Mr. Maybe

by Jane Green

  My accounts? Okay, I’m currently working on Sean Moore, which you already know about. A performance artist called Rita Roberts, which is a bit peculiar because I don’t tend to do the theatrical stuff as I know nothing about it; a film called The Mystery Cup, which you won’t have heard of yet but, if I do my job properly, you’ll be reading about in every paper soon; the comedian Tony Baloney; and an aspiring television presenter called Amanda Baker. I say aspiring, which isn’t really fair, because she is on television, although not nearly as often as she’d like. She presents a showbiz slot on one of the daytime shows, and the minute she got her face on-screen she decided she was a star. Unfortunately, nobody seems to know who she is, and it’s a bit of a catch-22. The papers won’t write about her because she’s a no one, but without the coverage she can’t raise her profile, and it’s the hardest account I’ve got, not just because of that, but because she’s such a complete bitch.

  I managed to get her into a celeb round-up where one of the nationals wanted celebs to talk about their date from hell, and you’d think she’d be over the moon, but all she did was moan about being the smallest quote in there. For God’s sake, did she really expect to take precedence over Germaine Greer, Vanessa Feltz, Emma Noble and Ulrika? Well, evidently yes. The stupid cow did.

  But even the fact that Amanda’s coming in today for a meeting doesn’t ruin my good mood, and when the receptionist buzzes me to tell me she’s here, I float down to meet her, and even manage to compliment her, which seems to throw her a bit. “I love your suit,” I lie, taking in her tele-friendly pastel trouser suit, which looks vaguely Armani-ish except I know it’s not because Amanda isn’t nearly successful enough to afford Armani.

  “This old thing?” she says, but I can tell she’s pleased.

  “Come through.” I hold the door open for her, and say in my best PR voice, “So how are you?”

  “Oh, you know,” she says, running a hand through her mane of streaky blond hair. “Busy as ever.”

  “I caught the slot last week, the one where you interviewed Tony Blackburn. It was excellent, you really are good on TV.”

  “D’you think?” she says. “I didn’t look fat?”

  I laugh, because, stroppy cow that she may be, she still, like every woman I know, is convinced she’s fat, and yes, admittedly, television does add around ten pounds, but nevertheless she does look the part of the perfect blond, fluffy, bimbo television presenter.

  “Fat?” I say. “You? Are you mad? You’re skinny.”

  “I wish,” she says, but I’ve done it, I’ve actually put her in a good mood, which may make things easier because normally we start off on the wrong foot and end up with her moaning about the lack of press coverage. Hopefully now she’ll be a bit more understanding. If I weren’t so keen on my job, I’d tell her she’s just another bloody wanna-be and I really can’t be bothered, but obviously I can’t do that, so I shuffle some papers around and ask what she wants to see me about.

  “I really feel,” she starts, “that now is the time we should be blitzing the papers and getting some more coverage.”

  “Umm, yes,” I say, digging out the list to show her exactly who has been approached. “Was there anything specific you had in mind?”

  “Well, yes, actually,” she says. “I noticed in Hello! that they’ve done a profile of Lorraine Kelly with her new baby, and I’ve just moved house and done it up, and I thought it would make a very good feature.”

  “Okay,” I say, groaning inside. “I’ll ring them.” Which I will and they will sit on the other end of the phone, doubtless raising their eyes to the ceiling while I start my PR spiel about how brilliant Amanda is, and then they’ll say, sorry, we’ve never heard of her.

  “And,” she says, “I wondered exactly who you had spoken to recently about me?”

  Aha! Here’s my perfect chance for revenge. I slide the contact sheet over to her and start speaking in my most sympathetic tone of voice. “Last week I spoke to Femail in the Daily Mail, Sun Woman, the lifestyle supplement of the Express, Bella, Best, Woman’s Realm and Woman. This week I spoke to OK!, Here! magazine, TV Quick and Cosmopolitan.”

  “Oh.” Amanda’s voice is very small, and, for the first time ever, and I swear, this must be down to the good mood I’m in, suddenly I feel sorry for her.

