Chapter Twenty

A FEW DAYS after the infamous PR dinner, and I’m in a taxi on my way to the Best agency to sit in on a casting session with Amanda. Not that there’s a huge amount of actual casting involved. As with all commercials, we’ve gone through an agency that screens the models, whittles the list from dozens down to maybe fifteen or twenty, and puts them all on tape for us. So, technically, all we have to do is sit in Best’s editing suite (no, really, they even have an editing suite), narrow the field down still further, make our own notes and comments on what we’ve seen, then wait for Sophie’s ultimate seal of approval when she joins us for an afternoon meeting. It may sound doddley enough on paper, but believe me, if we get the mix wrong and somehow match the wrong model to the product, we’re done for.

And all of this, presumably, has to be approved by Daniel, too. Now that he’s back in town, so to speak.

Anyhoo, over that snatched brunch the day after the PR do, I did, however, finally get to dissect the whole night over with Barbara. In between her running to the gym and rushing home to study the text of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, that is. Her thoughts on the subject can be summarized as follows.

Any single men I might have a vague flicker of interest in have to be cleared through her. Butterfly Club non-negotiable rules. On this point, she’s rock-solid and as immovable as ever. In response, I pointed out that so far, so rubbish. Of the two potentials who did pass the Barbara Fox stringent quality-control tests, one turned out to be a virtual stalker: yes, Eager Eddie himself, who, unbelievably, is still calling and texting me, wanting me to go to another pipe band festival, this time on some remote island somewhere. He has to be the only man in living history that’s taking my completely and utterly ignoring him as a sign of deep interest. Honestly, I’d change my phone number, only the sheer amount of hassle involved is too much for me.

Then of course, there’s her second attempt at matching me up: Peter. Ex-Files himself. The less said the better. Although when I do raise this point to her she just says: ‘Don’t sigh and don’t do the head shake. At least you’re making progress. Slow progress, yeah, but then you can’t put a time-frame on finding a life-partner, can you? Look, Eager Eddie may have turned out to be a bit of an oddball, but in my defence, technically, on paper he seemed OK.’

‘How do you mean, on paper?’

‘Say you’d met him in an internet chat room, you’d have rung me, all buzzed, going: ‘Oh, I met this guy and he has a proper job, is straight and single and ticks all the right boxes.’ Hindsight is twenty-twenty. So now we know that he likely has a kid’s room in his house for his non-existent children, and that his idea of seducing a woman is to love-bombard her into submission, but you can’t hold me responsible for not being able to read his mind, now, can you? Then, with Ex-Files, you would have ended up like Princess Di, claiming that there were three of you in this relationship so it was a bit crowded. At least now you know that’s not what you want. And you were saved all the bother of having to go on Panorama.’

She’s right, of course. I am getting a helluva lot clearer with the universe about what I don’t want, although I probably could have had a wild guess at the outset that a guy still obsessed with his ex was a non-starter. It certainly would have saved us all a lot of bother, and don’t get me started on the small fortune I forked out on hair, nails, dress, shoes, new underwear, waxing, Frette sheets, tickets for the do . . . etc., etc. I could have had a weekend in Paris for far, far less.

‘I know,’ I say dully, sipping a latte that’s stone cold by now. ‘And in the cold light of day, of course, I don’t want to end up just sharing a suite of rooms in someone’s heart. Last night was such a disappointment, that’s all . . .’

‘That’s the girl. Diana herself couldn’t have put it better,’ she says, gathering up her bag and, I get the impression, only half-listening to me. ‘Right then, gotta go. Me and Angie are doing line-runs for the rest of the afternoon and I want to do a voice warm-up first. Vicky, remember my words. Dating is nothing more than a numbers game and we’re going to pump up the volume a bit here.’

‘Oh, right, OK then,’ I say, figuring this is my cue to just shut up and look forward to our next night of trawling yet more watering holes. I’m reluctant to pin her to a date, as she’s so busy with the show, but she did promise me that we’d go a-hunting in the not-too-distant future.

‘So, emm . . . we’ll hit the town again, soon?’ I ask hopefully as we both head outside.

