Chapter Fifteen

The Butterfly’s next meeting. June.

OK THEN. OUR progress reports to date.

BARBARA. She is giving herself five out of ten, although personally I think she’s being a bit harsh and deserves a minimum score of at least eight. On the plus side, she worked her ass off on polishing up an audition piece for Serena Stroheim; she did Hermia’s forest speech from A Midsummer Night’s Dream and was stunning. Absolutely the real deal. And I should know, I only saw her rehearsing it about fifty times. In fact, I could probably recite the lines along with her myself at this stage.

Anyhoo, her audition was held yesterday, at the dance studios, in front of the mighty Serena and her casting director. I met her both before and after and for the agonizing thirty minutes or so while she was in there, I paced the corridors outside, willing her luck, happy thoughts, huge success, you name it. No kidding, there were probably expectant fathers in maternity wards at around the same time yesterday, in a calmer and more relaxed state than I was. The upshot is, I can report that she went in a bag of nerves (grade one snappiness, never a good sign with her), and came out even worse. All I could get out of her was that if her audition had been a natural disaster it would have been comparable with either: a) Hurricane Wilma, or b) Britney Spears with the shaved head. Any more info I patiently tried to coax out of her was rewarded with getting the face chewed off me, so I quickly gave it up as a bad job.

Oh yes, and the reason I’m deducting two points from Barbara’s overall score is because, in a moment of misguided generosity, or pure gobshitery if you ask me, she only went and told Evil Angie, flatmate from hell, about the whole Shakespeare in the park summer project. So of course, nothing would please said Evil Angie until she somehow managed to wangle an audition for herself.

I pointed out to Barbara that this was little more than an act of the most blatant user-ism on Evil Angie’s part, but Barbara’s having none of it. Plenty of parts for everyone and may the best girl win, is her incredibly generous and philanthropic answer. Now, the amount of work I’ve put into this, and the very real possibility that Evil Angie might get cast and Barbara won’t, kind of makes me want to be sick. Shame we’re not casting Macbeth, though, Evil Angie would be a natural for Lady M, albeit a bit typecast.

Anyway, the die is cast and there’s nothing for us all to do now but sit patiently and wait for The Call. And try not to attract negative thoughts along the lines of how much I want to kill Evil Angie. Which is a bit like trying not to breathe. On the plus side, Serena did say that she hoped to have the show cast ‘in a New York minute’ (her phrase, not mine), with the result that every time either my phone or Barbara’s rings, we both leap about six feet into the air, nearly giving ourselves full-blown panic-attacks just in case this could be The Call. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat properly until I know one way or another, while Barbara has upped her cigarette intake to I think about twenty. Every two hours, that is.

VICKY. OK, my progress can be neatly summarized thus. Number of phone calls from Peter since our coffee date, three; number of times I’ve actually seen him since said date, one; number of texts from Eager Eddie, twelve; number of phone calls from Eager Eddie, seven.

Oh, and number of sightings of Daniel Best on the two occasions I’ve been to his agency recently, big fat zero.

Let me elaborate.

Right then, Peter first.

Now, personally, I think the amount of contact I’ve had from him is quite respectable, actually, given that he’s busy and I barely have time to wash my knickers these days, work has gone so crazy. However, Barbara, my personal PM and wise guru, claims his performance to date is classic borderline-interested, most likely to do with the fact that he’s just come out of a long-term relationship. I mean, we all know what most guys are like about switching allegiances from one football team to another, so imagine how much harder it is for them when it comes to contemplating a new girlfriend. Slowly, slowly, softly, softly will win the day, is her logic.

The good news is, Peter did ask me out to lunch last week, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but the bad news is: a) he never made a move on me afterwards (OK, admittedly, it was broad daylight and we were both racing back to our desks, but not a peck on the cheek, nothing); b) he does talk a LOT about Clare. Honestly, until I actually meet her, I’m beginning to feel like I’m stuck in a Daphne du Maurier novel, you know, along the lines of Rebecca. The unseen rival can be excruciatingly boring and overdone in movies or plays, but in real life it’s enough to make you start gnawing at the furniture with frustration. Is she thinner/younger/prettier/richer/funnier/just a better person than me – all the usual stuff is racing through my overactive imagination.

Barbara for her part, has nicknamed Peter ‘Ex-Files’ and says I should just visualize Clare, the ex, as being the kind of woman who goes through Marks & Spencer saying: ‘Oh look at those lovely viscose slacks with the handy elasticated waistband, wouldn’t they be great to wear to the highlight of my social calendar, Bingo on Sundays? Hmmm, wonder if they have them in my size, twenty-four. Oh, have to dash, time for my mid-afternoon snack of pizza and a tin of Bulmers.’

Bless her, I think she’s trying to cheer me up.

I can’t be entirely honest with Barbara, because she’s so anti-Daniel Best and every time I as much as mention his name she instructs me to hold a mental picture in my head of him shagging models in the States, like billionaires are supposed to – at least in her vivid imagination. Although, personally, I think she’s seen way too many TV programmes about Hugh Hefner and all his bunny girls in the Playboy mansion, and they’re making her unfairly biased against wealthy unmarried men. Anyway, in Daniel’s temporary absence, I’ve decided I do actually, really, seriously fancy Ex-Files, sorry, I mean Peter, on the principle that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. In addition, I’m exhibiting all the classic signs of Woman with a Crush: a) I’m waxed everywhere, therefore am fully match-fit and ready for action, if you get my drift; b) I went out and bought all new underwear; c) every time my phone rings I secretly want it to be him, and am always a bit sorry when it’s not; and d) as well as reading my own horoscope every day, I now read his as well. Oh, and he’s Pisces by the way, which scores a very promising eight out of ten for compatibility with my sign, Aquarius, according to the iVillage website anyway, which is bloody well good enough for me.

