Chapter Eighteen

SATURDAY NIGHT AND we’re all systems go for the big PR dinner. I’m actually starting to feel like Peter and I are well on our way to dating exclusively, and am loving every single wonderfully romantic minute of it. This is it. Finally the relationship gods have smiled down on me, and, let’s face it, not before time. Peter called not once but twice today to arrange for him and his friend Baldie . . . sorry, Charlie, to meet Barbara and me in his local, conveniently close to the Radisson Hotel, where the do is to be held. He seems keen, keeps saying ‘we’ a lot, and seems to be looking forward to the night as much as I am. So, in a nutshell, all the signs are good that tonight could be the night when we ‘seal the deal’ if you’re with me. I’m excited and buzzy, brimming with confidence that this is it; this really could be The One.

The only teeny fly in the ointment is, all going well, then where exactly do I lure him afterwards? Useless Builder started sanding my wooden floors upstairs, then did his usual trick of half-finishing the job and buggering off for the weekend, leaving the top of my poor little house looking like a desert sandstorm just hit it. Laura sensibly suggested that I just treat it all like a big joke and, should Peter agree to come back to my place, just make sure I have champagne chilling in the fridge (check), fabulous underwear on (check), and crisp new bedlinen (check). I’m a great believer in bed karma, i.e., unmade and messy is not the way to get a result, if you’re with me. So, one flying trip to the homeware department of House of Fraser later, and I’m ready to rock and roll and my bed is now a field of dreams. (‘Build it and he will come, is that your cunning plan?’ as Barbara quipped, har, har, har.)

Well, except there’s been one glitch. I forgot to shut the bedroom door before Useless Builder got at the sanding machine, so now my ferociously expensive, fab new Frette sheets resemble something Lawrence of Arabia would have slept on. In a tent. With a camel parked outside. In the Sahara.

Anyway, I have come to the mature decision that if anyone judges me on the state of my living space, then it’s a sad reflection on them, not me. So in a way, it’s a test of character, and if Peter has a problem with sitting on my mother’s patio furniture drinking champagne out of plastic cups, that’s his problem and not mine. Not that he would, she sez, brimming with the pre-date confidence of someone who got two calls from him so far today, not even counting texts. He’s just too much of a gentleman. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. Woman’s instinct and all that.

Six thirty p.m. and I’m ready for action. I’m wearing my ‘serial result’ good Karen Millen LBD, plastered in fake tan to hopefully take the glare off my natural skin tone (which is a pasty blue), nails done and with my hair straightened from here to France. Just as I’m rushing out the door to my taxi waiting outside, I stop and pick up the law of attraction book, sitting on top of a handbag in the hallway. It’s become almost like a lucky charm with me at this stage. When I’m nervous and jittery before a big occasion like this, my little routine is to flip open a page at random and see what message the universe has to send me. Something life-affirmingly positive that’ll act like a fantastic omen for the night ahead. With a bit of luck.

Negative feelings will inevitably attract yet more people and situations which will continue to draw you into a spiral of negativity. Just like a vicious circle.

Eh, no, not quite what I was hoping for. I try again as the taxi beeps the car horn impatiently. Oooh, here we go, this is a bit more like it.

If your wish is to attract a relationship, first make certain your thoughts, words, actions and surroundings don’t contradict those desires.

Perfect. Well, apart from the bit about my surroundings, that is, but I can just cross that bridge when I come to it, can’t I?

Oh shit, no, tonight’s too important to me, I need one more go, just for luck.

Expectation is a powerful attractive force. You must school yourself to expect the things you want and conversely, not to expect the things you don’t want.

Far more like it. Expect good results and they’ll manifest. I mean just look at the progress the girls are all making, I think, as I grab my purse and lock the hall door. (Although why, I don’t know, any burglar walking in would swear by the state of the place that I’d already been hit.) Laura’s got a column now that’ll pay her regular money. OK, not huge amounts, but it’s work she loves and can do from home and, until she gets back to the Four Courts, this is a start, isn’t it? And Barbara’s on the verge of getting the huge showbiz break that she so richly deserves. Very slowly, shifts are happening and the others are starting to get what they want. So whatever way you look at this, there can only be one conclusion about tonight.

It’s my turn.

First not-so-great sign about the night ahead.

