Chapter Ten
Memories from last night that aren’t just a nauseous blur.
OH DEAR GOD, very, very few. I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, still trying to piece the night together, when slowly I become aware of a thud-thudding noise all around the room. It flashes through my mind that maybe this is some new type of tortuous tequila-based hangover that I haven’t experienced before, but then I realize it’s actually Gerry, aka Useless Builder, who must have let himself in, and is now attacking some part of what WILL be my showroom-condition home with what sounds like a large lump hammer.
Or could it just be my head pounding?
No, definite lump-hammer action going on. Which has now stopped. Which means he’s clocked off for one of his hour-long breakfast-roll breaks. (I wish I was kidding.)
Oh, shit and double shit. Which means that I’m late for work.
I pick up my phone and glance at the time on it.
Half nine. Really late. Bugger.
The only good thing is that I’ve no presentations today and, better still, I’m not expecting any clients to call into the office, which means I can skulk behind my desktop, quietly work away and not interact with or breathe stale alcohol fumes on or near any other human beings. Apart from Paris and Nicole, who with a bit of luck I can bag/cajole into keeping me in grande cappuccinos and lovely carb-heavy, hangover-friendly bagels or some such for the rest of the day. I’ve done it for the pair of them often enough, and now . . . it’s payback time.
I’m just padding barefoot across the freezing concrete bedroom floor into what WILL one day be my stunning en suite bathroom when Gerry shouts up the stairs at me.
‘Eh, Vicky, love, you weren’t thinking of doing anything drastic up there now, were you?’
I open the bedroom door and try to shout back but it only comes out as a hoarse croak.
‘Like what, for instance?’
‘Like flush the loo. Or, God forbid, have a shower.’
‘Oh, Gerry, are you really telling me I can’t use the bathroom?’
‘I had to cut the water off, love. There’s a problem with your tank in the attic. Might need a whole new one. And sure, you know yourself, it’s gonna cost you.’ All this delivered in the tone of someone who actually loves imparting bad news; in fact, the worse the better. The bastard is wasted in the construction industry, he should have been a medical consultant.
I groan and slam the bedroom door shut, wince at how bloody loud the noise is, then throw on a suit and swab my face with a baby wipe. This physically hurts so much that I can’t bring myself to go all the way and put myself through the torture of actually applying make-up, so I opt for the ‘why bother?’ option instead. Miles better idea.
I scrape my hair back, gargle with heavy-duty Listerine and off I go.
‘Looking a bit rough there, love,’ says Gerry as I stomp downstairs and into what WILL be my elegant yet homely kitchen, oh, I don’t know, probably around the same time that hell freezes over.
There he is, sitting on the furniture I borrowed from Mum and forgot to give back, work abandoned, feet resting on a bag of grouting, fag in hand, reading the racing page of the Daily Star and eating a breakfast roll. You should just see him, there are Zen masters living in caves in Tibet less chilled-out and zoned. But then, why am I even surprised? After all, this is a man who considers three hours rolling a cigarette to be a morning well spent.
I take a deep breath, clench my teeth and remind myself, like it says in my Law of Attraction book, attitude is gratitude. A day that Useless Builder actually turns up for work is a good day.
‘Overdo it last night, did you then, Vicky? I’ve seen healthier-looking ghosts.’
Now I don’t know what’s making me feel worse, the cigarette smoke, the smell of bacon, or just maybe the fact that I’m still a bit jarred from last night. All I know is that I have to get out of here NOW. If I don’t, there’s a good chance I’ll a) have a fight with him, therefore have to get someone else in to finish the job, who’ll probably charge me double, and that’s if I’m lucky and I actually DO get someone. Option b) is that I throw up. And right now, I’m just not on form for either, really. Not to mention the fact that I’m stuck with a loo I can’t even flush.
‘Oh, just a quiet night out with the girls,’ I snap. ‘So, do you think I might have running water by the time I get home? Kind of difficult for me to function without it.’
