9

As I walk into the office I can hear my phone going. It’s an officious‐sounding Roger.

‘Anna, can I see you in my room, please? Victor’s going to be joining us.’

This sounds bad: if Victor the Vulcan’s coming downstairs it can only bode ill. I rush through, trying not to look thrown by the unnaturally early meeting. I bet Victor sleeps upside down in his office, hanging from the door jamb by his toes. He’s as grey as February, with a cruel, pinched face. His sharp, pointed nose juts out ferociously above his thin sliver of a mouth. No warmth or good humour has ever been known to emerge from that particular orifice. If there was any justice he’d have pointy ears, but to say that he does would be a blatant lie.

‘Anna,’ he says mechanically, shaking my hand like an automaton. ‘Sorry to ambush you. I’m just looking for an update on the event so I can brief the other directors.’

He stands back, giving me a thin smile. Rog, meanwhile, is looking terrified, and seems to be trying to signal something with his eyes. I hope he got clearance to give me this gig: I don’t get the feeling that Victor’s remotely impressed with his choice. Feeling like both of our heads are on the block, I launch into an extravagant description of the competition, trying to make it sound like the next Alexander McQueen will be bought and paid for by Casual Chic. Then I move on to the show itself, enthusiastically talking up the catering, but grinding to a crashing halt as I get to the lack of RSVPs, panel and – indeed – venue. Oh my God, what am I doing?

‘Hmm, it sounds like there are quite a few blanks to fill in, wouldn’t you say? It’s vital that this event repositions the brand, and shows those top‐end advertisers what we can do for them. If it’s unachievable I’d prefer we pull the plug now.’

I can’t bear to be the person who single‐handedly destroyed Roger’s career. It’s time the gloves came off.

‘The reason the panel’s still work in progress is because there are so many high‐quality judges jockeying for position.’ He looks at me through narrowed eyes, as I blunder on. ‘As we speak, Harry Langham is clearing his diary just so he can come on board.’

‘Harry Langham?’ he says, showing a brief flicker of interest. ‘That’s absolutely the kind of person we’d like to have associated with the magazine. But it doesn’t address our lack of venue.’

‘I’m very close to securing a site that will answer all your concerns, but I’m afraid I can’t divulge it until the deal’s been done.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’ll need more than that,’ he says brusquely. ‘How, for example, does it conjure up the spirit of the event?’

I’m rapidly running out of ideas. My mouth takes hold before my brain has time to protest.

‘I don’t know if Roger’s told you, but I’m actually getting married myself.’

‘Congratulations,’ he says, in a tone that implies who gives a fuck?

‘So in searching for a wedding venue, I came to realize that the ideal location had to be a church. Other than the obvious associations, a church also gives us a huge sense of British tradition. But by throwing a decadent party right in the heart of the institution, we make it deliciously subversive.’

I’m actually starting to sound like him.

‘I fail to see how we capitalize on that if no one knows where it is.’

‘If we keep it under wraps, it’ll automatically intrigue those jaded party‐goers who’ve seen it all before. It’ll become a cool underground event that only a chosen few can access.’

Roger gives me a discreet thumbs‐up sign, which brings to mind Simon Bates presenting Top of the Pops. There’s an interminable pause.

‘You’ve offered me some reassurance, Anna, but I’ll be continuing to closely monitor your efforts. An investment of this size needs to deliver significant tangible benefits.’

As Victor vaporizes, Roger crosses the room to clutch me to him.

‘Anna, you were amazing. Thank God for the wedding. It seems to give you such an innate understanding of what this event needs to be!’

‘I’m doing my best,’ I tell him, inwardly squirming. ‘And I’m thrilled that you’ve found somewhere for it. Whatever anyone else said, I knew you were the right person to do this.’

Great, so now I know for sure that the knives are out for me. And, even worse, Roger fell for my lie. I’d hoped he knew I was bluffing but would be so grateful that I’d pulled us back from the brink that he’d help me find a brilliant solution. I’m on my own on so many levels right now. If I don’t manage to deliver a spectacular venue and a Harry‐based panel my job can just get added to the long list of life elements that are going down the tubes.

