Chapter Four

The Butterfly’s first meeting. April.

LAURA ARRIVES BANG on the dot of eight, and I’m not a bit surprised as this is a woman whose punctuality is the stuff of legend. For God’s sake, even all four of her kids arrived promptly on their due dates – but as Barbara pointed out at the time, they were probably all too scared of her not to. (Unpunctuality is considered the ultimate war crime chez Laura, and the corresponding punishment is reserved only for the boldest of the bold: NO TELLY.)

Anyway, born mammy/candidate for canonization that she is, she arrives bringing a full bag of limes for the margaritas, plus a cocktail shaker, plus crisps and dips and other assorted yummy things. As usual, she’s thought of everything. Honestly, if I were a fella, I’d marry her in the morning. No question.

‘I knew you and Barbara wouldn’t have bothered to eat today,’ she says, as we air-kiss in my filthy, dusty hallway, which WILL be lovely when it’s finished. (Trust me, the more I keep repeating this like a mantra, the more I actually start to believe it myself.)

‘Angel from on high,’ I say, leading her inside and down the bockity, narrow, uneven staircase to the kitchen, stepping over boxes of tiles and grouting as we go.

‘Dearest, please understand I mean no rudeness by this question,’ she says. ‘But what has your builder actually achieved since I was last here? If you don’t mind me saying, the place, if possible, actually looks worse.’

‘Well, emm . . . my new fridge arrived,’ I say, a bit defensively, pointing to it, palm outstretched, a bit like a game-show hostess. ‘And I do have electricity. And the loo now flushes properly and all.’

God, I sound just like my granny when she used to tell us about the happiest day of her life. It wasn’t her wedding day, or even when her kids and grandkids were born, no: it was the day she got her first indoor toilet installed. In 1952.

Laura opens the fridge, sees that the builder has stuffed it full of his own things: Jaffa Cakes, bagels, full fat butter and, for some bizarre reason, last Thursday’s Daily Star, conveniently opened at the racing page.

She pulls out an ancient jar of peanut butter and shoots me one of her knowing glares. Put it this way, if you were a crime lord handcuffed in the dock and she looked at the court jury like that, you’d know instantly that you were a goner.

‘Is there a section in The Guinness Book of Records for the longest time an unopened jar of peanut butter has been kept for no apparent reason?’

‘I know, I know . . .’

‘Vicky, only say the word and you can move in with me any time. Now my house may not exactly be the Ritz Carlton, but if you could endure my darling cherubs, we’d love to have you. At least it would be hygienic.’

‘Honey, I really appreciate the offer, but at least this way I can keep an eye on Bob the Builder and . . .’

I’m saved from having to make further excuses by the doorbell and Laura’s phone ringing simultaneously. Not that I don’t appreciate her lovely offer, but I absolutely know that if I had to live under the same roof as her kids for a prolonged period of time, I’d end up either: a) an alcoholic; or b) on eight milligrams of Valium a day.

Note to self: never in my most drunken moment ever reveal to Laura that, while I love her kids and on a one-to-one basis am well able for them, the four together can be a bit . . . well, let’s just say challenging.

I leave her to her call and race upstairs to let Barbara in.

‘Hey, hon, how was your date?’ I say as we hug, and I lead her inside. I’m really delighted she’s here. Barbara’s probably the one person I’m never ashamed of the state of my house in front of. Mainly because her flat is, if anything, worse.

‘Eughh, not a keeper,’ says Barbara, ‘not by the longest of long shots. You should have seen him. The eyes were so cold and dead, it was like sharing a bowl of pasta with Nosferatu.’

‘Sure as hell beats what I did last night, i.e., worked. Came home. Tried to figure out what the hell Useless Builder had done all day. Slept.’

‘Exactly what I’m here to sort out. Where’s Laura?’

‘In my elegantly appointed kitchen, probably Parazone-wiping my borrowed patio furniture by now.’

‘You got furniture? Way to go.’

‘On loan from my mother. Has to be back tomorrow. God love her, she didn’t want me to be entirely mortified at the state of the place in front of you pair.’

‘Don’t suppose by any chance Laura brought food?’

‘Tonnes. Dips, crisps, the whole carb-heavy works.’

‘Cool, I’m starving. Sex always makes me hungry.’

‘Barbara, I thought you didn’t even like him?’