I meant that to sound pissed-off and vaguely threatening, the way Laura would if she had to deal with this, but the rule of thumb with Gerry is, the more you try to assert yourself with him, the more his type B ‘lazy-arse’ personality asserts itself. In fact, times like this, I really, really wish I could be more like Laura, who’s capable of throwing a look so icy it could freeze an espresso.
‘I’ll do my best, love,’ he says, managing not to lift his eyes from the racing page. ‘But I can’t guarantee you.’
‘Gerry, can I just point out that you’ve now left me without running water. If I lived in Africa, people would be sending me money. Bob Geldof would probably have a fund up and running by now.’
‘Would you relax? I’ve a great tip for you.’
‘Oh, terrific. Is it perhaps to stand under garden sprinklers on my way to work and wash myself that way? Or maybe to invest in a few buckets, leave them out the back and pray for heavy rain?’
‘Now, now, now, don’t be taking your hangover out on me, love. Here’s me only trying to do you a favour.’
I sigh deeply. Clearly better just to hear him out and then get out of here. I’m too tired and my head’s thumping too badly for yet another fight with him.
‘Yes, Gerry, what is it?’
‘Little Dancer, in the four o’clock at Aintree. Worth fifty euro each way. The going is good and if you ask me, she can’t lose.’
I grunt goodbye, fish my car keys out from under a packet of Jaffa Cakes on the patio table and mutter something about how I really want to see some work done by the time I get home.
‘It’s not up to me, love, it’s up to the people at the builders’ providers. I mean, if they happen to have a galvanized steel tank in the exact dimensions that’ll fit your attic, with an access hatch and a ball-valve cover and all, then I’ll have it done for you when you come home. Otherwise, sure you’ll just have to wait.’
I glare at him, waiting for that catchphrase, which he always tags on to the end of every excuse, without fail: ‘I mean, I’m not a miracle worker.’
If the law of attraction was instantaneous, I fume, stomping out the door and clambering into my car, then right now I would like to attract a ten-tonne anvil to land on Gerry’s head, while I sat on the sidelines and laughed, like in a cartoon.
Laura calls me as I’m driving, instantly calming me down.
‘I am slowly coming to the end of my rapidly fraying rope with Useless Builder,’ I seethe in the direction of the hands-free cradle, where the phone’s plonked. ‘Do you think if I hired a hit man to threaten him that might have some kind of motivational effect?’
‘Ooh, you’re sounding a tad under the weather, dearest,’ she says soothingly.
‘It’s only because I’m a woman on my own, you know,’ I fume. ‘If there was a man about the house, Gerry wouldn’t dare treat me like this. All I can say is, I must be paying off some hideous sins in a past life to have to put up with him and all his gobshitery carry-on.’
‘Now, now,’ she says in her best mammy voice. ‘Would you care for me to put things into perspective for you? You’re speaking to a woman who began her day at six a.m. this morning, by refereeing a screaming match between Jake and George Junior – who are capable of having a feud lasting both their lifetimes and well into the next generation over a box of Cheerios. So any delicious, distracting gossip you might have for me right now concerning last night would be like manna from heaven.’
‘Fair point,’ I say, suitably chastened. ‘Are you OK, hon?’
‘Vicky, I had four hours’ sleep last night and that’ll probably have to do me till mid-August. I won’t be OK until the baby is eighteen. Back to last night. I take it by your Exorcist tone and the fact that you’re only going to work at ten a.m. that it was a success? Full breakdown please: names, places, social security numbers, dish it out.’
‘A roaring success. The bits I remember, that is. I mean, I know it was a good night, because I always feel rotten the next morning in inverse proportion to how good a time I’ve had. Oh Laura, I know this is the world’s greatest lie, but I am never drinking again.’
‘No, dearest, the world greatest lie is: ‘You’re my wife, of course I love you.’ Trust me on this, I have personal experience. Anyway, at least you get to spend the rest of your day nursing your hangover in adult company. There’s a lot to be said for it. When I hang up, I have to go and scour the inside of a gerbil’s cage. Now don’t let me down, I rang you for some grade A juicy news, please. My wounds could do with some balm.’
I fill her in and she sounds suitably impressed.
