Sophie tutted and picked up the phone. ‘Hello, David Moore Interior Design. Sophie Carter speaking. How can I help?’
I looked at her enquiringly, as she rolled her eyes and stuck two fingers up at the receiver. She had returned to work that morning, following her two-week holiday in Mauritius, looking toned, tanned and, I thought, considerably younger than me, despite being the same age. My mood sank a little at the recollection that the only break I had so far booked was an overnight stay with Dad in The Cotswolds in June. I was looking forward to it, and I knew I would enjoy it, but it was hardly two weeks in Mauritius.
I watched as Sophie, with some effort, arranged her features into a smile. ‘Oh hello, Eleanor,’ she said brightly. ‘No. Delivery of the curtains is tomorrow. You’ll remember that I did ask you whether you wanted—’ She suddenly stopped talking and stared at the phone. ‘And a very good day to you too, Ms Black,’ she said, replacing the phone in its holder with an angry click. ‘God that woman is so bloody rude. She makes me want to scream.’ She paused, took a deep breath, picked up her coffee and leaned back in the green velvet armchair in which she was currently lounging. ‘It’s just a good job we work in such calming surroundings,’ she said more quietly.
I smiled and looked around me. She was right. I loved the domestic feel of our small Clifton offices; the cosy-chic lamps, rugs and armchairs chosen by David, reflected not only the warmth and friendliness of his personality, but also the day-to-day working atmosphere.
‘We’re very lucky,’ I said.
‘We are,’ she agreed. ‘But, come on.’ She glanced at the art deco clock which took centre-stage on the fireplace to her right, whilst sucking desperately on a small white tube, a nicotine inhaler, which she held in her tanned left hand. ‘We’ve got thirty minutes of lunchtime left before David gets back. Dish.’
I stopped smiling and bit into my chicken salad sandwich. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’ I mumbled.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Everything, of course. The way Abs tells it, you and Hugh are mad keen – her words – on each other. Oh and Miriam said that even if he doesn’t pan out, Connie has someone for you.’
I stopped chewing and stared at her. ‘What?’
‘Connie has—’
‘No, no.’ I interrupted. ‘What did Abs say about Hugh?’
She shrugged. ‘She said that you had a coffee with Hugh and that you found him really fascinating. I got the impression that he’s planning a date for the pair of you. But apparently he’s on sabbatical, filming a battle re-enactment in the Highlands with the BBC at the moment, so…’
At this point, I interrupted her flow with a coughing fit, after inhaling a large chunk of chicken salad sandwich in a horrified gasp.
‘Christ, are you ok?’ Sophie sat forward in her chair, as if about to get up.
I nodded, finished coughing and reached for the bottle of water on my desk. ‘I am not mad keen on Hugh and he was not mad keen on me,’ I said, taking a gulp of water. ‘In fact, I got the distinct impression he was there just to get the carpenter’s phone number and couldn’t wait to get away. The pair of us lasted twenty minutes before we made our excuses. The man chops up brains and puts all the little bits in jars. I’m not going to enjoy watching him cut up steak on a dinner date, am I?’ I shuddered at the memory of the gruesome surgical details shared by Hugh over coffee, when I had made the huge mistake of asking him to tell me a little bit about his job.
‘Oh, cheer up.’ Sophie pushed back a stray coil of newly sun-lightened, blonde hair from her eyes. ‘It’s not like he actually kills the poor sods who end up on his slab, is it? And I don’t know what you said to Abs but she thought the whole thing went brilliantly.’
‘What?’ I looked her in disbelief. ‘All I said was that Hugh seemed nice and that his hobby was very unusual. I asked her if she’d ever been to a battle re-enactment and she said no and I said we must go some time. That was it,’ I emphasised. ‘I did not say anything about wanting to see him again. And it was obvious that he wasn’t at all interested in me.’
‘Not according to Abs,’ she smiled. ‘You clearly underestimate your charms. Hey, but I tell you what,’ she leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘he’s bloody good-looking, isn’t he?’
