A Very Accidental Love Story

by Claudia Carroll

  I’ve thought it all through; I have a plan. I’m going to take Jake out for a walk over the grounds after breakfast and when we find a nice, peaceful spot, miles from any distractions or unwanted interruptions, I’ll tell him then. Everything, the whole works.

  Sunday morning it is, for better or for worse.

  ‘Eloise, listen,’ Jake cuts across my stream of worrying, taking me out of my own head and back to our phone call. ‘Stop your fretting, would you? We’ve been over this time and again. You’ve prepped me inside and out and we can do no more. I know who everyone is and I’ve enough titbits about the lot of them to last me if we were all going off on a luxury cruise liner for three long months, never mind just for one lousy weekend. I know what to say and more importantly, what not to say. So will you just relax, for Christ’s sake? The point has come where you’re going to have to relinquish control and learn to trust me.’

  Relinquish, I think absently. Must be his new word for the day.

  ‘I do trust you. You just have no idea what you’re letting yourself in for, that’s all. Oh and one more thing …’

  ‘Ah here, what now?’

  ‘Robbie Turner …’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, political guy, I’ll know him by the shock of white hair, you’ve already drilled it into me …’

  ‘If I could just finish my sentence – I was going to say his wife is Adele and she’s lovely, very warm and friendly.’

  ‘Safe for me to be myself around, in other words. That what you mean?’

  ‘Be warned though, she’s no fan of mine. Blames me hugely for the fact that she and her kids rarely see Robbie, because the hours he has to work are so mental.’

  ‘Ah, Eloise. You mean you never cut the guy a bit of slack?’

  ‘Believe me, I’ve been trying to, but you don’t realise what being a foreign editor involves. The sheer number of man hours you’ve got to put in and then you’ve got to factor in the time difference if you’re covering a breaking story from Washington.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I get it. Because the whole world will come to an end if you’re not all chained to your desks for at least eighteen hours a day.’

  ‘I’m just saying, Adele’s no fan of mine, so be warned.’

  ‘Eloise, short of you sending me mailshots of everyone with their CV attached, we can’t prepare for this weekend any more thoroughly that we already have done. Now would you ever just relax and switch off, for God’s sake? Isn’t it supposed to be an enjoyable two-day break? Isn’t it all meant to be a bit of fun? Can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it after a week of exams.’

  ‘Fun? Did you just use the word fun in connection with the directors’ weekend? Because let me tell you, this is all about stress and tears and sweat and hair loss. Fun doesn’t even begin to come into it.’

  ‘All I’m saying is, will you just for once chill out a bit?’

  ‘I am. I mean I’m trying to. I mean, yes, I will.’

  ‘And another thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Given that it’s supposed to be a casual country house get-together …’

  ‘Casual? There are internent camps out there more casual than one of these bloody weekends, let me tell you.’

  ‘I wasn’t finished,’ he says, calmly overriding me, the way he always seems to be able to. ‘As a matter of fact, it’s about you.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Remember when I was going for my job interview and you took me out shopping? Made me buy clothes I’d never buy in a million years? And I hated wearing them, but then they got me the job and now I’m so used to going around in non-sports-related gear …’

  ‘… And not wearing trainers all day every day, thank God.’

  ‘By now it’s almost become second nature to me to dress all, you know, middle-class. Whereas you, on the other hand …’

  ‘You have a problem with how I dress?’ I splutter, as the sudden bile of indignation surges through me. ‘Excuse me, my suits are all either from Reiss or else Karen Millen and I do actually own a pair of Louboutins, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘Ehh, let me hazard a wild guess. All in black?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’ I mean the soles of my fancy shoes may be scarlet red, but sure enough, okay, everything else is black.

  ‘Thought so,’ he teases. ‘Sounds like you alright.’