‘I’d forgotten just how incredible Barbara really is when she’s in action,’ I say, beginning to feel a bit perkier now. ‘You should have seen her, she’s like some sort of man-whisperer. It’s like they just roll over and obey her every command.’
‘Do you think it might work with boys under the age of thirteen? I only ask because last night I caught George Junior trying to hold Jake’s head under water.’
Just then my phone beep beeps as another call comes in. Shit, probably the office, wondering where the hell I am . . . if I’ve fallen down an open water main in my house or something.
‘Laura, can I call you back?’
‘No problem. Just know that I’m very proud of you. Three different eligible bachelors, all in one night? May I just say I expect you to become the subject of a trivia question very soon. Oh, I wrote my short story by the way, is it OK if I email it to you? I’ve a strong intuition that it’s complete rubbish and that my writing style is the same staccato, brochure-cliché that you get in law reports, but I’d really value your editorial input.’
‘Fire away, call you later! Hello?’ I say, instantly clicking on to the call that’s waiting.
‘Ehh, hello, is that Vicky?’
Man’s voice, Scottish accent, which is ringing a bell . . .
Oh my God, it’s Cardigan Man, the first guy I met last night, in Ron Blacks bar. Shit, what’s his real name, quick, quick, quick, what’s his bloody name . . .
‘It’s Eddie here, I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.’
‘No, not at all, just on my way to a . . . ehh . . . meeting . . . emm . . . Eddie.’
‘Ah great. I just wondered if you’d like to come to dinner tomorrow, Saturday, if you were free? After the grilling your friend gave me last night, I felt it would be downright churlish of me not to invite you out.’
Oh, isn’t that sweet? I’m thinking, as I immediately accept. He seems genuinely delighted, and we chit-chat on for a bit, about last night mainly.
‘You and your mate Barbara disappeared quite abruptly, did you both have early starts this morning, then?’
‘Ehh, yeah, something like that,’ I say, a bit guiltily. Anyway, we chat on and he tells me he’s on his way to do an audit this morning but that he’ll call tomorrow to confirm the restaurant, and for once in my sad dating life, I absolutely 100 per cent believe this guy. Three texts and a phone call within the critical twenty-four-hour period just after you first meet? Bloody right tomorrow will go ahead. In fact, this guy just sounds so enthusiastic, I might as well start calling him Eager Eddie. In a good way, of course. Hand on heart, this is making a lovely change for me.
I once read a quote that said that men are a bit like taxis: either their lights are on or they’re off. And obviously, for my purposes, after all my years of dating emotionally unavailable cretins, a bright glaring ‘I’m available’ light is what I’m after, just like Eddie. This is all so amazing, I think, pulling into my parking space and nearly scraping the car on a pillar. (Shit, I must be still a bit squiffy.) In fact, I’d almost forgotten what fun it can be in the early stages of, dare I say it, a courtship. You know, when everything is foreplay, even early-morning phone calls.
God, I cannot wait to pick the whole thing over with Barbara. I glance at the clock on the dashboard. Quarter past ten. Nope, nobody ever rings her before two in the afternoon, nobody. Even her agent knows just to leave a message, although Barbara did say he hasn’t picked up a phone to her since around the time of the last Olympics.
Anyway, by the time I get into the office, Paris and Nicole are buzzing around with so much energy/enthusiasm/general sparkliness that I feel knackered just looking at the pair of them. They’re getting goodie bags organized for a press launch that’s scheduled for this morning, which in my muddy-minded haze had totally slipped my mind. In my defence, though, it’s not really a major client. (It’s for a new anti-stress spritz called ‘Arctic Ice’.) I don’t have to be there (thank you, God, I owe you one), and it’s been more or less their baby from the word go.
They both do a bit of a double-take when they see how haggard I’m looking, but like the angels of discretion that they are, neither of them pass any comment. In fact, after I say my good mornings in an over-compensatorily bright way, Paris slips out to Starbucks across the road, gets a very large espresso and a Danish, and discreetly places it on my desk, without even saying a single word, nothing, not even a vague reference to the fact that I look like I slept the night in a tree, then gave about five litres of blood to a passing vampire on my way into work today. And this isn’t done in an irritating bum-licker way either, just cos I’m her boss. Honestly, this is a girl so well-connected she could walk in anywhere and command any job in PR that she felt like. Her Rolodex is something that publicists lie awake at night dreaming about.
