital,’ announces the driver, a short, rotund man with cheeks like Cox’s Orange Pippins and sideburns that look capable of sweeping out a garage. ‘I have driven Mr and Mrs Venedicktov around Barcelona many times so I know all the best routes. You will have good, smooth journey.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, as he hits the pedal and Harry clutches my hand.

  ‘I’ve never been in one of these before,’ Nicola muses, picking up a remote control. She pushes a button and, like something out of Thunderbirds, a flap lifts up to display a flat-screen television.

  ‘Please, help yourself,’ says Meredith, gesturing to the mini-bar, in all seriousness.