‘I didn’t say I liked him, I just fancy him. Completely different thing. God, you’ve so much to learn from me in such a short space of time.’

We head into the kitchen where poor old Laura is deep in mid-conversation/row with one of the kids, while (I was right) simultaneously Parazone-wiping down the patio table and neatly rearranging the chairs around it, as if you’re supposed to have garden furniture indoors. Even though she’s holding the phone at ear’s-length, we can hear everything and it’s not pretty.

‘Emily, your brother is very sensitive and you are NOT to tell him that you can’t heal animals, you just prefer to witness their suffering instead. You know perfectly well that he’s very attached to that gerbil, and you’re to go in there and apologize to him right now. Yes, well, when you’re a mother, you can be mean too. No, that’s not true, I AM glad you’re alive. Right, that’s it, I’m hanging up now, tell Granny she can referee the next row . . . ooops, sorry you had to overhear that, ladies,’ she says, snapping her phone shut and looking very hassled, as she gives Barbara a big bear-hug.

Poor old Laura, her kids really do come with two volumes: loud and deafening.

‘Trouble at mill?’ asks Barbara sympathetically.

‘Oh, don’t let’s even go there, it could take all night. Barbara dearest, what in God’s name are you wearing, did you really come out in public dressed like that?’

‘Haven’t been home since last night.’

‘I thought you’d a date last night.’

‘Well, what can I say? It was a good date. Apart from the eejit I was with, that is. In fact I’ve just done the walk of shame from his apartment . . .’

‘And this is what you wore?’

Laura’s now picking bits of stray fluff off Barbara’s jacket, grooming her like female gorillas do when they’ve chosen a mate. I saw that on National Geographic once and made a silent vow never EVER to even attempt to ‘tidy up’ a bloke, just in case he runs a mile. At my stage of life, I’m taking no chances. Plus it’s sort of evolved into a phrase Barbara and I use to describe the way really, scarily possessive women behave around their blokes: ‘dust-fleckers’.

‘Yeah, why, what’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing, only just that it looks like the kind of fabric they use on the space shuttle to prevent it from burning up on re-entry.’

Now, granted, it might sound a bit stinging, but then that’s our Laura for you. Always the barrister, ready with a rapier riposte.

‘Mix me a margarita, and while you’re at it, pour out a large saucer of milk for the dust-flecker here,’ Barbara says to me, as I’m busy squirting lime juice into the cocktail shaker.

I keep my head down and wisely elect to stay well out of this one. Like I said, time and experience have taught me this is always the best course of action whenever this pair start having one of their legendary ding-dongs. The great thing about Barbara, though, is that she never takes offence and is virtually unembarrassable, so Laura’s harping on at her tends to go right over her head. Besides, harping on is just a natural extension of Laura’s innate mammy gene.

‘Was I dust-flecking?’ asks Laura, surprised.

‘Most definitely.’

‘Sorry, dearest, it’s an involuntary action with me at this stage,’ she says, putting crisps into neat little bowls that she’s brought. ‘It’s just that you can look so lovely when you’re dressed . . . how do I put this? A little more upscale and a little less flammable.’

‘Right, just for that, we’re starting with Vicky. Ladies, please set your bladders to “off”.’

‘Excuse me, did you say starting with me?’ I say, peering over the top of the fridge and simultaneously trying to bash ice cubes out of a tray for the drinks.

‘If I could jog your sieve-like memory, this caper was entirely your idea, Vicky, so yeah, you’re up first,’ says Barbara, fishing what looks like a shopping list, scribbled on the back of a gas bill, out of her handbag. ‘No point in raising your eyebrow at me either, honey, I missed an entire repeat episode of Oprah doing this list out for you. I’m taking my project-management role here very seriously, so you might as well just shut up and listen.’

‘Good girl,’ says Laura, nodding at her, impressed. ‘You not watching daytime television is always a step in the right direction.’

‘Right then,’ Barbara goes on, ignoring her and referring down to her gas bill, sorry, I mean notes. ‘Here’s the way I see it. Oh yeah, and you also have to remember that I’m saying all of this from the standpoint of love.’

‘That an Oprah-ism too?’ asks Laura, one eyebrow raised.