Note to self: give that girl another major pay rise, keep a close eye on her to make sure no one ever attempts to poach her from me. Rare diamonds like this one must at all costs be cherished and nurtured.
Anyway, pretty soon she and Nicole are heading off to set up for the launch, both looking fabulously glamorous, fresh-faced and so young that I feel like a granny just looking at them.
‘Oh, Vicky, here’s a product-sample bag for you,’ Paris says, tossing over a fancy silver beaded bag full of anti-stress spritz. ‘Have a try, they’re fab.’
‘Great, thanks so much, girls,’ I say, trying my best to sound cheery and awake to keep up with their combined twenty-something perkiness. ‘Get loads of coverage and I’ll see you later!’
As they clickety-clack off, laden down with goodie bags, I revert back into full ‘slump’ mode, and with the minuscule bit of energy I have, fish the press release out from the freebie bag they gave me.
Introducing Arctic Ice, the latest cutting-edge development in unisex aromatherapy treatments! The Arctic Morning spritz invigorates both mind and body, Arctic Afternoon spritz balances out the chakras, while Arctic Night calms and soothes tired, frayed nerves at the end of a long day. Truly the coolest, most refreshing sensation this side of the polar ice-caps!
Oh, for God’s sake, who wrote that shite? I think, stuffing it into the bin and switching on my computer. And then I realize. I did.
Anyway, I think I’d better do some work. The combination of a nice quiet office and lovely strong coffee is beginning to help considerably as I get cracking. Right then, today’s agenda is as follows: on top of my normal day’s work, I have to finish off reading a profile development and then come up with a launch strategy for a new jewellery designer brand. Now this is all very well and good, except that the manufacturing company involved have, up until now, been mainly noted for making cutlery. This is a big branch-out for them, so my one-line brief is, ‘It’s gotta be hot and it’s gotta be good.’
No pressure or anything. Plus I have a ton of phone calls to make on behalf of ‘project Barbara’, all the more important now, seeing as she went to so much trouble for me last night. Anyhoo, I click on my inbox and bring up my emails before I get started.
My eye quickly scans down and . . . oooooh, yes, there it is, Laura’s short story for the competition. I know I’ve a pile of work to get through before the weekend, but I can’t resist. I click ‘open’ and up it comes.
From: lauralennox-coyningham@hotmail.com
To: vicky@harperpr.com
Subject: The things I will do for cash.
Dearest Vicky,
Now this is only a first attempt, so go easy on me. All comments gratefully appreciated, although am still unsure whether or not the world is quite ready for my particular take on yummy-mummy-hood. Have to dash, just got a call from Jake’s school principal to say he weed on another boy’s moccasin shoes, then accused the child of being gay when he cried, and is now being sent home as punishment for the rest of the day. Will have strong words with headmaster and try to explain that to an eight-year-old, being sent home is NOT punishment, it’s a lottery win, as he will now spend rest of day with his feet up watching Nickelodeon.
Chat later, hopefully when my blood pressure is down to double figures,
Lx
I click on the attachment, absolutely dying to read it, and there it is.
Checkout Time is at Eighteen Years . . .
The Official Laura Lennox-Coyningham Guide to Single Parenthood.
Or, why I’m absolutely not and never will be a fully-fledged YM (yummy mummy).
Any reader expecting this to be about the jobs of motherhood, put this down right now and walk away. It is not, repeat, not for you. I fail all qualifications for yummy-mummy-hood and if you don’t believe me, just ask any mother at the school gates who knows me, namely:
You see what I mean, reader? The only two things I have in common with these women are kids and guilt. Four kids to be precise, and guilt about a marriage break-up in which I was the blameless party but somehow ended up taking full responsibility, at least in my children’s eyes. And I don’t quite know why, because my ex is the one who’s adoring his kid-free, newly single existence, which of course makes me want to scream at him, ‘I do know that you actually have a wedding ring. I KNOW. I was THERE.’