So, the four of us are in the bar, sitting around a table, warming up for the festivities ahead. Barbara’s looking effortlessly stunning in a silky black trouser suit borrowed from Evil Angie, still sky-high from yesterday’s wondrous news. Peter’s friend Charlie is there, too, looking, well, the kind thing to say is that he’s made a big effort. I mean, yeah, I may have forgotten that the baldie head is in fact a shaved head which tonight is shining and polished like Daddy Warbucks’s, and yes, OK maybe the tux is way too small for him, but on the plus side, he only has eyes for Barbara, to the exclusion of anyone else, and given that she always says sex is better than champagne for celebrating good news, I think the guy might possibly even be on to a winner here this evening. Anyway, the champagne is flowing, and everyone’s getting into high old form. Well, everyone except Peter, that is. I can’t quite put my finger on it, it’s not that he’s being moody or boring, just a bit quiet, that’s all. And every time there’s a lull in the chat, he keeps scanning the room to see who’s just come in.

7.00 p.m.

Mystery solved. Out of nowhere, Peter suddenly gets all animated, joining in the conversation with gusto and laughing just that bit too hard at Barbara’s wisecracks. It’s only when I see a very attractive brunette newly arrived at the bar with a very dishy-looking guy in a rugby shirt, looking steadily over in our direction, that I suddenly know exactly what’s going on.

‘Isn’t that Clare?’ Baldie says, spotting her too.

Knew it. Knew it without even being told.

7.10 p.m.

Weird and a bit ick, if I’m being honest. Clare comes over with her date, who she very pointedly introduces to all of us as James, but then she keeps referring to him in an irritating, cutesy-cutesy way as Jamie. Then Peter introduces all of us, slipping his arm around my waist as he says, ‘And this is Vicky.’ Nothing in his tone would suggest there’s anything up, nothing untoward in the gesture itself. It’s just that he’s never laid a finger on me before, not once. Now Clare’s getting all touchy feely with James and Peter’s upping the ante on me, holding my hand and making a big show of really looking into my eyes, while I smile awkwardly back up at him. He and Clare lock eyes and make small talk but the undercurrent is something a lot different. In fact, by now I’m actually starting to feel like an incidental character in a Chekhov play, while the principals make a huge show of acting out ‘who’s more over who, and who’s having a far better time with their new partner’.

All I want is to get out of here, drag Barbara to a loo and dissect the whole thing apart, forensically, bone by bone.

8.00 p.m.

‘Oh for f**k’s sake,’ she says, when we finally get to the Radisson and I finally get her alone in the Ladies. ‘OK, so maybe we ran into his ex and you felt you were being paraded a bit, but it’s all over now, you’ve met her, she’s met you and everyone can move on. No more of the Rebecca factor, with you obsessing about what his ex is like, Mrs De Winter. I mean, yeah, she’s pretty and everything, but I’d swear I saw acne scarring under all of that concealer. And she was definitely trying it on a bit too hard with that rugby dude she was hanging out of. All I can say to you is, if Clare was a garden plant, she’d be clinging ivy.’

‘Bless you for that very charitable thought,’ I say. ‘Although there’s just one teeny niggling worry formulating at the back of my head.’

‘Shoot.’

‘He must have known that she’d be there. Which is why he picked that bar for us to meet up at in the first place.’

‘YPB?’

‘Speak in bloody English, will you? I’m too addled to read your subtitles.’

‘Your point being?’

‘Nothing, I’m just trying to figure out whether or not tonight’s being a total waste of a blow-dry and make-up, that’s all.’

‘Vicky, get a grip, will you? He chose that bar because it’s his local and it’s near the hotel. He’s moving on, Clare’s moving on and the only one who’s making a total game show out of them casually bumping into each other is you. He’s a sweet guy, who seems to like you as much as you like him, he ticks all your boxes and you’re going to have a great time with him tonight, even if I have to ram margaritas into your bloodstream for the duration.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I suppose so,’ I say, still a bit off-kilter, if I’m being honest. ‘It was just a bit of initial awkwardness, that’s all, wasn’t it? And it’s all behind us now. Isn’t it?’

‘There’s the Dunkirk spirit. Of course it is. Peter’s hot-looking and the fact is, if he hadn’t moved on with you, it would have been someone else. Apart from her, you’re the first woman he’s dated in seven years, so of course it’s understandable that he’s a bit antsy about the whole Clare thing. Be patient. Slow down. Give the guy a break, that’s all I’m saying.’