‘Do you mind? As project manager, I’m officially telling you that if you interrupt once more, I’ll make you go into what WILL be the state-of-the-art jacks, and grout tiles for the rest of the night. You’ll get your turn later. Anyway, I think we all know how much you want to be with someone, Vicky . . .’

‘The right person,’ I correct her, slowly pouring the drinks out of the cocktail shaker and into three little picnic-sized plastic beakers. ‘Please, dear God, no more emotionally unavailable messers, commitment-phobes, bores that I’ve nothing in common with and I’m only dating out of my pathological fear of being left alone, eejits, half-wits or, worst of all, most damaging of all, the nice guy, the DSM. You know, the one I actually think could be a runner, a keeper, who, after a few perfectly nice nights out, and a few nice kisses and some nice phone calls etc., drops me like a hot snot. Would you like me to back this up with examples, girls? You’ve only to ask, I’ve about two dozen at my fingertips.’

And if I sound like I’m ranting, you’ll excuse me. It’s only because this particular, painful subject is something of a well-worn hobby horse at this stage. The girls, thankfully, are well-used to me.

‘I certainly do take your point about that lethal species, the nice guy,’ says Laura, emphasizing her words. ‘At least if you know in advance that a man is a complete bastard, then if nothing else, you’re prepared for heartbreak when it inevitably comes. It’s the nice guys that ought to come with a government health warning. Well, I married what I thought was a nice, decent guy, didn’t I? And just look how that turned out for all concerned.’

‘So if you can find me a life-partner that fits into the category “none of the above”, I’d be eternally grateful,’ I say. I’m not quite ignoring Laura, but, at the same time I am hoping to avoid getting into a slagging-off-her-soon-to-be-ex-husband marathon, which, let’s face it, could easily go on into the wee small hours. I hate to sound selfish or anything, but we’ve all devoted so much airtime to that particular subject over the years, and it’s most definitely NOT why we’re gathered here tonight.

‘OK, Vicky, I’m stopping you right there,’ says Barbara, firmly. Or at least as firmly as it’s possible to sound, given that she’s also stuffing her face with tortilla chips and a dribbly blue-cheese dip. ‘Just look at what you’re attracting!’

‘I’m not exactly attracting anyone, now am I? Can I just point out that it’s Saturday night and here I am, at home, dateless, living in a building site and sitting on patio furniture borrowed from my mother.’

‘At least you’re working and earning and you know that you’ll have the cash coming in to transform this place,’ Laura butts in. ‘Look at my life and feel free to gloat if you’d care to. Do you realize there’s a very good chance I’ll end up rotting in a debtor’s prison?’

‘As project manager, can I just say we’re dealing with one issue at a time,’ Barbara says to her, mouth still stuffed. ‘You’ll get your turn, don’t worry, so just sit there quietly and drink your dinner.’

Then she turns her full attention back to me. ‘Now, Vicky, I just want you to really listen to yourself: “I don’t want this, I don’t want that, he can’t be like this, I’m so sick of guys who are like that . . .” Come on, what do you expect? You’re putting out nothing but negativity, so of course that’s what the universe is delivering right back at you. It’s very obedient like that. At least that’s what that American woman told us at the mind, body, spirit whaddya call it. Remember?’

OK, this actually shuts me up. She did say that and, what’s more, so does The Law of Attraction. There’s a quote in it from some Victorian philosopher saying that just like the law of gravity, the law of attraction never takes a day off. Or words to that effect. Suddenly I’m aware of how negative I do sound, and it’s quite a sobering thought. Well, that and the fact that our Barbara, our wonderful, flaky, dippy, slightly off-the-wall Barbara has turned into a cross between Sir Alan Sugar and Donald Trump. You should see her, she’s being scarily assertive.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she says, clocking the bewildered look on my face. ‘Am I being a bit hard on you?’

‘No, but you just said all that with such authority, I bought it.’

Now Laura, who’s genetically incapable of sitting quietly and letting other people get on with it, gets her two cents’ worth in. ‘Ladies, as you’re no doubt aware, I have a tendency to tune out whenever you pair start talking about the universe; however, I do actually find myself in agreement here. What I mean is, I see it with the kids all the time,’ she adds, taking in the blank expression on both our faces. ‘Our brains just aren’t programmed to understand negativity. If I say to the kids, “Don’t go outside, it’s raining,” all they hear are the words “outside” and “raining”. Therefore all I get is: “But Mum, we really want to go out outside, that’s all we want, you’re ruining our lives, we hate you, all of our friends are allowed do what they want . . . etc., etc., etc.”, repeat ad nauseam. However, if I rephrase and say, “It’s horrible out, let’s stay in and read,” then they’re all up for it.’

