‘David, it’s my daughter’s first day at school.’
‘I’m sure little Fiona—’
‘It’s Florence. And I have to be there.’
He looks as though a small explosion is going off in his cerebral cortex. ‘Imogen, this is the most important day of your year, the most important day of your career. The idea that you couldn’t be there, well, it’s—’
‘David, let me stop you there,’ I say, lowering my voice slightly. I read once that it was a technique for commanding authority favoured by Margaret Thatcher and it’s blisteringly effective. ‘I have given this company my blood, sweat and tears for the last seven years. You were very good to me during my maternity leave, and you’ve been an excellent boss.’
‘Why are you saying that as if you’re resigning?’ he whimpers. ‘It’ll look terrible if you go off with stress too, Imogen.’
‘I’m simply saying, David, that I think I’ve been good too – at least, I’ve tried to be. I’ve tried to do everything I possibly can for this company. Because I love working here, David – I’ve loved working here since the day I started. But I haven’t loved this week.’
‘Nobody could dispute—’
‘I have just been on what was supposedly my first holiday in more years than I can remember. And, instead of being allowed to relax, I have returned feeling as though I’ve spent the week crawling through the Burmese jungle attempting to fight off snipers.’
He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him short. ‘The phone has not stopped. I’ve had meetings, I’ve done interviews, I’ve spent every waking minute devoting this week to trying to save your arse. This is despite the fact that I still haven’t officially been given this job, let alone the salary to go with it.’
He sticks out his bottom lip.
‘And, yes, it didn’t all go as smoothly as I might have wanted. But I tried,’ I continue, impassioned. ‘And that’s why I’m asking this of you. In fact, I’m not asking – I’m telling. My only daughter wants me to take her to her first day at school on the morning of September of 2nd. And I am going to be there.’
We gaze at each other as if we’ve both got a pistol in our pocket and can’t decide who’s going to draw it out first. I’m so determined not to back down, I’m prepared to develop eyeballs like sandpaper.
Eventually, he sniffs and looks at his fingernails. ‘Could you come in afterwards, maybe join us for the debrief?’
I try not to smile. ‘Of course.’
‘That’s settled then.’
It’s only then that I realise how shocked I am. And how glad I am that I don’t have to start job-hunting. Because, as much of a knob-head that David can be, he’s not all bad. And I love this job; I need this job. Imperfect and demanding as it is, it’s mine.
He stands up and straightens the sleeves on his Savile Row suit. ‘I’m glad we cleared all that up.’
‘Me too.’
‘And I’m sure we can sort out the job title, you know – make it official. The pay rise might have to wait until next month but, again, it’s all do-able.’
I bite my lip as the hangover of adrenalin kicks in. ‘Thank you, David.’
He nods. ‘No, Imogen. Thank you.’
Sometimes, that’s all you need to hear.
Chapter 63
We don’t get as much post as we used to. Like every other office in the world, most things are done electronically these days, from the delivery of invoices to asking a colleague two desks away if she’d like you to pick up a cheese sandwich for her on lunch. But today, Laura enters with a stack of documents for my in-tray and alerts me to the fact that the letter on the top is distinctly out of kilter with the rest.
‘Morning . . . um, Imogen. Quite a bit of mail this morning. Including this . . .’
She smiles as I take it from her. It’s the colour of Amaretto, tied around with a plush, dark-chocolate-coloured ribbon. ‘Private And Confidential’ is handwritten in half-cursive letters in the corner. There’s no postmark and no stamp.
‘Did this come in another envelope?’ I ask.
‘It did, now you mention it. Why?’ she replies, clearly overcome with curiosity.
I consider asking if there was an Aberdeen postmark, but decide it’s easier to find out for myself. ‘Probably someone trying to sell me something,’ I say, hoping that this isn’t the case. I twirl it round between my fingers. ‘Thank you.’