I look at her, a bit taken aback. Since when did Barbara get so tolerant of guys in general? Normally, if they do the slightest little thing to piss her off, she’s written them off and is out of there and straight on to the next one, dragging me in her wake, usually.

‘For Christ’s sake, Vicky, take a look at my date if you want to cheer yourself up. A baldie I can handle, but a shaved head by choice is a bit neo-Nazi for me.’

And, just like that, the old Barbara is back in the room again.

‘You’re not supposed to come out with stuff like that!’ I hiss at her, hoping no one overhead.

‘Well, excuse me for being honest. The guy is basically an oven mitt with a pulse.’

‘Barbara!’

‘Only the truth. Your guy looks like James Bond in a tux. Mine looks like the best man at Wayne Rooney’s wedding.’

‘I really am grateful, you know that,’ I say, suddenly overcome with the enormity of what she’s putting herself through for me. And on a Saturday night too, when I’m sure she has a string of miles more interesting fellas to be out on the town scoring with.

‘Hey, I’m only paying the favour forward, that’s all. I mean, up until yesterday, my career was twitching on a slab in a mortuary. Now, and entirely thanks to you, I have a big fat job!’

Second not-so-great sign about the night ahead.

There must be about five hundred people here, and the ballroom is packed to the gills. I find the table that we’re at, and the four of us head inside, taking our seats. It’s doubly thorny for me as: a) I’m the only one who actually knows anyone else here and I don’t want to get lost in the crowd catching up with people while leaving my guests stranded on their own with no one bar each other to talk to; b) Baldie, sorry, I mean Charlie’s making absolutely no effort to do anything other than chat up Barbara; and worst of all c) Peter, my lovely fab Peter, doesn’t seem to give a shit about anyone or anything other than his mobile phone. All my best leaning-into-him moves, a great way to create the illusion of intimacy in a packed place, are totally wasted. Now, of course I accept that in every relationship, there comes a time when romance has to give way to reality. It’s just that I never even got to have any romance with this guy, not even a whiff of it.

I’m not kidding, from the minute we’re seated at the table he whips the bloody phone out of his jacket and proceeds to engage in what I can only describe as a texting marathon.

‘Something important? Maybe an emergency at your school?’ I eventually say, wishing I could adopt at will a tone that would cut through crystal, like Laura can. And if it sounds a bit on the snotty side, bear in mind that our starter course has arrived, been eaten and cleared and he’s still at it.

‘No. I just wanted to make sure that Clare was OK, that’s all. Look, I really am sorry about this, but Vicky, do you think I could talk to you? There’s something I really need to get off my chest.’

Well, about bloody time, I think, finally, this is starting to sound positive. Not to mention the fact that it’s the first time since we sat down that he’s actually looked directly at me. Right then, I may not be psychic, but I think I can guess what’s coming. Yes, this is it. I can practically feel it. He’s going to tell me now that ever since they broke up, Clare’s being over-clingy and that she probably stalked him into that bar, determined not to let him move on and be happy with someone else. Specifically, me. Which will be my cue to be supportive and understanding, and never, ever to fall into the trap of slagging off his ex. No, aloof and dignified will win the day. Until we’re well-established as a couple, that is; then in a few months’ time, I can start weaning him off answering her texts and going to pubs where he’ll know she’ll be. Until then, I’ll play it bright and breezy, like I’m absolutely fine with all this shit-ology. He’s a good guy, I remind myself, and God knows, they’re thin on the ground from where I’m standing, so isn’t he worth playing a long game for?

‘Yes, Peter, of course.’ I smile in what I hope is a compassionate yet non-clinging way. So he’ll see me as the anti-Clare in time.

‘What did you think of that guy that Clare was with? Because I thought he was a total jock-strap and I honestly don’t know what she’s doing with him. I’m actually kind of worried about the whole thing. Maybe I should call her. Just to make sure she’s OK. What do you think? Do you think I should call?’

Third not-so-great sign about the night ahead.