My two best friends have variously described this man as my emotional equivalent of Pearl Harbor and have jointly offered to get a hit man after him for my birthday present. If you’re reading this, thanks so much, ladies, and I’ll get back to you.
Now the primary disadvantage to being a single mother is that, at the end of yet another tiring, exhausting day, I have no one to shout at apart from the TV. That, and of course the fact that the only man in the world who saw my stretch marks and sagging breasts in all their glory, and would still have normal marital relations with me, has now left home for good. Although, on reflection this could possibly be construed as a plus on the grounds that if I were still married and if my husband asked me what my ultimate sex-fantasy was, at this stage, I’d probably tell him it would be for him to run the Hoover round the living room a few times.
Another advantage is, given that Daddy isn’t around on a regular basis, I do get to rule my household along authoritarian lines, like a little Fascist country in the thirties. As long they’re under my roof, at least, my kids have no supreme court of second appeal: what Mummy says goes.
I’m just about to scroll down, totally engrossed, when the buzzer goes.
Shit. I’m not expecting anyone, am I? No, definitely not. A courier delivering something, most likely.
‘Hello, Harper PR?’ I say, about as chirpily as I can manage, into the intercom.
Ooh, bad idea. Even talking perkily is hurting my brain.
‘Just dropping off something for Miss Vicky Harper, if she’s there,’ says a man’s voice.
‘Be right there.’
Poor delivery guy, whoever he is, I only hope the smell of stale alcohol fumes from me doesn’t knock him over. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t think he’s delivering to a gin palace. I slip my shoes back on, head out the glass door that divides my office from Les Girls and open the main door that leads on to the corridor outside
Oh, sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, I do not believe this.
Standing right there, holding the biggest basket you ever saw, covered in cellophane and stuffed with Choca-Mocha kisses, is Daniel Best. On the worst, worst day he could possibly have called. I’m totally stunned, my jaw drops a bit, and all I can think is to stammer something about: how did he know where my office was? And he does that cute wide, dimply grin thing that he does. ‘Sorry, I thought this was your place of work, I didn’t think it was, like, classified information or anything. So, emm, can I come in? Carrying quite a load here.’
I usher him in, mortified a) at the state of the office. (Not that there’s anything really wrong with it, OK, yes, there’s a lot of pink going on, the company signature colour, but apart from that, it’s on the small side and, well, comparing it to Best’s is a bit like comparing a patch of greenery out the back garden to Wembley Arena.) This however is nothing compared with point b) the state that I’m in.
‘Well, you did say you liked chocolate,’ he says, dumping the basket on Nicole’s desk and then sitting down on it himself, crossing one long leg over another in that lazy, ‘I have all the time in the world’ way that he has. You should just see him: Heathcliff in Gap chinos and a kind of rumpled denim shirt, the sort of work-look you have to be a true multi-millionaire to really carry off. In fact, I’d say Bill Gates could go round the place in shiny tracksuits and no one would ever dream of batting an eye.
‘No, Daniel, I don’t just like chocolate,’ I say, grinning back at him. ‘I LOVE chocolate. This is amazing, thank you so much, you couldn’t have given this to a better home.’
‘Now this isn’t just any old selection of freebies, I’ll have you know.’
‘You’re telling me, it’s more like . . . a buffet of chocolate. Days like this I’m only too glad my assistants aren’t here to share in this bounteous wonder. We have a strict division of spoils policy here, and what can I say? When it comes to chocolate, I’m greedy.’
I’m aware that I’m rabbiting on a bit, but then nervousness always has that effect on me and all I can think is . . . why am I so jittery around this guy?
And more importantly, why is he here?
‘We have that policy at Best’s too,’ he nods, still grinning. ‘All freebies to be divided equally. But for some reason, I always seem to end up getting women’s fragrances and make-up. No kidding, there are drag queens out there who’d envy the array of cosmetics in my office.’
We both laugh and then he gets up, as if to go.