‘How long can you keep this up, Anna?’ says Susie, whose tubes are a far more pressing concern than my own. We’re sitting on ugly orange chairs in the fertility clinic waiting room. Martin’s supposedly got an essential meeting, so I’m holding Susie’s hand at her second appointment.

‘I mean, what are you going to do, buy yourself an engagement ring?’

‘Yeah, great, so I either shell out three grand on a stupid rock, or have the orcs say Adam’s cheap.’

‘Let’s not worry about that now,’ she says comfortingly. ‘What you need to concentrate on is finding a venue.’

‘Really? You think?’ I say, feeling slightly hysterical. ‘I can’t engage with it today, you’re the priority here.’

‘I’m fine, really,’ she says brightly. ‘Now I’m getting the help I need I’m sure it’s all going to work out for us.’

I can hear the dismal IVF statistics rattling round my brain like a pinball.

‘Yeah, I’m sure it will too,’ I say, awkwardly patting her hand.

‘Anyway, I want to hear all about your first pull in ten years!’

‘What, Tom? That so doesn’t qualify.’

And I tell her all about the teeth clunking and my determination to get back out there pronto. Soon she’s scrolling down her mobile, determined to come up with someone suitable.

‘Robert: he’s not bad. He works with Martin.’

‘Why does he call himself Robert? It’s so formal! What’s wrong with Rob? Or even Bobby?’

‘OK, calm down, he’s off the list. How about Gordon? He’s actually Martin’s cousin. If you got married, we’d be related!’

The idea of having sex with a blood relation of Wet Martin’s is just too hideous to contemplate. We’re still trawling through by the time Susie’s in stirrups. I’m trying to avert my eyes, pleading with her to take a break.

‘No, no – I’m about to find the perfect person. How about Eddie? He’s slightly lame, but he’s ever so funny.’

‘So what’s lame about him?’

‘One of his legs is significantly shorter than the other. Ow!’

‘Sorry, Mrs Barton,’ says the doctor, ‘I really need you to relax.’

‘I am relaxed,’ says Susie snappishly. ‘There’s always David…’

‘Susie,’ I say, squeezing her hand.

After a bit more inelegant prodding, the doctor declares she’s done. I make to leave, so they can have the chat in private, but Susie holds on to me for dear life. The doctor’s a gentle Indian woman who is obviously painfully aware how frightened Susie is.

‘Firstly I want to reassure you that the fact that you are so young makes your chances of conceiving extremely high.’

Now that has to be cheering. There aren’t many scenarios left in which we’re still deemed young.

‘My assessment is that the most likely cause of your infertility is hostile cervical mucus.’

‘Hostile mucus?’ says Susie, looking slightly nauseous.

The doctor explains how the mucus has to clear out of the way in order to let Martin’s horrid seed flood past and make her pregnant. Personally I can sympathize with the mucus’s position, but I force that uncharitable thought aside. She tells her how she’s going to have to go through a hormonal menopause, before her poor exhausted ovaries are ambushed with even more drugs in order to trigger mass egg production. By now Susie’s looking fairly shell‐shocked.

‘Why don’t you take a few days to think it through?’ the doctor asks, smiling kindly.

Back at the house, Susie shakily pours us each a vat of wine.

‘If I’m really going to sign up for this hell, I’m going to drink like a fish till they force me to stop. Cheers!’

‘It’s really unfair, Suse. I’m so sorry.’

‘I don’t know,’ she says, tearily looking out of the window, ‘it probably serves me right.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I ask her incredulously.

‘I know you always say I’m not smug, but maybe I am a bit. You know, once you’ve found someone you really want to be with, you just assume it’s all going to be straightforward.’

Only if you’re Susie. If I finally met someone I wanted to marry I’m sure I’d just start wondering if they were going to be killed in a freak accident or give me deformed children.

‘Why is my mucus so damn hostile anyway?’ she says, laughing jaggedly. ‘What have I ever done to offend it?’ She sinks back into a chair. ‘I wish we were still young enough for none of this stuff to matter.’

The problem being that when you are young enough for none of it to matter, the very fact that it doesn’t means that you get no added value from your mental freedom. Besides, me being me, I simply invented a whole alternative subsection of worries to keep me busy.