OK, now I actually don’t know which was worse: Peter texting Clare the whole time, or him talking about her incessantly. First one, now the other. In fact, I think I nearly preferred it when he was ignoring me and focusing all his attention on his shagging mobile. Right the way through dinner, it was nothing but Clare this and Clare that. I got her life story in such fine, forensic detail, I could probably write the girl’s autobiography for her. By the time dinner’s over, I could almost do a police re-enactment of the last seven years of her life: how she and Peter met, set up the school, moved in together, how he whisked her off to Barbados to celebrate their three-year anniversary, how she wanted a cat and he didn’t, and then he surprised her with one on Christmas Eve which she christened ‘Muffy’. (No, really.) Then we had a minute account of the deterioration of the relationship, taking in her ‘let’s see other people’ speech, right up until they ‘accidentally’ ran into one another this evening. With a few drinks on him, he even gets that ‘puppy dog’ gooey look in his eyes whenever he mentions her name. Believe me, I know.

It’s only happened about two hundred times so far.

I don’t think I’ve uttered two words for the whole meal, in fact half the time I’m wondering if Peter even realizes that I’m around. I’ve just sat there umming and aahing and doing the sympathetic hear nod, but all the time, I’m busy thinking, ‘Hmmm. Should I use this cloak of invisibility I seem to be wearing for evil or to fight crime?’ The final blow is when he drifts off and stares into the middle distance for ages then turns back, looking like . . . like he’s a Siamese twin and I’m a revolving door.

‘Vicky?’

‘Yes?’ I answer curtly, patience at a very low ebb by now.

‘What time do you think this do will be finished at?’

‘It’s a black-tie do, Peter, what exactly do you mean?’

‘It’s just that I might call on Clare on my way home. Just to check that’s she’s all right. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?’

Somehow, he misinterprets the icy glare I give him as being full of loving warmth and consideration, because, next thing, he comes out with, ‘No, of course you don’t. You’re really something, you know that, Vicky? You’re so cool about all this. You’re probably the only person I can really talk to about the whole thing, and you’re such a great, great listener.’

It’s well after the main course has been cleared before I can drag Barbara off to the Ladies again for yet another emergency de-briefing session.

‘Right then,’ she says firmly. ‘So, OK, he’s not over his ex . . .’

‘Not OVER her? That’s an understatement on a par with saying that . . . that . . . oh shit, I can’t even think of something smart-alecky to back that up with. What am I going to do, Barbara? I went to so much bother over tonight, I had such high hopes, and it was all shaping up so well, and now the best I can possibly hope for is that I end up as his rebound person.’

I’m doing my best to sound cool and rational but what I actually want to do is slump down in front of the Ladies dressing table, right here, right now and bawl my eyes out. But of course I can’t, because there’s people here I know, so I have to cover over the cracks with lip-gloss and go back out there, and smile and get through the rest of this miserable, huge disappointment of a night. Somehow.

It’s almost becoming like a pattern with me, the more I like a guy, the worse they seem to treat me. ‘You’re a great girl, Vicky, and you’re such a good listener,’ is all I seem to get and I’m sick of it. Enough is enough. Tonight was supposed to be my turn to get lucky, and here I am, dressed up like a right dog’s dinner, sitting beside a guy who’s confusing me with a hotline to the Samaritans – and not having the first clue where it all went so wrong. Barbara, thank God, knows me well enough to know when I’m close to break point, so she stands behind me in the mirror and starts massaging my shoulders, like I’m a heavyweight boxer and she’s my trainer.

‘OK, here’s what I suggest,’ she says very decisively. ‘Plan A, we leave now. Just run out the door and leave Baldie and Ex-Files to cop on that they’ve been dumped.’

‘Can’t,’ I say dully, although I’m sorely tempted. It would be unbelievably rude, granted, but then my date’s total and utter lack of interest in me affords me some wriggle room. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m stuck here and that’s all there is to it. ‘Too many people would see us go.’ I sigh so deeply it physically hurts. ‘Plus there’s a charity auction on after the meal, and it would look terrible if we just upped and left right now.’

‘OK then, plan B, we stay for the auction, then I’ll come up with an ingenious cast-iron excuse, like my feet are killing me, or my chicken fillets are about to fall out, or I want to get home to see Newsnight. You know, something brilliant that no one can argue with. Like diarrhoea for instance. As I always say, you can do a lot of things but you can’t negotiate with diarrhoea. Best excuse ever dreamt up by mankind.’

‘Thanks, hon, but it was kind of long-term plans that I was thinking of. I think we need to be brutally honest here and accept that while “project Barbara” and “project Laura” are shaping up very nicely, “project Vicky” has been a total loser. And I can’t figure it. I just wish I knew what I was doing wrong. I feel like I’ve been on this fifteen-year losing streak and here I am, doing my utmost to turn it around and I bloody well can’t.’