  ‘What’s wrong with black? It’s for the office and it’s practical. Editorial.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with it. I’m just sick looking at you dressed like you’re going to the funeral of an elderly relative that you didn’t particularly like and who left you next to nothing in their will. For god’s sake, this is supposed to be a relaxed weekend in the country, that’s all I’m saying,’ Jake goes on, reasonably. ‘So would it kill you just this once to wear a pair of jeans and a few casual tops instead? In actual colours too? You’d look good in colours.’

  Jeans, I think, miles away. Haven’t shoehorned myself into a pair of jeans since I was in college.

  ‘Look,’ he goes on, undeterred by my silence. ‘You took me shopping with you once, and now it’s my turn to repay the favour. You free now?’

  ‘Jake, you’re meant to be studying! I was only calling you to see how the exams are going so far.’

  ‘I’ve been at the books cramming since dawn and my brain is just about melted. I could really do with getting out of here for an hour and taking a break. Tell you what, I could you meet at the top of Grafton St. in twenty minutes? Come on, it’s a Thursday evening, everything’s open till late, you could easily manage it.’

  Suddenly the sound of loud shrieking comes from the kitchen as Lily and Helen, who are baking cupcakes, start having what sounds like a particularly messy flour fight. I cover the phone with my hand and stick my head round the door, nearly guffawing with laughter at the sight of their twin ghostly white faces, four big surprised eyes looking back at me.

  ‘NO, Mama, NO,’ Lily squeals excitedly, eyes full of mischief and energy, shoving me away and getting little floury paw-shaped handprints all over my neat black skirt. ‘You’re not ’llowed be in here! Me and Auntie Helen are making a supriwse for you!’

  ‘Give us an hour and come back then?’ Helen asks me hopefully. ‘Lily really wants to bake cupcakes for you.’

  ‘What’s all that racket in the background?’ says Jake. ‘You still in the office?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ I say, instinctively keeping my hand well clamped over the phone. ‘Ehh, look, I have to go now. But yeah sure, why not? I’ll meet you in ten minutes.’

  I hang up, dust the flour off myself, then tell Helen that I’ll be home in an hour or so and head outside to the car. And okay, so my head may be whirring like a Vegas slot machine with everything I have to stress about. But seeing Jake even just for an hour or so will calm me down a cbit, I think.

  Somehow it always does.

  Besides, what’s wrong with enjoying these last few days of normality with him while I still can?

  Chapter Eleven

  The weekend is taking place not at the usual, intimidatingly posh five-star Adare Manor, but in slightly less salubrious surroundings, in deference to the fact that we’re in economic meltdown and the Post just isn’t pulling in the numbers in the way it used to. So for this year’s annual tension-fest, we’re in Davenport Hall, a stately pile now renovated to budget-friendly three-star standards, but crucially, with a massive golf course attached, so the T. Rexes can do what they all pretty much came here to do. That is, arse around the fairways talking shop and deciding who’s next for the chop. And although the thought of two full days away from Lily is killing me, all I can think is maybe, just maybe, if the Gods smile down on me, by the time it’s all over, I might be bringing her home a dad that’s chomping at the bit to meet her. Her dream come true, in other words.

  Anyway, the hotel is only about an hour’s drive from Dublin and I have to say, I’m sincerely and genuinely glad of Jake’s company on the way. Whatever to
morrow brings, I think, I’m just going to enjoy today.

  Can’t describe how lovely it is to arrive here with someone. Even if they’re most emphatically not your partner, it’s still completely wonderful and a huge novelty for such a perennial loner like me. Lovely to have a guy who insists on carrying my bags, lovely not to have to trip up the huge hulking stone steps to the hotel reception all alone and loveliest of all to face into the awful melee of the Saturday afternoon ‘meet and greet’ with an actual pal beside me. And okay, so I may not have actually chosen to invite him here, but now that he is, I have to admit I’m bloody glad of it.

  What can I say? After all my years of facing into crowded gatherings all alone with no one beside me, it’s beyond comforting to have a friend with me, supporting me. Someone who I’ve painstakingly prepped with all the ins and outs involved in the social and political minefield we’re about to step into and who’s somehow, miraculously, still okay with it all. Still hovering by my side, checking that I’m alright, making sure I’ve got a drink, every now and then glancing over in my direction, even when we’re separated, throwing me a surreptitious wink as much as to say, ‘you’re doing fine.’