‘Oh yeah, about that. Could we leave it until a night when I don’t have an early rehearsal call the next morning? It’s just I’d hate to turn up for work minging of alcohol and hungover as a dog. It would just be soooo unprofessional. That OK with you, hon?’

‘Oh, eh . . . yeah. Sure, no problem.’

‘Thanks, babe. I knew you’d understand.’

I have to say, this new über-career-focused Barbara takes quite a bit of getting used to. Time was, nothing, absolutely nothing came between her and a bar stool. And on the subject of Daniel Best, she’s an awful lot less positive than I’d hoped for, which puts me, if possible, into even worse humour.

‘Yeah, cute. Ish. I mean, if he were a seventies footballer, he’d be Kevin Keegan.’

‘That’s it? That’s all you have to say?’

‘I spoke to the guy for all of eleven seconds. What am I now, his biographer?’

‘Well, what about him buying me the spa voucher? Don’t you think that was a lovely gesture?’

‘Yeah, but then isn’t his whole company ethos to treat anyone who works for him like gods and goddesses so they’ll work even harder?’

‘Well, yeah, I suppose . . .’

‘I’m no farmer, but I can smell manure a mile off. You’ve been working your arse off for him and he’s keeping you on-side. Get over it.’

It’s at this point I decide that I actually miss the old Barbara. She was far less bossy and pontificating.

‘Vicky,’ she goes on, persisting in torturing me with what I don’t want to hear. ‘He talked to you for a few minutes, then he buggered off home.’

‘I know, but then, he did say that he was jet-lagged, and he did see me out on a date with someone else, for the second time, too . . .’

‘So? In theory, that should make any guy keener. I’m sorry, hon, I’m sure Daniel Best is great fun and everything, and in a perfect world we’d all love to see a squillionaire sweep you off your feet and take you into the sunset. Believe me, I hate to be the one to give you an emotional colonic, but the hard cold fact is . . . I just don’t think he’s interested.’

Which is why, when I do bounce into the reception of Best’s a few days later, I’m not fazed when the receptionist (oh soooo cute in a young Brad Pitt way, blond-tipped hair and biceps you could grate cheese on) says to me, ‘Oh, Miss Harper? If you have a moment before your meeting, could you pop up to Daniel’s office on the top floor? He asked me to send you up as soon as you came in.’

Right then, this is OK, I think, as I make my way across the marble floor to the lift, very glad I’m wearing my good Carolina Herrera black suit, and doubly grateful it’s been safely at the cleaners for the past few weeks. In a million years it wouldn’t have survived being next or near Useless Builder wielding his sanding machine like a lethal weapon and covering every stitch of clothing I possess with a layer of dust about an inch thick.

As I lash on a bit of lip-gloss the minute the lift doors glide shut after me, my mind races. Daniel can only want to see me because of the commercial, that’s all, I decide as the lift zooms skyward. I mean, what else can it be? Chances are Amanda and probably Sophie are both up here already, and we’ll have our regular meeting, same as always, just in Daniel’s office instead of the conference room, where we’d normally sit, stuffing our faces with all the free chocolate that’s always lying around. He’s been out of town for ages and now wants to be fully in the loop of what we’ve been working on. Yeah, that is by far the most likely scenario. Course it is.

But there’s absolutely no sign of anyone else at all when I do get up to the penthouse level. There’s just me and yet another ludicrously good-looking receptionist with shoes to die for, who ushers me into Daniel’s office with a toothy smile and a bright ‘Hi Vicky, he’s expecting you.’ I knock a bit tentatively and in I go.

And am almost blown away by the sheer, overwhelming size and scale of the room I’m in. No kidding, you could comfortably hold a party for fifty people here and it wouldn’t even seem crowded. There’s a huge heavy oak table with what seems like a dozen chairs neatly dotted around it, and a giant floor-to-ceiling window directly behind, with a large desk – so big you could probably sleep on it. And standing behind it, phone in hand, is Daniel. As cute/scruffy as always, in a comfy, fleecy tracksuit and trainers, looking, well, totally out of context with the magnificent opulence of the rest of the room. In a million years, you’d never think this man owned not only the company but the entire building as well. I overhear him saying brusquely down the phone, ‘Hey! Those are details! You’re the details person, you handle it.’ And it’s only then that I get a sneaky glimpse at a whole other facet to his character. The alpha male side. The side of him that built up all of this and is now most likely on the verge of going global. Apart from that, based on appearances alone, if someone told you he’d come to do the windows you’d almost believe them.