I’m a bit choked now, and in spite of my best efforts, fat, wobbly tears are starting to well up.

‘Come on, stop expecting failure . . .’

‘But that’s the thing, I wasn’t! Not tonight! I had a great attitude altogether, I even went out and spent a fortune on all new bedlinen . . .’

‘Vicky, you want to attract the right guy and you will. OK, so maybe we revise our strategy. I think we need to accept that the dating-one-guy-at-a-time pattern isn’t working for you, and go back to the drawing board.’

‘What do you mean, the drawing board?’ I ask dully, feeling like I might as well have a big F for Failure stamped across my forehead.

‘Another Thursday night on the town, babe. What else?’

She’s right, of course she is. It’s just the sheer effort required in picking myself back up off the floor yet again and doing the whole clubby/pubby scene with her right now just sounds so bloody exhausting. Oh for God’s sake, I think, catching a glimpse of my defeated expression in the mirror, just look at the effect that hope has on me. This is what happens when I send all my longing for love and romance out into the world. I end up a nervous wreck, on a date with a fella who barely realizes I’m even here.

‘Or,’ I say, turning back to Barbara as I get up to go, ‘maybe I’ll just stop fighting fate and become one of those single spinsters who drink a half bottle of wine alone every night, and keep cats, and complain when the neighbours have late-night parties. Maybe I struggled with my destiny for long enough and now it’s time to wise up to the inevitable. My name is Vicky Harper and I repel men. Born to live out the rest of my days alone.’

‘You certainly didn’t repel Eager Eddie,’ she says as we head back outside where the auction’s just about to begin.

‘I won’t even dignify that with a wisecrack.’

‘Oh now, come on,’ she says, kindly, squeezing my arm. ‘At the risk of sounding like a kids’ TV show presenter, what have we learned from the past few months?’

‘I give in. Stop asking me hard questions.’

‘Focus on what you want and not what you don’t want. If it can work for me, then it can work for anyone, babe.’

By the time we get back to the table, Peter has now abandoned all pretext that he’s on a date with me, and is actually on the phone to Clare. Chatting away goodo. And he doesn’t even have the grace to hang up when he sees me coming back, just keeps on talking. One of those excruciating ‘no, no, you were right and I was wrong’, type conversations that, frankly, is making me want to vomit.

‘I’ll rip the phone out of his hand and dance on it if you want,’ Barbara thoughtfully offers when she sees what he’s at. ‘Cos, you know me, I’m like that.’

‘No need,’ I say, smiling a bit over-brightly, aware that people, even, maybe, clients could be looking over. ‘The minute the auction’s over, we’re so out of here.’

‘Suits me. Baldie on my left here is seriously starting to drive me nuts.’

‘Shhh! He’ll hear you!’

‘Sorry, Charlie the razor-happy geek on my left is driving me nuts. That any better?’

With that, the auctioneer launches into his mile-a-minute patter and I sit very still, half-afraid to move in case by inadvertently scratching my head or something, I’ll have bought a painting worth five grand. And you should see some of the items: holiday cruises, a full pamper day at Powerscourt Springs (only the poshest health spa in the whole country), a role as a film extra in a movie that Gabriel Byrne is shooting here, a Graham Knuttel painting, some really unbelievable stuff. Whoever did the PR for this gig must have had some serious connections.

One cursory glance down the list of items to be auctioned off tells me they’re all waaaay over my humble budget, so I opt for sitting mutely, hands locked at my side to avoid financial embarrassment, and amuse myself by properly scanning the room, the first time all night I’ve really had a decent look around at who’s here and who isn’t. No one I know in the immediate vicinity, apart from a competitor of mine at the table behind me, who blanks me as I look over. Which in the mood I’m in, actually suits me just fine.

Ooh, then I see a friend of Paris and Nicole’s sitting at the table beside us, dressed like an extra from a Jane Austen adaptation, in a pretty empire-line dress with her hair swept up and ringlets framing her face. She’s got her own social diary, very handy for free press, so I make a mental note to self to be really nice to her afterwards.

‘Sold to the gentleman at the back!’ says the auctioneer, and the room applauds politely. ‘For four and a half thousand euro!’ and now the applause strengthens.

Unbelievably, Peter is still chatting away on the phone, jacket off and finger in one ear like a stockbroker, oblivious to how rude he’s being. At one point Baldie, sorry, I mean Charlie, asks him if he’d like to order a drink, and Peter actually waves him to shut up, like we’re all in a public library or something and we’re daring to shatter his concentration. Bastard. Rude bloody bastard.