I stay until Susie’s calmer, and Martin’s arrival home has become worryingly imminent. As she hugs me goodbye she suddenly shrieks, ‘Giles!’

‘Who’s Giles?’ I ask her suspiciously. ‘Just cut to the chase and tell me what’s wrong with him.’

‘Nothing. He’s incredibly high‐powered, which means that he never has time to meet women. I think you might really hit it off.’

‘Job?’

‘Finance, but he’s not a stuffed shirt.’ I look at her doubtfully. ‘For God’s sake, Anna, take a leap of faith for once in your life!’

‘I’ll think about it,’ I tell her, sticking my arm out for a passing cab. Once ensconced, I check my mobile for about the hundredth time, vainly hoping that either Harry or his agent might’ve called me back. He’s apparently shooting abroad, but from his agent’s tone earlier, it’s obvious that she can’t imagine anything less likely than him wanting to judge my competition. The only way to come back from this is to find panel members even more dazzling than him, unlikely though it is.

I let myself into Polly’s empty flat feeling distinctly gloomy. It’s a bank holiday Friday night and I’ve got absolutely nothing to do. I toyed with the idea of visiting friends out of London, as Polly’s done, but ultimately decided I couldn’t face it. As a result the next three days are looking decidedly holey. Still, I think, at least it gives me a chance to trawl the Internet for a venue. I distract‐edly shovel gluey pasta into my mouth as I try out various search options. Horrifically, wedding sites seem like the best way to track down vaguely religious locations (I’ve decided that I can interpret the term ‘church’ loosely if I have to). I get increasingly misanthropic towards the stream of bovine brides, skipping round rural locations in their hideous white concoctions. ‘You’re a virgin, are you?’ I sneer at one, who’s clearly pushing fifty. Once I’ve got to the point of muttering divorce statistics at them, I decide it’s time to log off.

I retreat to the sofa and try to enjoy an episode of Friends that I’m sure I’ve seen at least twice. It’s one of the unfunny later ones, and I find myself obsessing about how much older they all look than when it started. It’s as though they’ve been put through a distorting mirror; the men have expanded into middle‐aged spread, whilst the women have stretched out into emaciated lollipops. I suddenly wish so much that Adam was there beside me, sharing the joke. Knowing how fatal this train of thought can be, I decide it’s time to give up on Friday. I grumpily yank out the sofa, straining my shoulder in the process: it’s the perfect end to the perfect evening.

When I wake up there’s still no sign of Horst. He must’ve pulled, yet again; perhaps I should ask him for some tips. I decide to go out for coffee, which brings to mind one of my most hated self‐help witches. She insists that you have to eat breakfast out every day, wearing a perky cap with a French slogan on it. Apparently it’s the perfect way to lure your future husband into making conversation with you. I think about winding my pillowcase into a turban and scrawling merde on it, but I’m not sure it’ll create the desired effect.

After coffee I set off on a long walk. I put my iPod on, and treat myself to a torrent of cheese. The Carpenters, Chicago, the Eagles: no band is too uncool for my state of mind. I walk right the way across Hampstead Heath to Highgate, and think about how I used to crave solitude when I was with Adam. When he had the occasional work trip, the time I had alone in the flat felt like the most delicious luxury. Solitude and loneliness might look the same from the outside, but from the inside there’s a world of difference.

I get back to the flat early evening to find it’s filled with billowing clouds of smoke. Horst is home, and for the first time ever, I’m delighted to see him. He’s grilling huge sausages and crooning along to the Scorpions, Germany’s worst musical export. He sticks a couple more sausages on and tells me about his latest conquest, a sloany temp who’s been working in his office.

‘I am doing the wrong thing it seems,’ he says sadly. ‘Maybe I have lovemaking with them too soon. They never want to take another date with me.’

‘Oh, Horst, I thought that was what you wanted! Sowing your wild oats.’

‘Oats? I don’t see about the oats,’ he says, looking perplexed.

I can’t be bothered to explain. ‘You’re probably just meeting the wrong women. Loads of girls would love to find someone like you.’