She takes in our vacant, non-parent, ‘what-the-hell’s-she-on-about’ stares again. ‘Sorry, but I’m only trying to keep this within my own particular frame of reference.’

‘OK, OK, so maybe I do have a slight attitude problem when it comes to men,’ I say, a bit grudgingly.

‘So are you going to sit there whingeing, or are you going to listen to what I have to say?’ says Barbara, in the all-new, businesslike, assertive voice.

God, I’m thinking, looking at her and drifting off for just a sec, she’d be so fabulous in a soap opera, cast as the Joan Collins type, you know, looking stunning, with the long red hair tied up, wearing professional make-up and a tight little designer suit and a hat with a veil and saying lines like: ‘Too bad, Dexter, I just bought ninety-nine per cent of your company, so actually you’re the one who’s fired. HA!’

Well, OK, so maybe with better dialogue than that, but you see what I mean. How come I never spotted this before?

‘The way I see it, it doesn’t matter how you got here,’ she goes on. ‘The big question is, what are you prepared to do about it? Which is what I’m here to tell you. And first up is: you’re going to write out your dating cheat sheet.’

‘Excuse me, my what?’

‘Like a list. I want you to scribble down the absolute basic, minimum qualities that your future life-partner absolutely must have. Come on, you’d do it if you were buying a house, so why not a husband?’

‘Well, maybe not this house,’ says Laura, blithely.

‘And I want you to be really specific, like, say, if you want him to have a hot body and do meals on wheels in his spare time, or . . . I dunno, be in Amnesty, whatever.’

‘So you’re saying it’s not enough for a guy to be Mr Right any more, he has to be Bono as well,’ I say.

‘Just hear me out, will you?’ says Barbara, referring back to the notes on the back of her gas bill. ‘Now one of the more unpleasant sides to being project manager is that I have to get you to face up to the ugly truth. Namely, that for as long as I can remember, Vicky, it’s like you’ve basically been dating any guy that’ll ask you. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s almost as if you’re so bloody grateful that they’ve invited you out in the first place that you just say yes, regardless of whether you actually like them or not. Once they have a proper job and they don’t have two heads you just slap your DSM label on them and away you go.’

Ouch.

There’s a tiny, stunned silence from my corner while I’m thinking, could she actually be right?

‘I’m afraid I have to agree,’ says Laura, nodding like a Buddha. ‘You are in fact suffering from indiscriminate affirmative syndrome.’

‘Excuse me, I’m suffering from what?’

‘You always say yes. To men, at least.’

‘How very dare you,’ I say, in a Catherine Tate voice, hands on hips, as though I’m messing, but I’m actually not.

That stung. And, as ever, when cornered, I get a bit defensive. That plus the fact that I’m beginning to feel a bit ganged-up-on by the two of them. God, this is starting to remind me a bit of school, when Laura was the one with all the brains and the great future ahead of her, and Barbara was the one who was never without a fella, and me . . .

Well, I just wisecracked my way through things, really. I’d launch into a comedy routine to cover up my shortcomings/complete and utter failure with the male race.

And here I am, all these years later, STILL doing it.

‘OK, so maybe I don’t exactly run a screening programme on guys,’ I say. ‘But come on, I mean, all the dating manuals out there say you have to give every single potential boyfriend a decent chance. Besides, at my age, shouldn’t I just gratefully take what I can get? The law of attraction book even says it: attitude is gratitude. So as long as he has a pulse, a job, can use a knife and fork and doesn’t steal from my handbag, then I’m prepared to give any guy a whirl.’

Times like this, I wish I came with a canned laughter soundtrack, like they have on sitcoms, but the two of them are just looking at me in stony silence.

‘And now we’re over to the opposition,’ says Laura, as if she’s hosting a debate on Prime Time, using a celery stick as a microphone, which she’s now thrusting under Barbara’s nose. ‘I put it to you that Victoria feels her quest to find a life-partner is merely about having no standards at all, to which you reply . . .?’