  Must be really magical to be in a proper relationship with someone genuinely caring and supportive, is all I can think.

  Not that I’d know, but I mean, I’m guessing.

  And I have to hand it to Jake, he’s playing a blinder. Didn’t turn a hair when we were only allocated one room between us, and when I asked for a second one, was told the hotel was totally overbooked, so it was a case of share and get on with it. Turns out it’s a double room, so after a flushed and mortified silence from me, Jake just laughed his easy, relaxed laugh and gallantly offered to sleep on the sofa.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what his bendy, Bikram-loving, Malboro-voiced ‘friend’ from Catalonia might have to say about this whole arrangement, but decided for once in my life to keep my trap shut. He hasn’t mentioned her once, so why would I? Even if I’ve a mental picture of bendy, supple Monique or whatever her name is, with both legs wrapped round her neck, going ‘Tell me more about zee present indicative, Jake baby.’

  Have to hand it to him, he looks terrific too. Absurdly gorgeous, as just about every woman here is at pains to point out to me. At the afternoon meet and greet in the hotel’s drawing room, he’s dressed in jeans and a simple white cashmere jumper that really brings out the light suntan he’s picked up. My eye keeps subconsciously wandering over to him, only dying to ogle him, every time I think he’s not looking. He really is that good looking, tall and broad and classically handsome, casually leaning against a wall, towering over all around him. And every time I do sneak an admiring peek in his direction, he must feel my eyes on him because next thing, he’ll be looking back at me, smiling at me, winking at me, mouthing at me that everything is fine.

  And for now, he’s right. For today at least, everything really is fine; for once in my life, I can physically feel it.

  You should see him though, chatting away to everyone, mingling easily, shaking hands with strangers then nodding with easy recognition as they introduce themselves. Broad and imposing, by a mile the tallest guy here, with some fruity-looking, summery cocktail clamped to his hand that I know he’d rather die than drink (he reckons cocktails are only for straight women on hen nights, or else gays). Honest to God, I think proudly, the guy really looks to the manner born.

  Like he’s been moving in these circles all his life.

  If you didn’t know for sure, you’d swear he was a multi-millionaire businessman who’d miraculously survived the recession, or else maybe a wealthy and secure hedge fund manager here to relax and chill out for a well deserved weekend’s rest. But never would you even randomly guess this guy was barely a few months out of a high security prison and currently on parole. Not a chance.

  I actually lose count of the number of people who come up to me in the crush specifically to tell me how lovely Jake is, then politely ask how long we’ve been an item. All my ‘Oh, well, we’re really just good friends,’ lines are brushed aside as the rumour mill takes over, reaching me, as it somehow always does, with the usual approximately thirty-minute time delay.

  They’re such a lovely couple, and the effect he’s having on Eloise Elliot is quite extraordinary … She’s a completely different person these days. So much more relaxed and softer than Madam Tiger Blood of old. For God’s sake, just take a look at her! She’s actually wearing a pair of jeans and for once in her life isn’t trailing around in one of her terrifying black power suits! Just wish she’d met that Jake guy years ago, that’s all I can say, life might have been a helluva lot easier in work for the rest of us …

  And there’s another thing too, another reason why I find myself glowing this afternoon. Now, I’m someone who has never in my whole life known popularity. My place was perennially to accept that while my younger sister was the pretty, likeable one who everyone instantly warned to, I was her scowling termagant sidekick that any sane person would rather open up one of their own veins than spend time with. In fact, for years and years, I used to consider any social event with my work colleagues a success if I managed to get home alive and still in one piece.