‘Oh . . . a few of us are going to Punch & Judy after work on Friday. I know you’ve got Florence so it must be difficult, but Elsa and Stacey said you used to go quite a lot. I just thought it’d be nice if you could make it, maybe for half an hour or so.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Actually . . . maybe I could. For half an hour, anyway. As long as I leave on time, of course. Which I’m going to.’
‘Fab,’ she says, before disappearing out of the door.
A smile flickers over my lips as I open the thick, crisp paper, and I stand and walk across the room.
July 28th
Dear Imogen ,
I’ve made a rash decision. I’m writing this having stepped on the plane only minutes ago, partly because you said you missed letters and partly because there are no decent in-flight movies. (I’m joking of course. They’ve got Miss Congeniality.)
Actually, neither is the whole truth. I wanted to write to you, really, to underline something at which I’ve hinted already but feel honour-bound to spell out, while trying my best not to sound like a lunatic. Which will be quite some feat given that this time two weeks ago, I didn’t even know you.
Still, if I’ve been gripped by a temporary madness, at least I can say it’s the best kind.
Imogen , in the last eight days you’ve entered my world like a blaze of fireworks. It’s something I’ve not ever experienced before and, after thirty-four years, I’m not overly optimistic about experiencing it again. You might argue differently and it’s a moot point, of course. But it’s also not a chance I relish taking.
In case it isn’t obvious, this is a love letter. A bona-fide, bells-and-whistles love letter, the kind that is supposed to have been obliterated by modern technology. Although I’d never be so hasty/tacky/plain daft as to use that word – the L word – after just eight days (because we both know that’s JUST NOT POSSIBLE), I am prepared to believe this:
You are the most incredible, funny, gorgeous and amazing woman I’ve ever encountered. And, yes, we barely know each other. You don’t know my bad habits (of which there are obviously none ;-) ) and I don’t know yours. But I am certain about something: I think you and I need to be given a chance. My hunch might be wrong, but I couldn’t live with myself without at least trying to find out.
So I have one big question for you and it’s this—
I am holding my breath as I turn the page.
Would you like to go for lunch ?
Harry X
With my heart racing I grab my mobile out of my bag and pull up Harry’s number before sending a text:
What do you mean: ‘Would you like to go for lunch?!’ x
A response arrives a second later:
I *mean*: would you like to go for lunch?
I scroll down, holding my breath, as I read his explanation: the smallest of sentences that bursts into my head like sherbet on my tongue:
I’m downstairs.
Chapter 64
I walk out of my office in a near daze, only briefly acknowledging Stacey waving at the other end of the room, ignoring the Minnie Mouse ears Roy tries to foist on me (his gift to say sorry), and dodging David’s PA’s attempts to book me in for a meeting. I glide past Accounts until I reach the lift, step in and press the down button, feeling my stomach whirl as it sinks to the first-floor balcony overlooking the lobby.
I inhale deeply, my legs tingling as I step onto the short escalator that leads down to the ground floor, and descend, fixing my gaze on the man by the door in the geometric T-shirt with the shimmering midnight blue eyes.
> He is pacing next to the window, watching the taxis jostle for space outside, or perhaps watching nothing at all. Then he turns. I step off the escalator and stand, convinced as he looks at me that I’ve never seen a more beautiful man in my life. I am momentarily immobile, certainly speechless. He smiles.
Then I do too, not knowing what to do except walk towards him with wonder and elation running through my veins.
‘This is a long way to come for lunch,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘I know. I’m hoping it’ll be worth my while.’
We walk towards one of my favourite Covent Garden cafés on one of those grey, leaden days you sometimes get in the UK, the ones in defiance of the fact that it’s supposed to be summer. It’s a world away from the blinding sunshine of Barcelona, yet as heat spreads through me, I’ve never felt warmer.
‘Did you get in trouble for not attending your media dinner on the last night in Spain?’ I ask.
He looks sheepish. ‘I hope I’ve made up for it.’
‘Oh?’