‘Maybe I go back to Stuttgart soon. You Londoners are hard to get to know. You could have my bedroom also.’

I’ve been absolutely longing for this moment to arrive all the time Polly’s been chickening out of telling him. Even so, now it’s finally happening, I can’t bear to make him feel more rejected. Instead I find myself geeing him up, promising it’ll get better, and resolving to invite him out with us more.

‘I am trying to meet more people, however. Tomorrow I am to be seen for a part in an English play, The Importance of Being Arnold.’

‘Arnold? I’m sure you mean Earnest.’

‘Yes, quite so. To learn the English words is very hard for me.’

The production’s being mounted by an appalling sounding am dram group, who are holding open auditions the next morning. Horst is up to play the butler, but I’m not holding out much hope. I decide I’ve got to step in.

‘A Miss Furr‐fax has recently called to see Mr Woor‐thing on the most important of business.’

‘No, Horst, it’s Fairfax. And you say it Wurthing.’

We stay up till one working on his lines, although I’m not sure that we make any real progress. I collapse into bed, but when his alarm shrills at 8 a.m., I realize that there’s no chance of getting back to sleep.

‘So, Horst, repeat after me: Fairfax.’

‘Fur‐facts. Oh, Anna, I am so terrible at this, maybe I will not go.’

‘You’ve got to go! You’ve worked so hard. And, anyway, you’re not terrible.’

And, weirdly, he isn’t. There’s something genuinely charming about his mannerisms, it’s just the heavy German accent that lets him down. Before I know it, I’ve agreed to come in the car so that we can carry on practising right up to the wire. The audition’s somewhere in Bloomsbury, and he drives us there, veering around the road as he tries to multi‐task.

‘Shall I lay the tea here as is the usual, Miss?’

‘No, it’s just as is usual.’

We arrive in a beautiful Georgian square, lined with blossoming trees.

‘So where’s the hall?’

‘It is here, attached to the church, I think,’ he says, white with nerves.

And, just like that, I’ve found my venue. It’s a beautiful, Gothic‐looking church which has fallen into a state of disrepair. There’s a ‘for sale’ sign erected outside it: it’s obviously in line to be turned into luxury apartments. As I peer through the dusty windows at its ornate interior, I’m determined to make sure it’s mine.

When Horst comes out we’re as excited as each other.

‘I think my reading of the part was mostly a success! They said they will call me by the end of the week.’

I’m not holding out much hope, but I’m thrilled to see how much happier he is. Horst agrees the church is perfect and we head home, buying ourselves a celebratory bottle of Cava en route. Finally the clouds of bank holiday gloom feel like they’re lifting.

As we come up the path I notice a large parcel that’s been left on the doorstep. ‘Anna’s First Aid Kit’ reads the label, and it has a big red cross on it. I rip it open, pulling out a copy of my all‐time favourite weepie Love Story. It stars a whiny but gorgeous Ali MacGraw and a devastatingly handsome Ryan O’Neal. When she dies at the end I always weep buckets, even though I’ve seen it at least thirty times. There’s something about the way that their hard‐won happiness is cruelly snatched away that really gets to me. A certain someone has seen this reaction many, many times and has thoughtfully stuck a packet of Kleenex in the parcel. There’s a Post‐it note on the DVD on which he’s scrawled ‘Love is never having to say you’re sorry’, one of Ali’s most irritating mantras. If you ask me, love is about learning to force yourself to say you’re sorry when you know you’re in the wrong, even if your misplaced pride can barely stand it. Crying in earnest now, and thus availing myself of the Kleenex, I pull out a copy of Jilly Cooper’s Riders, my all‐time favourite bonkbuster. There’s also a big bar of Green and Black’s with another Post‐it on it: ‘Bank holidays suck, no? Missing you more than ever, if it’s possible.’

I’m incredibly touched, but also kind of gutted. He so knows which buttons to press. How will it be possible to build up this kind of intimacy with someone else? Will I ever stop loving him as much as I do?

I’ve got a big choice to make here. I can either give up now and force myself to make it work, whatever the price, or push forward, refusing to look back. It’s time, once again, to stick or twist.