  But not now. There’s a sea change in the air, I can practically feel it. It starts with Adele Turner, Robbie’s wife, normally so stand-offish and cool with me, who comes up and actually physically hugs me, nearly knocking the air out of my lungs, it’s that tight and heartfelt. She thanks me over and over for letting Robbie off to get to their daughter’s Confirmation, says it made the whole day for them and that she was so grateful to me. Asks if it’s true that I personally covered for Robbie that day, which I brush aside and instead deflect the chat onto how the Confirmation went instead.

  Then Jenny Wilson from accounts – again, no fan of mine ever since I had to cut her back to a three-day week during the last staff culling – comes over, all full of smiles and chat. Warm and friendly as you like, she tells me that she’d heard what I’d done for poor Rachel, who also happens to be her best friend; that she’d been to visit her at home only recently, and that she’s doing a whole lot better now.

  ‘That was really considerate of you, Eloise,’ she tells me, her eyes shining with sincerity. ‘You didn’t have to, and not many other bosses would have been so compassionate. Rachel was very touched, I can tell you. As we all were when the news got out.’

  I of course modestly brush it aside.

  But deep down I am secretly chuffed beyond words.

  Ordinarily at these mind-bendingly boring functions, I’m either shoehorned into a corner with one of the T. Rexes who’ll bore me to sobs about his golf handicap, or else I’m left standing all alone on the sidelines with no one to talk to, cradling a drink, watching everyone else having a good time and feeling nothing but hate-vibes pulsating towards me. Oh, and checking my iPhone every few minutes, to at least make it look like I’m not particularly bothered that no one’s bothered with me.

  Not now though. Somehow, for the first time in my life, I find myself right at the very epicentre of a big group of co-workers, all chatting and yabbering away to me, including me in their in-jokes, making me feel like I really do belong. And I love it, it’s intoxicating and wonderful and to my great shame, I’d never really realised before just how great my colleagues really are. Never got to really know them, as people.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Seth Coleman’s skeletal outline, with a tall, beautiful modely one on his arm. So out-of-his league stunning in fact, Sarah from advertising whispers to me that she must be a hired high-class escort paid to be with him for the weekend. And we both giggle into our drinks, enjoying a genuine moment of girlie bonding, something completely new and utterly lovely for me.

  Can’t tell you the warm, comforting feeling that genuinely belonging gives to me. I’ve missed out on so much these past few years, I think. Missed all the camaraderie, the messing, joshing each other along in the office, anything to make
the long days go that bit faster. How much more pleasant would my life have been, I wonder, had I only taken the time and trouble to get to really know these people sooner?

  Dave, the night editor, almost brings a tear to my eye when he muscles down into a seat beside me, and warmly says, ‘You know something? I never really knew how sound you were before. And I want to say sorry if I’ve ever misjudged you, Eloise. I used to think that everything you ever said or did was calculated to intimidate. But what can I say? I completely and totally had the wrong idea of you, couldn’t have been more wrong about you, in fact. And I’m not the only one round here either.’

  I shoot him a look of deep gratitude, then as much as to say, ‘you’re one of us now’, he lightens up a bit and says, ‘right then, it’s your round Elliot, now up off your lazy arse and mine’s a gin and tonic.’

  ‘Sure, I was on my way to the bar anyway,’ I smile back at him, touched that he thought enough of me to give me a gentle slagging. Because no one’s ever done that at work before, ever. ‘But can I just say one thing before I go? Thing is Dave, I really think that I’m the one who should be apologising to you.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ he asks, looking me straight in the eye.

  ‘All those late nights with me nearly sweating blood down in the print room? Come on, Dave, how you managed to not shove one of my bare limbs into the presses is a shining testament to your eternal good nature.’

  And he rolls his eyes jokingly and grins at me and just like that, years of tension, angst, blood, sweat and tears just melt away.

  Best of all, I see Jake out of the corner of my eye, stuck in a conversation with, ahem, Lady Hume, but every now and then throwing sideways glances over at me, just checking on me. And I meet his warm, soft gaze and he gives me a wink and I think, for the moment at least, it doesn’t get any better than this.

  Turns out I’m dead right. It doesn’t.

  It gets worse. Far, far worse.