‘And now lot number four, a three-day holiday in Paris, the city of love, flights and five-star accommodation in the Hôtel de Crillon, do I hear six thousand euro?’

Without even being aware of it, I must have drifted off, because the bidding is racing on, getting furiously higher and higher all the time, while I’m sitting here staring into space.

‘Eight and a half thousand euro, do I hear nine?’

I look over to Peter, who is smiling, actually smiling, down the phone, and I take one long, last look at him. Cos after tonight, he’s banished to the land of ‘never to be seen again’. And he just looks so handsome, it almost breaks my heart.

‘Yes, I have nine thousand euro, to you sir, the gentleman at the back, do I have nine and a half thousand euro? Do I hear the magic ten?’

. . . so what lies ahead for me? Oh God . . . it’s nothing I’m looking forward to. I have to somehow readjust my attitude, pick myself back up off the ground again and get back out there with Barbara yet again to see what I can dreg up some Thursday night . . . and then, who knows? Go through all of this shite all over again, most likely . . .

‘Sold to the gentleman at the back for ten thousand, euro!’

More mad clapping, and a lot of feet thumping now, and all the while I’m desperately trying to come out of this awful slump I’m in and be all positive and focused . . . law of attraction book . . . I’m racking my brains to remember what it says is the key to relationships, or in my case, the total and utter lack of them . . .

‘Our next item is a luxury spa day at Powerscourt Springs, for a very lucky lady. The package includes unlimited treatments, lunch and a bottle of champagne to really chill out over . . . perfect for the busy working girl who needs a little “me” time, do I hear five hundred euro? Yes, sir, five hundred to you again, sir.’

. . . there’s something in the book about filling yourself up with love like a magnet, so that you’ll attract it to you . . .

‘Eight hundred euro! Do I hear a thousand? Thank you, sir!’

. . . but the trouble is, I’ve spent my whole life attracting emotionally unavailable cretins, and the fact is, whatever I’ve been doing wrong all this time, guess what? I’m still doing it . . .

‘Two thousand five hundred euro, sir, thank you! Do I hear three thousand? Come on, gentlemen, time to spoil the lucky lady in your life!’

. . . I glance over at Barbara, who’s looking, well, a bit bored actually, but Baldie actually has this liquid-eyed expression as he’s chatting her up. She has about as much interest in him as she has in the price of J-Cloths, and yet there he is, looking at her adoringly, hers for the taking, should she so choose . . .

Oh for f**k’s sake, I think, suddenly furious, where did I go so wrong tonight? My luck with guys is so unbelievably bad that I’m actually starting to think that I’m paying off some huge karmic debt from a past life. Hmmm, maybe that’s the answer, maybe I should give up on the Butterfly Club and start doing past-life regression therapy instead . . .

‘Sold! Yet again, to the gentleman at the back! Sir, may I say, you are single-handedly keeping this auction going!’

‘Is that the same guy who’s buying everything?’ Barbara whispers hopefully to me.

‘Whoever he is, he must have spent well over sixteen grand by now,’ says Baldie, and I turn to look at him in utter astonishment. Well, in my defence, it’s the first words he’s uttered to anyone other than Barbara all evening.

‘Well, I wonder who he’s with tonight?’ Barbara says, giving me a significant look. This may sound innocuous enough, but is in actual fact girl-code for: ‘Because if by some miracle someone that filthy wealthy also happens to be single and straight, we’re so in there.’ It seems that a lot of the single women here have the same idea, as out of nowhere there’s a lot of elegant, bejewelled necks and bare, fake-tanned shoulders craning to see who this mysterious guy with cash to burn is; all of a sudden there’s suddenly a lot of compact mirrors out and lip-gloss being hastily re-applied. You can almost feel feathers being preened and peacock tails being paraded out for show.

‘And who is the lucky lady you’ll be giving this beautiful spa voucher to?’ the auctioneer calls down to whoever mystery man is, a bit cheekily.

‘She’s here, actually,’ comes a distant voice from the very back of the ballroom. Now there’s a wave of Chinese whispers circulating all around us, ‘She’s here, he bought it for someone who’s here.’