I narrowed my eyes at her. ‘How do you know what he looks like?’
‘Because I asked Abs to text me a picture of him, of course.’ She folded her arms and looked thoughtful. ‘He reminded me of that Sherlock Holmes guy. What’s his name? Benedict Bumbertwitch – only with less squinty eyes.’ She opened her brown eyes to their full extent, giving herself the appearance of a long-lashed owl. ‘I’d have certainly given him the benefit of the doubt for longer than twenty minutes.’
I stared at her. ‘I can’t believe you actually asked Abs for a photo.’
‘Anyway, anyway,’ she waved a hand dismissively, ‘tell me more about that Mr Right email you sent to us all. I loved that. Exactly how pissed were you?’
‘I wasn’t remotely pissed,’ I protested. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh come off it,’ she laughed. ‘Telling everyone you love them in a group email? You’re not telling me you were sober.’
‘I had meant to tell everyone what the next book was. But I was actually just extremely tired,’ I muttered, consigning the remainder of my sandwich to the bin, ‘and trying to be positive.’
She wagged a finger at me. ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: no texting or emailing when you’re knackered or pissed. Remember when you sent Rebecca Warner that gossip about Rebecca Warner’s husband being a cross-dresser?’
I eyed her coldly. ‘Shut up.’
‘I’m just trying to make sure the lesson sinks in this time. But, anyway,’ she took another drag on the tube, ‘what was actually said about meeting Mr Right at book group?’
‘It was suggested,’ I sighed, ‘that I might show more enthusiasm for dating if I was meeting friends of friends.’
She looked doubtful. ‘I suppose you’d be more embarrassed about standing someone up, but more enthusiastic?’
‘And then Miriam asked if I thought Eddie was a problem for me. But I don’t think he is. At least I hope he’s not.’
‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t have blamed you if that shit had put you off men for life but I think…’ She suddenly leaned towards me, before just as rapidly sitting back in the armchair and signalling a change of subject with another wave of her hand. ‘But who cares what I think? It’s probably just bollocks anyway. But hey –’
I opened my mouth to ask her to tell me what she thought my issue might be, but she didn’t pause for breath.
‘– but, hey,’ she sniggered, ‘I bumped into that ripped carpenter again this morning. You know, the one we’re using on the Eleanor Black project.’
‘You were at Eleanor’s this morning?’ I asked, deciding that I was happy to let the previous conversation, together with its references to Eddie, slide. ‘I thought David was down for that visit. She usually insists on seeing the boss.’
‘I know. But I offered to pop in and tell her he was sick and he didn’t say no. I don’t blame him. You know how she’s got boobs like watermelons?’
I nodded my acceptance of this description of Eleanor Black’s breasts.
‘Well,’ she continued, ‘whenever David goes round, she wears a push-up bra, a low-cut top and leans over him at every opportunity. And then she goes on and on about the trials and tribulations of being an attractive divorcee and how what she needs is a strong man to help her keep all her wolfish admirers at bay. The poor guy’s terrified. She was expecting him today and when I turned up she was actually wearing a negligee, for God’s sake. Gave me some crap about feeling under the weather.’
‘Oh no!’ I put a horrified hand to my mouth.
‘Oh yes, but don’t worry.’ She took another drag on the tube and then waved a hand in front of her face, as if clearing imaginary smoke. ‘I’ve sorted it for him.’
I experienced a feeling of mild dread. ‘And how have you done that exactly?’ I asked.
‘Easy,’ she shrugged. ‘I just kept going on about the fact that he’s gay.’
‘Er…’ I hesitated. ‘Even though that’s not actually a fact and he’s not actually gay?’
She nodded. ‘Yep.’
I sighed. ‘And have you told David you did that?’
‘Are you insane?’ She looked at me aghast. ‘That kind of thing would really panic him, Alice.’