The really good news is that the PR dinner is coming up. So, I was very brave and grown-up and I asked him straight out, and he said yes, and best of all, Barbara is all set to double-date with his friend, fab wing-woman that she is. It’ll be the first night-time excursion for Ex-Files, sorry I mean Peter, and me, so I’m expecting, ahem, a result of a physical nature, if you get my drift. Otherwise it’ll be a total waste of a Brazilian wax, and I did NOT put myself through that agony and torture for nothing. The thing I’m most looking forward to, though, is having Barbara on hand, right by my side for the whole entire night, to monitor the whole situation. Oh, and prevent me from downing one too many margaritas, never, ever, a good plan. So it’s all looking good, and the added bonus of having a chaperone on hand is helping my nerves considerably and making me feel a bit like a debutante in high society between the wars, circa 1937.

On a less positive note, however, I have to report that, as of about a week ago, Eager Eddie started calling and texting again. Now, in my defence and just so I can’t be accused of leading him on, I only answered one call, and the minute I heard the Scottish accent, my heart sank. I thought we had pretty much agreed to leave things be and that was the end of that, but it turns out his rationale is, ‘You said you wanted to take things slowly, so that’s why I gave it a few weeks before calling again. You needed time, so that’s what I gave you.’

Jaysus.

It so happened that I was in the office when he rang, so I had the ready-made excuse of phones ringing and the door buzzing to get off the phone as politely as possible. Then, that night, he calls again. So this time, I recognize the number and don’t answer, so he leaves a message. Asking me out. To, wait for it, Glasgow. And this is the best part, to go and support his brother who’s playing in the World Pipe Band Championships on Glasgow Green. Where he’s playing the bagpipes. In public.

Now, nothing against bagpipe players, but I’d be a bit more of a Snow Patrol woman myself.

Needless to say Barbara howled laughing at this, and now whenever Eager Eddie’s name comes up (which it usually does, but in sentences along the lines of ‘can you believe that eejit still hasn’t got the message, if I went on like that with a fella, he’d call me Glenn Close and have me arrested for being a bunny-boiling stalker . . . etc., etc.’), she launches straight into the chorus of ‘Mull of Kintyre’. She even has a joke she made up specially. Q: why do bagpipers march while they play? A: to get away from the sound.

Ha, ha, very funny.

When she eventually stops laughing at my misfortunes, she does, however, remind me that, irritating as his persistent calls and texts are, I should just smile serenely at each one and tell myself that this is prima facie evidence that the law of attraction is actually working. And she’s right. I may not be getting quite the result I want, but I have to remember that a only few short months ago, I used to wonder if my complete lack of success with guys was some Darwinian way of weeding me out so I wouldn’t be able to propagate the species. At this moment in time, however, the sands are beginning to shift and that’s good enough for me. Right then. End of my moaning. Onwards and upwards. Ex-Files . . . sorry, I mean Peter . . . here I come, baby.

LAURA. OK, so I admit, I was saving the ‘best girl in the group’ award till last. You just won’t believe this, and I can barely believe it myself, but prepare to relinquish your breath. About a week ago, Laura got a phone call from the features editor at Tattle magazine to say that not only did they all roll around laughing at her short story but that she’s actually been selected as a finalist in their competition! Cue massive whooping, punching fists in the air and screaming jubilantly at each other, and that’s just me and the girls in the office. Even though I secretly had a feeling she’d do well, it’s still lovely when you get confirmation like this from the universe that, yes, occasionally, good things do happen to good people. Barbara almost had a heart attack when she heard the news, and even Laura herself is playing it down, but secretly pleased, I think. I always know whenever she does that lop-sided smile thing.

She maintains her kids reacted as if she’d been chosen to go on Who Wants to be a Millionaire? and she had about a half-hour of blissful peace while they all ran upstairs to write their lists of what they wanted with their share of the cash she was going to win. In vain she tried to point out that if she won, the prize wasn’t by any means life-alteringly huge, and in any case would be used towards taking them on a summer of cultural excursions around the city. The National Gallery, the Museum of Natural History, the latest exhibition of da Vinci Codex sketches, that type of thing. Under pressure, though, she did admit that their lists were just too funny.

Emily’s was: ‘1. Yacht. 2. Two weeks in EuroDisney. 3. Lexus jeep for Mom. 4. Remainder to be put in secure bank vault so when I’m sixteen, can get boob job.’

So as not to ruin their fun, though, she did break her hard and fast rule of only healthy organic food at mealtimes and let them order a family bucket of KFC chicken nuggets, fries, coke, the works. Ordinarily, Laura has a strict ban on allowing any of her offspring to eat anything that comes off on the end of a coronary heart-scraper, as she puts it, but that night and for one night only, they were allowed forbidden food to mark this rare and special occasion.

She said that celebration alone was miles better than any magnum of champagne.