  “Look,” I say. “I know it’s hard,” and I give her my speech about catch-22. “We need to come up with an angle, really.”

  “What sort of thing?” she says, and for a moment I forget I’m with a client whom I don’t really like and who doesn’t really like me and before I can help it I say, “Couldn’t you shag a celebrity?”

  She looks horrified.

  I’m horrified.

  “That was a joke,” I say, trying to laugh, except I can’t quite manage it and it comes out like a little strangled groan. “Seriously, though,” I continue, “have there been any life-changing events that we might be able to use, something that would make a good story?”

  “Not like moving house, then?” she asks hopefully.

  “Er, no. Not like moving house.” Like stealing, pillaging, nervous breakdowns, I’m thinking.

  “Umm.” She sits there and I can almost see her brain try to kick into gear. Oops, nearly, nearly. Nope, she can’t quite manage it.

  “Okay,” I say. “As a child, did you ever steal anything?”

  “Are you serious?” she asks.

  “Absolutely.” I nod my head very seriously.

  “No. Not really. Well . . .”

  “Yes?” I encourage eagerly.

  “Well, I did once take an eyeliner from Boots by mistake. I meant to pay for it but I completely forgot.”

  “Perfect!” I say. “My thieving hell from top TV presenter! I can see it now.”

  “Are you sure that will make a story?” she says doubtfully. “I mean, it was only an eyeliner and I was about fourteen years old, and I wouldn’t say it was hell, exactly, except I did feel terribly guilty.”

  “We won’t say it was an eyeliner, we’ll say it was a complete set of makeup, and you won’t have been fourteen, it will have happened last year, and the outcome of it was you felt so terrible, you didn’t know what came over you, you went back and owned up.”

  “But that’s lying!” she says.

  “That’s PR,” I say. “Hang on,” and I pull the phone over and dial a number. “Keith? It’s Libby from Joe Cooper PR. Fine, fine, you? Great. Listen, you know Amanda Baker from Breakfast Break? No, no, the showbiz slot. No, no, she does the weather. No, no, the blonde. Oh well, anyway, she’s doing more and more and she’s getting really big and she’s just confessed the most amazing story which would be perfect for your magazine. It turns out she had the shoplifting experience from hell last year, and she feels the time is right to confess all. Yup.” I nod, listening to what he’s saying. “Yup. Perfect. Full page? Brilliant. Okay.” I scribble down the direct line of the journalist he wants to do it, and put the phone down.

  “Well, Amanda,” I say. “You’ve just got yourself a full page in Female Fancies, with photographs and everything.”

  “That’s fantastic!” she says, almost breathless with excitement. “Photos! That’s brilliant! Will it be a studio shot with a professional hair and makeup person?”

  “We’ll sort out the details later,” I say noncommittally, thinking now would not be the time to tell her they want to take pictures of her in a chemist’s, furtively slipping a makeup bag into her large, voluminous raincoat.

  “And,” I say, dialing another number, “how about some radio?”

  Amanda is so impressed she can’t speak. She nods.

  “Mark? It’s Libby from Joe Cooper PR. Listen, you know that slot about Londoners and their favorite restaurants? How about Amanda Baker from Breakfast Break? I’ll fill you in later, yup, yup. Brilliant.” I can’t be bothered to tell someone else who she is, and I knew he’d say yes because local radio will give just about anyone airtime, and it does the job because Aman
da’s thrilled.

  “Libby,” she says, standing up and dusting imaginary dirt from her jacket. “You are doing the most incredible job.”

  I smile.

  “How about making a quick call to Femail and seeing if they’ll do a feature on me?”

  “Er,” I stall. “I just spoke to the commissioning editor before you arrived and I know she’s in conference so I’ll call her later.”

  “Oh.” Her face drops slightly. “Okay. Well, I’d better be off.” She checks her watch. “Thank you.” And with that she gives me two air kisses on either side of my face, which throws me somewhat because she’s never before offered me anything other than a limp handshake.

  “Ciao,” she says, as I wince. “I’ll speak to you later,” and I know she will, because the smaller the star the bigger the pain in the arse they are.