‘Right then,’ says Barbara, topping up our glasses from what’s left in the cocktail shaker. ‘Sorry to be the one to dole out tough love, Vic, but you’ve no choice. The longest relationship you’ve had so far this year was with . . .’

I sigh deeply. Christ alive, she already knows the answer to this one, but if she wants me to illustrate her point, then I may as well just get it over with.

She is, after all, only trying to help me, I keep having to remind myself.

‘Lee Harrington. Architect. Met when he came to have a look at this place for me. Thanks so much for opening that particular box, Pandora.’

Although, in hindsight, the only thing I’m grateful for here is that I never actually gave Lee the job. His ideas were just way too ‘out-there’ for me. Put it like this, he wanted to rip out all the period features and turn my pretty little doll’s cottage into a boy-toy heaven, all black granite walls, windows in the ceiling and a giant plasma screen TV built into the living-room wall.

Grand, if you happen to be a Formula One racing driver, but not for me.

‘And, remind me again: why did you break up?’

‘Barbara, you know perfectly well . . .’

‘Say it aloud, dearest,’ says Laura, doing her chairwoman thing. ‘I think she’s trying to establish a pattern here.’

‘If you’re asking me who dumped who, I can’t give you a straight answer because I don’t know. It was one of those weird awkward ones, where he went from calling me all the time to big fat nothing. Zero. Like turning off a tap. And of course, all my calls and very concerned texts went ignored. Absolute killer, cos if you both only knew the amount of time and energy that I wasted wondering whether it was something I said or did . . .’

‘Now, I may not have been out there at the dating coalface for a very long time,’ Laura interrupts, ‘but is that the twenty-first century way of breaking up? A guy just stops calling, and somehow you’re psychically expected to deduce that you’ve been dumped? No conversation, not even of the tired old “it’s not you, it’s me” variety?’

‘Pretty much, yup.’

‘How cowardly.’

‘Cowardice is the least of my worries, the stupid bastard’s office keep sending me bills for consultation fees.’

‘The point I was actually trying to make,’ says Barbara, mouth stuffed full with crisps, ‘is that, at the time, you referred to him as, and I quote, “Mr Ah Sure He’ll Do”.’

‘Well, in my defence, I’ve dated a lot worse.’

‘Vicky, just listen to yourself. What I’m trying to get across to you is, if you set the bar low enough, only a louse can crawl underneath.’

‘You’re the one who just had a fling with a guy whose name you couldn’t even remember.’

Told you, I have a very defensive streak. Particularly when I think the other person could actually be on to something.

‘Yeah, but, unlike you, I’m not trying to get married. I don’t particularly care if I never marry. Completely different set of life priorities going on here, babe. I just wanna be a star. Which is where you come in.’

‘Oh yeah, now I had this great idea . . .’

‘Stop changing the subject. We’re not finished with you. So your homework is, do out your dating cheat sheet and then we need to discuss the way you act around men.’

‘My behaviour around men? What, are you telling me now that I come over like some desperado cheap tart that’s anyone’s for a tin of beans?’

‘Shhh, easy there,’ says Laura. ‘Remember we’re here to nurture, not to torture.’

‘Very well put, thank you,’ says Barbara, wiping a dribbly bit of blue-cheese dip off her face.

‘You’re most welcome. I’ll say this for you, dearest, when it comes to dating: you are something of a gold standard.’

They’re 100 per cent right, of course they are. I should just shut up and listen and be grateful to have friends who are prepared to put themselves out and help me to this extent. And Barbara’s not criticizing, I remind myself: all tonight’s about is window-shopping each other’s lives, then gratefully receiving the benefit from everyone else’s particular field of expertise. And, to be fair to the girls, my love life could probably do with an industrial-strength, super duper power-hosing down, let’s be honest.

‘Sorry,’ I say meekly, although I’m quite sure my face has gone the colour of gazpacho.

‘Go on about the dating-behaviour bit.’

‘OK, it’s like this,’ says Barbara. ‘You know how sometimes you see stand-up comics, and it’s almost like they have the begging bowl out, looking for laughs, and they’re never, ever funny?’

‘Ehh, yeah, I think so.’

‘Same with fellas. If you try too hard, believe me, they’ll know. It’s like they come with a sixth sense, and if there’s even the slightest whiff of a wedding seating-plan from you, they’re out of there. I’m telling you, Vicky, it’s a relationship weapon of mass destruction.’