‘I wrote an email to the owner of the hotel as soon as I got home, thanking him for his hospitality and praising Delfina for her superb work in promoting them. My travel piece is going in next week, and I couldn’t have been more glowing about them if they’d offered guests a complimentary wank every morning.’
I burst out laughing. ‘Shame it’s too late to save her job.’
‘Yes and no. She emailed me this morning to let me know she’s got another PR role – for Calandria Benevente.’
‘The film star at the hotel?’
He nods. ‘So you don’t need to feel too sorry for her.’
There’s a momentary silence as we approach the café, until I turn to Harry, unable to stop myself from grinning. ‘Thank you for your letter.’
The brush of his arm against mine provokes an urgent need to reach out and touch his fingertips, but I restrain myself.
He stiffens and takes a deep breath. ‘I don’t know whether to be embarrassed about it or not.’
‘Why would you be embarrassed?’
‘Because I hardly know you. Yet here I am making all these grand declarations like a complete . . . plonker.’
I stifle a laugh. ‘I don’t think you’re a plonker. Besides, there’s a lot to be said for grand declarations.’
At that, he takes my hand gently and we stop and turn to each other. He looks into my eyes and I swear the rest of the world has disappeared as my heart races in anticipation for just one more kiss from him . . .
Only he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he says something that makes my legs momentarily incapable of supporting the weight of my body.
‘I’m not moving to Aberdeen.’
I shake my head, feeling my chest rise. ‘What? But why? What about your mum?’
He thrusts his hands in his pockets in a way that makes him look sweetly vulnerable. ‘Turns out she didn’t say no to dinner because she was going to bingo.’
‘Oh?’
He suppresses a smile. ‘She’s got a boyfriend.’
‘What?’ I laugh. ‘What happened to “she’ll never find someone”?’
‘I guess I’ve been proved wrong. Which I’m very happy about, incidentally. He’s called Frank. He’s owns a landscape-gardening company, and likes cooking and jazz. And they’re in love. At the age of fifty-nine, my mother has fallen in love.’
‘Wow. So there’s time for you yet,’ I tease.
He goes to say something, then stops himself. We both carry on walking.
‘So with this boyfriend on the scene, do you feel like you’re no longer needed?’ I ask.
‘She didn’t put it quite so bluntly, but that seems to be the upshot.’
‘And how do you feel about that?’
‘Obviously, part of me feels a bit odd about reversing the whole plan and staying in London just because some new bloke is on the scene. But, as you’d probably guessed, I never wanted to leave London anyway, and she’s absolutely determined that life’s just grand back home without the benefit of me around the corner.’ He stops walking and turns to me again. ‘Imogen, I don’t want anything from you that you’re not ready for. Except perhaps this.’ I realise I’m holding my breath. ‘I’d like to get to know you.’
A smile twitches to my lips. ‘You would?’
He nods. ‘What do you think?’
I can barely process the implications of all this; I simply blurt out what instinctively I know to be the case. ‘I think I’d like to get to know you too. Very much.’
At that, he reaches round my neck and draws his face closer to mine. As our lips touch, happiness races through me.
I have no idea where this thing between him and me might go – it feels horribly and beautifully risky, and I’m completely out of my comfort zone. But there’s one thing I do know: for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m ready to find out.
Epilogue
Sunday, 1 September 2012
I’m laying out Florence’s school uniform in her room and trying to stop Spud from leaping onto her bed when David phones.
‘Are we all fired up and ready to go?’
‘Absolutely. Parents have to stay for an hour after the official school start tomorrow, then I’ve got a cab booked to bring me straight to the door of the office. If my timing’s right, I should be there ten or twelve minutes into your presentation.’
‘I didn’t mean the presentation. I meant Florence’s first day at school. Big day for anyone – I remember it myself. Golly McMolly, I was nervous. Near-enough incontinent for a week as I recall . . .’
David and I run through the final details of his presentation, as well as the schedule for tomorrow. He manages to hold it together, at least enough to keep up appearances.