I join in the general neck-craning, to try to make out who he is, but it’s too dark, and whatever table he’s sitting at is just too far away from ours. Barbara and I meet in an eye-lock and simultaneously shrug. Well, it was too good to be true really, that the mystery millionaire guy could be free and single. Besides, I tell myself, he’s probably ninety-five with a colostomy bag and a Zimmer frame. And he bought the spa day as a gift for his nurse to thank her for feeding him through a tube. Probably.

‘And the lucky lady’s name?’ says the auctioneer, into the mike.

‘She’s a Miss Vicky Harper.’

‘Sorry sir, what was that name again?’

‘The gift is for Miss Vicky Harper. She’s sitting right over there at table nine.’

Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans. I do not believe this. It’s Daniel Best. For definite. I’d know the voice anywhere. Not only that, but the minute the auctioneer moves on to the next item, he’s on his way over to me from the back of the room. I don’t even have time to collect my thoughts, barely even get an emergency conference with Barbara. Before I’m even aware of what’s going on, he’s standing right beside me, with the cheeky grin, looking as divine as ever, in a sexy, scruffy, yes-I-may-have-put-on-a-tux-but-just-look-at-how-dishevelled-the-rest-of-me-is way.

‘Surprise!’ he twinkles down at me, in that half-teasing way he has. ‘I saw you across the room earlier and, well, I just thought you deserved a treat.’

‘I . . . that is, I thought . . . you’re . . . supposed to be . . . aren’t you in America?’ is all I can stammer, I’m that stunned.

‘Got back this morning. So right now, I’ve been awake for about thirty hours non-stop, and my body thinks it’s tomorrow fortnight. In other words, I’m just about ready for a mortuary.’

‘How was your trip?’ I smile, trying my best to sound cool and you know, normal.

‘Fantastic, very productive. I’ve perfected my Robert de Niro impression AND my Clint Eastwood. Just in case there’s rumours going around that I was skiving over there. “Go ahead, punk, make my day.” What do you think?’

‘Did de Niro really say that?’ I’m aware of the silence around our table as everyone’s taking in this bizarre conversation, but you know what? For the first time tonight, I don’t care.

‘No, no, that was Clint Eastwood. My de Niro is: “You talking to me? Cos, I don’t see anyone else here?”’

‘Bravo, Robert de Niro to the life, I’d have sworn Raging Bull himself was here talking to me.’ I give him a handclap.

‘Ehhh . . . except that was from Taxi Driver. Now, of course, I could do my Raging Bull impression for you, but I’m not properly attired. I need the aul boxer shorts on for that. And of course to put on twenty stone.’

I laugh, and for a minute it’s like we’re the only two people there, and then from out of the corner of my eye, I realize . . . Barbara and Baldie are both staring at him, waiting to be introduced.

‘Sorry, Daniel, this is my best friend, Barbara Fox.’

‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she says, and you can practically see her assessing him, weighing him up, taking everything in, deciding whether she likes him or not.

‘And this is . . .’ Shit, shit, shit, what’s his real name? Oh yeah . . . ‘Charlie.’

They all shake hands, then Barbara throws in. ‘Nice gift. Wish I worked for someone like you.’

‘It’s by way of a thank you, actually,’ Daniel smiles, turning back to me. ‘You have no idea the fantastic work this lovely lady has been putting in for Best’s over the past while, and I just thought, when all seven of the Original Sin commercials are in the can, you might fancy unwinding in style. That’s all.’

‘I’m really touched.’ I’m about to gush on a bit more, still a bit overwhelmed, when . . . Oh for God’s sake, I do not believe this. For the first time all bloody night, Peter decides to put his phone down and actually take notice of me. Arm on my shoulder, the works. Suddenly, out of the blue, he’s decided to act like a date again.

No way out, I’ll just have to introduce him. Rats anyway.

Then it strikes me, this is the second time I’ve met Daniel out socially and each time I’ve been with a different guy. He must think I’m Mata Hari, and the irony is, if he only knew the sad, awful, lonely truth.

‘And this is Peter,’ I eventually say, a bit unenthusiastically.

They shake hands and Daniel just nods and smiles pleasantly, taking it all in.

‘Well, great to see you, Vicky, but I’d really better get going,’ he eventually says.

‘You’re leaving now?’

‘I’m that jet-lagged that if I don’t go voluntarily, there’s a fair chance they may have to wheel me out of here if I stay any longer. So you take care and I’ll see you soon. OK?’

‘OK.’

And just as quickly, he’s gone.