‘So what’s the answer? Watch a lot of Grace Kelly movies and do my best to come across all cool and ice maideny?’

The two of them snort just at the thought of me trying to act like an ice maiden, and in fairness I can’t really blame them.

‘I think she’s trying to say the solution is just to be yourself,’ says Laura. ‘Although, ladies, did we really need a book about the law of attraction to tell us that?’

‘No, there’s more to it than that,’ Barbara answers. ‘You’ve got to stop going into each and every relationship thinking: oh my God, this is him, this is the one. All you’re doing is putting all your eggs into one basket, then when things don’t work out, you’re totally devo.’

‘Devo?’ says Laura.

‘Devastated.’

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that Barbara sometimes talks in kind of Bebo-style teenagery slang. Half the time, I don’t really get it, but it makes me feel hip and young on the very rare occasions when I do.

‘Right then,’ I say. ‘So my homework is: I’ve to do out my, whatever you call it, dating cheat sheet and then . . . oh yes, have a complete personality change.’

‘Be as touchy as you like, but if you want a fella, then hear me out. Before the three of us meet up again, I’m putting you on a two-date minimum. You’ve got to go out with at least two fellas . . .’

‘TWO? Are you kidding me? This isn’t Manhattan, you know. Where am I supposed to meet them?’

‘Under bar stools if we have to. Hell on the liver, but quicker than speed dating.’

‘Did you just say “we”?’

‘Oh yeah, that’s the other thing. I’m coming with you. I don’t trust you not to end up with a complete eejit, if past experience is anything to go by. Plus, if anyone could do with a dating wing-woman, you could.’

‘Thanks so much. Why don’t you just drop a safe on my head while you’re at it?’

‘You’re the one who wants to turn this year into an annus mirabilis, aren’t you? So this is what’s happening. Suck it up.’

‘I agree with you,’ says Laura. ‘We should all have another margarita.’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘Well, it was implied. Any excuse to top up our drinks.’

I’m almost relieved when it’s my go to have a crack at being project manager, special subject: transforming Miss Barbara Fox into a household name within twelve months. This isn’t only relief that the heat’s temporarily off me, you understand, it’s that I really, really REALLY went to an awful lot of trouble on this particular task. Colouredy folders, the works. I was all day at it.

Anyway, while Laura’s telling us the latest about her eldest son George Junior, who she calls ASBO boy (her nickname, not mine), I root around for my briefcase then remember that I left it perched on top of a bag of cement filler beside what WILL be my state-of-the-art utility room, oh, sometime in the next millennium probably.

‘This is a child,’ Laura’s saying, ‘who has no problem eating the dog’s diarrhoea tablets, but who won’t share a slice of pepperoni from the top of his pizza with his brother. He’ll kiss the dog on the lips, but runs a mile when his granny asks for a hug, even though she pays him money for the privilege.’

Laura’s always at her funniest, though without ever meaning to be, when she’s giving out about her kids, and Barbara’s still falling around the place with her big-man, meat and spuds laugh when eventually I find what I’m looking for.

‘Da, da!’ I sing, handing them each two identical, very official-looking presentation packs, neatly labelled ‘project Barbara’. They both wolf-whistle and look dead impressed, and if I say so myself, it does really look fab, like a business plan, except I went a bit mad with the coloured stickers. Oh yeah, and the folders are shiny, see-through fluorescent pink plastic.

‘You spent all this time and effort on little ol’ me?’ says Barbara, delighted. ‘Way to go, Vicky, you’ll be doing power-point presentations next.’

‘If you’d both be good enough to turn to page one,’ I say in the special voice I use for pitching meetings, when I want to come across as organized, efficient, you know, on top of things. Oh yeah, and available, just in case there’s a single man present. And while we’re on this subject, you should just see me in action. Not tooting my own trumpet or anything, but I am actually able to shake hands with a guy and, in a mere fraction of a millisecond, by the tiniest, barely discernible flicker of an eyelid, ascertain whether or not there’s a wedding band there or not. God almighty, I should do it as a party piece. Just in case you think I’ve absolutely nothing at all to show for my decades of chronic singledom.

Anyway, back to our meeting.

‘Point A,’ I begin, ‘is that you, Barbara, are a fabulous actress whose talents are at present criminally under-used. Agreed?’