‘It sounds like we’re all on top of things,’ he concludes. ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow, shall I?’
‘Yes, see you then. And, David . . . are you okay?’
For the first week after Carmen officially kicked him out, David slept on an old school friend’s sofa, until his wife, quite reasonably, decided she wanted the sofa back. So he checked into a hotel round the corner from work, where he lives an Alan Partridgesque existence in which his only distractions are collecting miniature soaps and pressing his trousers in the Corby 3000.
The tremble in his voice says more than his words. ‘Been better, I’ll be honest.’
‘Is Carmen still not returning your calls?’
‘Not one. The only person who’s phoned is Lydia.’
‘Oh, well, that’s something.’
‘It was to tell me she hates me.’
‘Oh.’
‘And that Carmen slept with a paparazzo.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘It was one of the ones camped outside our house. According to Lydia, she gave him an exclusive – and then carried on giving. They all blame me. And they’re obviously right.’
When I’ve finished on the phone, I pack a picnic and Florence and I jump on the Tube. We emerge from Hyde Park Corner into brilliant sunshine and walk towards the Serpentine with her hand in mine.
I’ve deliberately arrived an hour before everyone else to do something with my daughter that I’ve been meaning to do for ages.
I’m aware that the pedalos on offer would be more practical for a woman with as little nautical expertise as me, but I want to do this properly. So I opt for a little blue rowing boat, one bigger than we really need but which is perfect for our purposes.
I pay the man at the side of the lake and he helps Florence in, leaving me to an ungainly boarding in which I almost capsize the lot of us.
It takes about forty of our allocated sixty minutes before I’m significantly proficient with the oars to propel us further than six feet, but Florence doesn’t seem to mind: every time I come close to dropping the oar or crashing into a pedalo, she collapses into fits of giggles. Eventually I rest the oars in the boat and allow my shoulders to absorb the sunshine.
‘This is what y
our daddy used to do with his granddad when he was a little boy,’ I tell her.
‘On this lake?’
‘No, in Italy. Your daddy loved it. He wanted to do it with you.’
She smiles. ‘Then he’ll be happy up in heaven that I’m having a go.’ She says this entirely matter of factly, but the thought makes my eyes hot.
‘There’s no doubt about it,’ I reply. ‘He’ll be extremely proud of you. And he’ll be watching over you tomorrow when you go to school for the first time. His big girl.’
When we’ve finished in the boat, we lay out our picnic blanket at the edge of the lake as we wait for the others to arrive, my stomach rippling with nerves.
It’s Nathan I spot first, with Adam in one of those baby rucksacks as he swings Meredith’s hand, a beaming smile on his face. As they approach, it strikes me how unfeasibly glamorous she looks considering Adam is apparently awake for half the night.
‘Oh, the night time thing’s fine,’ she tells me. ‘I just wake up to breastfeed him then go back to sleep while Nathan does his nappy and burps him. We’re a pretty good team, aren’t we?’ She grins as Nathan kisses her on the cheek looking, I can’t help but notice, significantly more exhausted than his girlfriend.
Nathan carefully removes Adam’s pudgy pink legs from the rucksack and the baby’s eyes briefly flutter open. It strikes me how much he’s grown in the seven weeks since he was born. He didn’t stay in hospital for long; he thrived right from the beginning, and the doctors seem confident that his prematurity won’t affect him in the long term.
‘How’s your mum after the accident?’ asks Nathan.
‘A lot better, thanks. And Florence has promised never to run across the road again, haven’t you?’ I throw her a meaningful look, which she tries to ignore.
‘When’s your friend getting here, Mummy?’ she asks instead.
Meredith suppresses a smile.
‘Soon,’ I reply. ‘He had to work today but he’s finishing early to come and meet you.’
‘He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?’ Florence says, clearly fancying herself as a junior sleuth. ‘Do you think you’ll get married?’
The Time of Our Lives Page 31