  “Libby?” says Jo, as I show Amanda to the door. “Jules is on the line. It’s about the eighth time she’s called. D’you want to take it or call her back?”

  I’m already running back to my desk as she finishes the sentence. “I’ll take it, I’ll take it,” I scream, diving into my chair and breathlessly picking up the phone.

  “Libby!” shouts Jules. “I’ve been dying to speak to you, I can’t believe you had a bloody meeting, I can’t get any work done, who’s Nick and what happened, you had sex didn’t you, I know you bloody had sex, how was it, what’s he like, tell me everything. . . .”

  “Calm down,” I laugh, lighting a cigarette and settling back in my chair for a good long chat. “First of all you can stop planning the wedding because he’s definitely not for me, but yes, we did have sex, and fucking hell, Jules, he is gorgeous.”

  “Why isn’t he for you? How do you know he’s not for you?”

  “Okay. For starters he’s got no money. . . .”

  There’s a silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Next he lives in a disgusting bedsit in Highgate.”

  “How do you know it’s disgusting?”

  “He told me. He’s not looking for a relationship. He’s very into politics. His idea of a good night out is down the pub with ten pints of beer.”

  “Okay, okay,” sighs Jules. “I get the picture. But Libby, just because he doesn’t have money doesn’t mean he’s not for you. Maybe you should start lowering your expectations.”

  “Jules! You know I couldn’t seriously go out with someone like that. Anyway,” I say, feeling slightly guilty at admitting all this, “it’s not just the money. It’s everything. We’re like chalk and cheese.”

  “So what happened last night, then?”

  And I tell her.

  The high as a kite feeling lasts precisely two days. Two days of floating around beaming with love. Sorry, lust. Two days of getting very little done other than daydreaming about the events of my night with Nick. Two days of leaping every time the phone rings.

  And then, when he hasn’t called, I start to feel sick. Now I know I’m being ridiculous because yes, yes, I know he’s not The bloody One, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want him to want me. I mean, Jesus, he’s supposed to be madly in love with me by now, and he’s definitely supposed to be phoning me.

  I call Jules.

  “Jules,” I moan, “he hasn’t called.”

  “So?” she says pragmatically. “He will.”

  “But why hasn’t he called? He said he’d call.”

  “Libby, for God’s sake. You sound like you’re madly in love, but you keep saying this is just a fling. Flings don’t call every day.”

  “But just because I don’t want him in that way doesn’t mean I don’t want him to want me.”

  “Now, that,” says Jules, “is ridiculous. Stop being so childish. Anyway, you know you’re seeing him, so of course he’ll call, but it will probably be on Saturday, just to confirm the time, as he said he would.”

  “Okay,” I grumble.

  “And,” she continues, “you don’t want him to fall in love with you because that will only make the whole thing far more complicated.”

  “Okay,” I grumble again.

  “So just relax,” she finishes.

  “You’re right, you’re right. I know you’re right.”

  “Naturally,” she laughs. “I always am.”

  It’s a bastard isn’t it, how everything changes once you’ve slept with someone. How, even though you know you’re not going to fall for them, you still have expectations, and you’ll still be disappointed in the end.

  Except no, not this time. I won’t be disappointed. There’s no commitment, just enjoyment, and I will enjoy Nick. Really, I will.

  The phone rings at one o’clock on Saturday.

  “Hello?” I’m already breathless.

  “Hi, babe.” It’s Jules.

  “Oh,” I say, the disappointment more than clear in my voice. “Hi.”

  “What are you doing now?” she asks, and I decide not to tell her that I’m sitting next to the phone willing it to ring.

  “Nothing much. You?”

  “Nothing. Jamie’s working and I’m bored. Do you want to go shopping?”

  Now that sounds more like it. A bit of retail therapy never did anyone any harm, and besides, having looked through my huge wardrobe of super-trendy clothes, I see I haven’t got anything to wear for tonight. Well, it’s not exactly that I haven’t got anything to wear, just nothing suitable, and Nick isn’t the type to appreciate my John Rocha dresses or Dolce & Gabbana trousers.

  “Do you want to come and pick me up?” I say.