‘Yes, it would.’ I picked up my coffee. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘Anyway, it did the trick,’ she said proudly. ‘Eleanor said she’s happy to deal with you or me in future.’ She saluted me with her cup and grinned. ‘Another Mad Hatter situation averted.’
Hatty Taylor, or Mad Hatter, as Sophie called her, was David’s most recent, and undoubtedly most unstable, ex-girlfriend. As well as funding her art classes, Pilates classes and a Reiki healing course, he had, during their five-month relationship, completely redesigned and refurbished both her living room and bedroom. Her parasitic relationship with him had continued only until Hatty decided that what she really needed in life was a new bathroom, at which point she had dumped David in favour of the owner of the high-end ‘Tubs ‘n’ Tiles’, in Cotham. Not that David was unhappy with her decision to end the relationship. He had wanted to do that very thing from week two but had been anxious regarding the possibility of hurting Hatty’s feelings. When they did finally break up, he had insisted upon marking the occasion by taking Sophie and me out for champagne. I reflected now upon the fact that, in the four years that I had worked for him, he had dated, without exception, only domineering harpies. For some reason, despite his breeding, money, talent and attractive physical appearance – he was tall, dark and, as Sophie put it, anxiously handsome – David seemed to lack the confidence to ask a woman out, and consequently found himself serially manoeuvred into relationships with highly assertive types, unafraid to take the initiative. Sophie had told him on many occasions that she would be happy to act as his agent and deliver the sad news required to end these invariably miserable liaisons, or to do the dump, as she put it. But he had always declined her offers – hence her recent, more clandestine, approach to managing his personal relationships.
‘Anyway, where were we?’ Sophie was looking at me intently, whilst tapping out an impatient rhythm on her desk with her aubergine, manicured nails.
‘The ripped carpenter?’
‘Ah, yes!’ Her face lit up at the thought. ‘Plays hockey, he was telling me. God, I bet he’s clever with his stick.’
‘Perhaps you should go and watch him play,’ I suggested, before adding, ‘and take Graham along.’
She tutted. ‘Oi, you, stop spoiling my fantasy by dragging Graham into this.’
‘I thought Graham was your fantasy,’ I laughed.
She smiled. ‘Nah, Graham and I are just mates, actually. There was nothing going on there. We had a great time away and we enjoy hanging out together but, you know, he’s not The One or anything.’
I blinked and searched her face for any trace of irony. Sophie never lacked for male company and, from an outside perspective, her relationships seemed happy, fun-filled and, so far as I could tell, always ended, or waned, amicably, with no hard feelings on either side. At no point in the four years I had known her, had it ever occurred to me that she might actually be searching for, or even believe in, the existence of…
‘The One?’ I repeated, slightly incredulously. ‘The One?’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘You said about Graham not being The—’
‘That’s right. You know, I might try two of these at once,’ she said suddenly, staring at the tube in her hand.
I dismissed any idea of trying to drag her back to the perfect partner issue, knowing from experience how pointless it was to try and discuss any topic in which she’d lost interest.
‘Quitting isn’t going well then?’ I attempted to sound surprised, but it was a struggle. She tried at least twice a year to give up smoking, without any long-term, or even short-term, success. Her last attempt had ended unhappily with an urgent doctor’s appointment for palpitations, resulting from simultaneously wearing two nicotine patches and smoking several cigarettes on a drunken night out.
She shook her head sadly. ‘It’s like having an itch and not having any hands to scratch it with. Except, of course, I know exactly where my hands are.’ She looked towards the window and pointed at the newsagents across the road. ‘They’re in lots of little packets behind the counter. God, you were so bloody wise never to smoke, Alice. I wish I’d hung around with nice girls like you at school – instead of rolling Rizlas and piercing people’s noses for fags behind the gym.’ She smiled absently at the memory, before dragging herself back to the matter in hand. ‘Anyway, back to finding Mr Right. I wonder if Connie will suggest her friend to you.’