‘I second that,’ says Laura.

‘Now ladies, if you’ll please turn to point B, this is possibly, in no small way, due to having the worst, most useless agent in the business . . .’

‘I certainly won’t challenge you on that,’ Barbara interrupts. ‘He’s an out and out ’mare.’

‘Mare?’

‘Nightmare. Gobshite told me the other day that if he didn’t get a job for one of his clients soon, he’d have to go full-time behind the checkouts in Tesco. Do you know he has a list of all his clients on his office wall, in descending order of how much commission he’s made out of them? Then he’s nice to you on the phone in direct proportion to how much cash he’s earned out of you. And I’m fifty-third on the list. Out of fifty-four, and the last one is Daisy the pony who does all the pantos. Bastard.’

‘So, to be brutally honest, you’ve attracted an agent into your life who doesn’t exactly believe in you, to which I reply . . . let your useless agent just see my proposal and weep. Ladies, if you’ll please turn to page one in your folder, clearly labelled “Shakespeare in the park”.’

They both flip the folders open, whistling again at how impressive it all looks. But then, in my job, flash tends to win out over substance, it’s kind of like the first rule of PR.

‘Why Shakespeare?’ Laura asks.

‘Because he’s dead. No copyright to pay. And I can’t think of any writer that’ll show off Barbara’s talents more. You know what they say, if you can do classical theatre, you’re able for anything. Even an aul soap, anything.’

‘And why outdoors?’

‘No set, thereby keeping costs to a minimum. Plus, we’re coming into the summertime, and just look at how popular outdoor theatre is in New York. They get huge Hollywood stars earning buttons just to get a crack at the classical parts. Course we’re going to have to really brainstorm to come up with the right director, but I’ve got a great pitch for him or her: Shakespeare meets The Sopranos.’

‘Loving it,’ says Barbara, eyes gleaming.

‘I want this show to be contemporary and cutting edge and relevant, not like the held-together-with-Sellotape, crappy old productions of Hamlet, or the boring, boring history plays we had to yawn our way through in school. Oh, and I’ve got just the perfect venue in mind, the Iveagh Gardens. It’s romantic, peaceful, central . . .’

‘And there’s a cool bar just around the corner,’ says Barbara excitedly. ‘What are you both looking at me like that for? The cast will want to go for a drink after the show, won’t they?’

‘You’re going to be networking after,’ I say to her firmly, ‘like you’ve never networked before in your entire life. I’m taking personal responsibility to make sure every actor’s agent in town will be there. I want this gig to be the hottest ticket since U2 did their homecoming tour. Therefore I suggest we do three performances only, a bit like the opera companies, to keep supply well below demand. Everyone except special invited guests pays full price. My personal vision is that we’ll have ticket touts outside buying and selling tickets at twice their face value, like they did when Justin Timberlake played here. Remember? There were nearly fist fights.’

‘What about funding?’ Laura asks, flicking through the file on her lap.

‘Ladies, if you’ll kindly turn to your blue sticker, you’ll see a list of companies and clients I already represent, who might just be willing to invest. It’s a tax write-off for them too, you know. Now brace yourselves for this one, girls. My other idea is that any profit we do make is donated to charity.’

‘What?’ Laura nearly sprays the wall with margarita, she’s spluttering so much, but then money is always a touchy subject with her.

‘Because remember, this venture isn’t about making money. It’s about making Barbara a star.’

‘LOVIN’ it and LOVIN’ you,’ says Barbara, looking at me, stunned. ‘Keep this up and I’ll put you in my will.’

‘Oh yes, and a big question for you,’ I say to her. ‘What is your absolute dream role? The one part that you’d knife someone in the back for?’

For once in her life, she doesn’t have a smart answer to hand.

‘Emm . . . oh . . . well, when you put it like that . . . jeez . . . can I think about it and get back to you? I just, well, I didn’t expect you to be this . . . emm . . . organized.’

They both look at me, dead impressed, and I glow a bit.

Then they give me a round of applause, and although I act mortified, I’m actually thrilled. Then . . . oh shit.

I remember that I’ve gone to all this time and trouble over ‘project Barbara’, and I have sweet bugger-all for Laura . . . apart from one really tiny thing I thought of, but a) I don’t know how she’ll react, and b) I’m terrified of insulting her.