  “No,” she says. “You come over here and we’ll hit Hampstead. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect,” I say. “See you in an hour.”

  I check my bag as I leave the house. Yup. Got money, credit cards, checkbook, makeup. Shit! Nearly forgot my mobile phone, so I grab it and head down to my gorgeous car, Guzzle the Beetle, aptly named as he (and yes, I know that most cars are female but mine, with his gorgeous metallic blue coating, is most definitely male) guzzles petrol like there’s no tomorrow.

  And off we trundle to Jules’s flat, and once again I sigh with envy as I walk in, because, thanks to being part of a couple, both with nice fat incomes—Jules is an interior designer and Jamie is a barrister—Jules lives in the flat I wish I had. A maisonette in a side road off Haverstock Hill. You walk into a huge, bright, airy living room with maple floors and floaty muslin curtains drifting on either side of french windows that lead to a large balcony. All the furniture is camel and cream, modern classics mixed with beautiful old antiques, and the canvases on the wall are huge, colorful, abstract, and beautiful.

  The kitchen’s in the basement, and Jules spends most of her time down there. As large as the living room, the kitchen is dominated by a massive scrubbed old French pine table, with enough room left for checked yellow comfy sofas at one end. More french windows lead straight on to the garden, and the units are the ones I dream about—slightly Shaker-ish but with a modern twist. It’s my favorite room in the house, and the one we always end up in, drinking huge mugs of tea at the kitchen table, or curled up on the sofa with the sun streaming in.

  It does look interior-designed, but it also looks like a home, like a place where you immediately feel comfortable. I adore it, and when I arrive I do what I always do and put the kettle on, and Jules doesn’t mind, I know she loves the fact that I feel almost as at home there as she does, possibly more so.

  “Hi, Libby,” Jamie calls out from his study next to the kitchen.

  “Hi, workie,” I call back, the shortened version of workaholic, which is what I’ve been calling him for years. He appears in the doorway and comes over to kiss me hello, and, even though I know I couldn’t stand to be with someone who works all the time, it has to be said that I can see exactly what Jules sees in him because he is, truly, gorgeous. The only man I know who looks handsome in a wig. No, not that sort of wig, the legal barrister sort of wig.

  And before I met Jamie I always thought that all barristers we
re pompous assholes. They were all, from my limited experience, into ballet, opera and theater. They all spoke like they had a bagful of plums in their mouth and were as patronizing as hell.

  But Jamie isn’t like that. Jamie, when he isn’t working, is actually a laugh. And Jamie doesn’t wear pompous classically English clothes. Jamie wears faded jeans and caterpillar boots. Jamie wears midnight blue velvet trousers and Patrick Cox loafers. Jamie smokes like a chimney and drinks like a fish. Jamie, in fact, is cool, and one night, when we were all very drunk, he confessed that if he hadn’t been a barrister he would have been a pop star, which made us all choke with laughter at the time, but actually I could see that. I could see Jamie being the lead singer in a seriously hip band and giving interviews with an insouciant toss of his head.

  Jamie and I have an odd relationship, in the way that you always have slightly odd relationships with the men your girlfriends subsequently marry. Jules was my friend for years, and then Jamie came along, and yes, we hit it off immediately, but there’s always that tiny bit of resentment because they took your best friend away.

  But I forgave him. How could I not? And now, even though I don’t see him that often, we have this lovely, teasing, almost brother-sister relationship, where he sits me down and asks about my love life and then tries to give me advice, which I almost always ignore because at the end of the day he’s a bloke.

  And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that men are far better equipped to give advice when you’re having man problems because they know how men think, but Jamie is a bit crap at all of that, because despite being gorgeously gorgeous, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Experience before Jules came along and swept him off his feet. He was far too busy building up his career, and yes, he had hundreds of admirers, but never the time to notice them.

  Jules was different from all the women setting themselves up to be the perfect barrister’s wife. Jules didn’t wear designer clothes. Jules didn’t go to the hairdresser’s or have a manicure once a week. Jules didn’t care about going to the best restaurants or the ballet. And, more to the point, Jules never tried to pretend she was anyone different to try to trap her man.