‘Anyway, I just thought this would help you celebrate,’ he says, a bit teasingly.
I look up at him wondering, could he mean . . . does he mean . . .?
‘Yes, you got the contract,’ he says. ‘My God, there should have been a drum roll there for dramatic effect. Sophie Boyd loved your ideas for the launch and for the campaign. She loved them so much that she pretty much wants you involved every step of the way.’
I can’t help myself, I let a deafening squeal out of me, and without thinking, I instinctively hug him. He hugs me back and we’re both laughing and then I remember that I must smell like a brewery so I pull back immediately and turn bright scarlet, mortified.
‘Well, I should make a note to deliver good news in person more often,’ he says.
‘I am so THRILLED!!’ I shriek, with my hand over my mouth to cover the fumey smell off me. ‘I thought that I’d . . . well, gone a bit overboard in there . . . I thought that . . . they all thought that I might have overstepped the mark a bit . . .’
‘Why would they think that?’
‘Because your people are all fabulous and all their ideas were winners . . .’
‘Hey, yours were the ones she went for. Credit where credit’s due.’
‘You’ve no idea how much this means . . . you know, product development is a part of the business that I really want to grow . . .’ I’m gibbering now. Can’t help it.
‘Well, here’s your chance.’
Oh my God. He’s just handed me the most incredible opportunity on a plate. This’ll be like being on an amazing learning curve and getting paid for it. Bloody hell, I should be paying him.
‘Daniel, I promise I will not let you down. This is going to be the biggest, hottest thing since . . . since . . .’
‘Hey, you haven’t heard the catch yet,’ he twinkles.
‘There’s a catch?’
‘I told Sophie that if we’re shooting a Casablanca bar scene, then I want to be an extra. In a white tux or else a really sharp suit. But nothing that screams flight attendant. Just a little fantasy of mine.’
‘Hey, Richard Branson did a walk-on part in Friends, so why not you?’ I say, beaming. Although right now, if he told me he was going to appear in the ad naked, I’d probably tell him it was a stroke of genius. In fact, if he asked me to appear in the ad naked, I’d probably do it.
Then my mobile starts ringing.
‘Right then, I’d better get going, you’re busy and I’ve taken up enough of your time,’ he says, making for the door.
‘No, no you’re fine,’ I say, just as my landline goes.
‘So, busy weekend ahead?’ he kind of looks at me, sideways.
‘Emm . . .’
‘It’s just that, if you were free, myself and a gang of friends are going to an outdoor screening of a Buster Keaton movie tomorrow, with a live pianist. I just though a fellow movie buff like yourself might have some fun.’
‘Oh, that sounds fabulous,’ I manage to say, all the while thinking, is he asking me out?
Could he be? No, he said ‘a gang of friends’, plural, so it’s only a casual thing . . . isn’t it?
Then my mobile goes again, as a text comes through.
‘I’d absolutely love to,’ I begin and then remember, shit . . . I can’t.
I’m meeting Eager Eddie tomorrow night, for dinner.
‘Only . . .?’ he says, picking up my tone.
‘I’ve something on tomorrow. I really am sorry, Daniel, the movie sounds like great fun.’
My mobile rings yet again and this time he takes it as his cue to go.
‘Not to worry,’ he smiles. ‘Look, I’m in the States for the next few weeks, but I’ll get Amanda at our office to get in touch with you, so we can get moving on this project right away. And just so you know, there’ll be a separate clause in the contract signed in blood about my starring extra role. Just so you don’t get any nasty surprises.’
I laugh as he opens the door. ‘Enjoy your movie tomorrow, and thanks again for the chocolate mountain.’
‘“You’re welcome kid,”’ he says, doing his Humphrey Bogart impression, then winking, and he’s gone.
Still a bit shell-shocked, I slump down at my desk, trying to take it all in.
Oh, I do not believe this. Dateless for months and then two offers for the same night?
I have to take a moment to digest the irony.
I pick up my mobile: one missed call and two texts, all Eager Eddie.
The anti-stress spritz is still sitting on my desk so I open it and squirt it all over me.
No, it definitely doesn’t work.