I mean, at aged thirteen when the rest of us were all squabbling over Jackie magazine and stuffing our training bras with tissues, Laura was a fully paid-up member of Mensa. Honestly. I mean, she’s just so intelligent and brilliant, with first-class honours degrees hanging out of her, and what I’m about to propose is . . . well, it’s not a million miles from asking Thomas Edison if he’d mind changing a light bulb for you. Or Einstein to give a hand with your four-year-old’s sums.

Anyway, and I’m not just playing for time here, I get up, mix more margaritas and am just sitting back down again, when she says to me, ‘So, Glenda the good witch of the East, don’t suppose you’ve anything in your bag of tricks for this particular Dorothy?’ I look hopefully over to Barbara, but no joy. She’s just looking back at me with an expression that might as well say, ‘Go on then, you’re the prime organizer here, you’re the one with all the colouredy folders.’

Right, nothing for it, then.

‘Right then, Laura, here’s the thing. The way I see it is, of course you’re dying to get back to the Bar the minute the baby is in proper, big school . . .’

‘Which will be in approximately twenty-eight months’ time,’ she interrupts. ‘But who’s counting?’

‘But until that happy day dawns, you need a way to generate cash while working from home.’

‘You could become an escort,’ says Barbara, crunching an ice cube between her teeth. ‘You know, like in the film Belle de Jour. Pays in cash, too.’

A withering glare from Laura and it’s back to me. I fish around in my briefcase, and after a lot of rummaging produce a copy of this month’s glossy new Tattle magazine.

‘What, you’re suggesting I become a gossip columnist? Or an agony aunt?’

‘Hear me out, honey. Have a look at this.’ I hand over the magazine, with a page turned down. ‘Now remember, it’s only an amuse-bouche of a moneymaking idea, that’s all.’

I threw that in casually-on-purpose, hoping the posh word would hook her.

‘Amuse-bouche?’ She shrugs. ‘Fancy.’

‘Thanks so much, please use it in a sentence by Monday.’

‘“I was in love and then he dumped me like I was radioactive waste,”’ she reads aloud from where I marked.

‘No, not the problem page, beside it. There.’

‘Blah, blah, blah short story contest, blahdy blah blah, theme is a brand-new take on modern motherhood blah blah blah three thousand words, blah blah blah, open to anyone over the age of eighteen, blah blah, closing date for submissions . . .’

Barbara’s now stopped her ice-munching and is looking at me as if to say, ‘You’ve certainly wiped the amuse off my bouche.’

‘Take a look at the prize money,’ I say, sticking to my guns.

‘First prize, five thousand euro, second prize, two thousand, third prize, a grand . . . dearest, this is all very well and good, except for one minuscule detail you seem to have overlooked. I can’t write. Treatises, yes, legal reports, yes, fiction, are you kidding me?’

‘Laura, you are officially the funniest woman I know. Especially when it comes to stories about your kids.’

‘Agreed,’ says Barbara. ‘Certainly the most unintentionally funny. I mean, you telling the story of how Emily is refusing to eat until you get cable is worthy of a slot on The Late Late Show.’

‘Don’t remind me. The little madam said I should change my name to mean.’

‘You see? That’s the kind of razor-sharp wit and humour they’re looking for,’ I say.

‘And you honestly believe that anyone would want to read about my family life?’

‘Come on, sweetie, if I can go on two dates, me the man repeller, and if Barbara can turn into a producer . . .’

‘. . . And do bear in mind my last paid acting job was over a year ago, a stunning portrayal of a lump of cholesterol on a beach in the Benecol ad. Unforgettable, really. And the answer to your next question – “Why aren’t you playing Broadway as a direct result?” – is “Beats the hell out of me”.’

Laura’s cornered and she knows it.

‘Well, if nothing else, I’ve just thought of a title,’ she eventually says.

‘Tell us.’

‘It’s a sign I hung on the kids’ bedroom doors. “Checkout Time is at Eighteen Years”.’

Barbara cracks up, with her big he-man laugh, but this time Laura doesn’t join in.

‘You really think I can do this?’ she asks me, looking a bit pole-axed.

‘What’s the worst that can happen? All you can do is try.’

‘In my world, trying merely brings you one step closer to failure.’

‘Christ alive, you think what you have to do is a challenge? In the next month I have to try and get two guys to date me.’

But I know exactly how she feels.