I sighed. ‘Well, if she does, I’m quite happy to meet him, assuming,’ I added, ‘that I haven’t already moved in with Hugh, of course.’
Sophie sipped her coffee, peering at me over the top of the cup. ‘So, let me get this straight. If Connie phones you up and says…’ she switched to Connie’s anxious Californian accent, ‘Er, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this, Alice, but my friend from Craft Club is very nice and would love to show you his macramé, you’re just going to smile and ask when and where?’
I shrugged. ‘Why not? I don’t think Connie would point any psychos in my direction.’
Sophie raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Not intentionally, maybe,’ she said, draining her latte and hoisting herself out of the armchair. ‘But you do have to remember that she married Greg. Greg who doesn’t like her driving after dark. Greg who blows on her tea before handing her the cup. Greg who fixed stabilisers onto her new bike.’
‘She made him take them off right away,’ I pointed out. ‘And anyway, Greg may be Connie’s type but I’m certain she knows he’s not mine,’ I protested, with as much conviction as I could muster.
‘Well, I for one,’ Sophie grinned, ‘can’t wait to see who she comes up with. What am I saying? I mean, who we come up with. You were quite clear about appreciating all offers.’
‘When I said that,’ I said sternly, ‘it was on the assumption that no one would take the opportunity to set me up with a creep for their own entertainment.’
‘As if I would do that.’ She picked up her bag and began to search for something. ‘But seriously though,’ she said, a little distractedly, ‘what about my plasterer, Wayne? Remember him? We ran into him in Pizza Express that time.’
I stared at her, appalled. ‘The ginger guy with the criminal record and unintelligible accent?’
She took a small box from her bag, extracted a second white tube and looked up at me with a bemused expression on her face. ‘He’s from Southmead, Alice, not the bloody Ukraine. And he’s lovely, Wayne, and well and truly back on the straight and narrow. And he’s newly single.’
‘Sophie,’ I began, ‘I don’t want you—’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, I’m joking,’ she interrupted, laughing. ‘Unlike Connie, I am fully aware of your type – even if I don’t always approve,’ she added pointedly. I shuffled some papers on my desk and ignored this further reference to her dislike of Eddie. I was aware that she had found him less than charming whilst he and I were together, and I couldn’t fail to admit that she had ultimately been proved right. Her insight, coupled with a determination to tell the unvarnished truth, even when in danger of being shot as the messenger, was an aspect of our friendship which I both valued and feared. ‘I’m not going to suggest anyone at the moment,’ she continued. ‘So you’ll just have to see who Connie comes up with – if, as you say, things don’t work out with Hugh. And then, of course, Jon might want to pitch you an idea or two.’ She popped the two tubes into her mouth and sucked.
‘Well, he’s got a chance to do that tonight if he wants,’ I smiled. ‘I’m meeting him for a drink, with Miriam and Craig. Ooh and Romy,’ I added.
‘Romy’s visiting?’ mumbled Sophie, a plastic tube now hanging from either side of her mouth.
I nodded and then pointed at the tubes. ‘Are you sure that’s not worse for you than an actual cigarette?’
She shrugged and removed the tubes. ‘Maybe, but at least I don’t stink like an ashtray at work.’
‘You’ve never smelled like an ashtray,’ I said. ‘But anyway, fancy coming out tonight?’
She shook her head. ‘It’d be nice, but I’m still a bit jet-lagged.’
‘Thought you might be.’
She didn’t reply, but instead frowned at me.
‘What?’ I asked. ‘Have I got something on my face?’ I put a hand to my mouth.
She shook her head. ‘I was just thinking that I’m very interested to see what happens next with you and Hugh.’
I laughed. ‘You’re making me feel like a docu-drama.’
‘Well, you’re very interesting viewing right now, Alice. And you never know,’ she said, turning away from me and towards her screen. ’You’ve only just been introduced to Hugh and when have you ever known which way a relationship will go based on a first encounter?’