He grins at me in that cheeky way he has, and mimes at me to take a seat while he wraps up his phone call. Then, in one athletic movement, he comes round the giant desk and slides down on it right beside where I’m sitting. At least, it looked like an athletic movement, but then that could just be the tracksuit throwing me off. He’s almost in my body space, but not quite.

‘Sorry about that, just had to do a bit of troubleshooting.’ He smiles, then waves all around him. ‘So, whaddya think?’

‘Wow,’ is all I can say. ‘In fact, I’ll see that wow and raise it to a wowee. Daniel, I’m not messing, it’s like Monty Burns’s office in The Simpsons.’

‘Excellent,’ he says, launching straight into a perfect Mr Burns impression. “Smithers, release the hounds.”’

I giggle, then remember I still haven’t the first clue why he wanted to see me.

‘So . . . emm . . . did you enjoy Saturday night?’ I ask tentatively. Half-wondering who he was with. A girlfriend, maybe?

‘Oh, yeah, I wanted to say sorry for rushing off so early, but there was a very good chance I’d have fallen over with the tiredness if I’d stayed any longer. The gang of lads who dragged me along keep telling me I was no crack at all.’

Not with a girlfriend, then.

At least not that night.

‘Then there was the small matter of that crappy wine they were serving. I wouldn’t shampoo a dog with it. So as soon as my mates started ordering more of it, I figured it was time to go. Besides I must have been punch drunk with tiredness, when I woke up the next morning I realized I’d only spent about ten grand on a romantic holiday in some posh hotel somewhere.’

Now that sounds like a single-man statement if ever I heard one, I think, getting more and more hopeful by the minute. I mean, if he had a GF, wouldn’t he just say something like: ‘Oh, Mary-Lou’s delighted with the fab, luxury mini-break I bought for her.’ He would, wouldn’t he?

Then he produces an envelope from the top of his desk and slides it over to me.

‘I left without giving you this, by the way,’ he smiles. ‘Enjoy every minute of it.’

Oh my God, it’s the spa voucher. Suddenly I remember my manners.

‘You know, I can’t thank you enough for buying this, Daniel. It was such a ridiculously expensive gift . . .’ I begin. But he cuts me off in the midst of all my ‘you shouldn’t have’s and ‘there was no need’s.

‘Hey, I’ve been in touch with Sophie Boyd and she’s really thrilled with you, and with everything you’re doing. And so’s everyone else here, too. So, just my small way of saying thank you, that’s all.’

‘But you spent a fortune . . .’

‘Now don’t belittle this moment with your price-taggery,’ he says, waving at me to shut up. ‘I want you to enjoy yourself when the contract’s up and what better way? I thought all girls loved being dressed up like Egyptian mummies and then submerged in mud with cucumbers on their faces. Unless I’ve been misinformed.’

‘You’re spoiling me.’ I smile back at him. ‘Keep it up.’

There’s a split second where we’re just looking at each other, and no one says anything, and I’m just wondering whether or not I thanked him enough, and should I gush a bit more, when his internal phone goes.

‘On the way,’ he says to whoever it is. ‘That’s Amanda,’ he says turning back to me. ‘She’s waiting for us in the editing suite.’

‘Oh, you’re sitting in on this with us?’

‘Course I am. If I’m going to be an extra in one of these commercials, the least I can do is find out what the competition’s like.’

Definite sign he’s interested:

As we walk together to the lift, he presses the button and there’s another comfortable silence. Then he turns to me and says, in a very offhand manner, ‘So, that guy you were with the other night. Your boyfriend?’

‘Ehh . . . no,’ I say a bit too insistently, but then I can’t believe he just asked me that. ‘Just a date,’ I smile. Did that sound OK? Casual enough?

‘Just a date,’ he repeats as we step into the lift together. ‘Then, what about that other guy I met you with a while back? Scottish accent, reddish hair? You introduced me and I forget his name.’

‘Oh, you mean Eager . . . sorry, Eddie, it was Eddie,’ I say, hating that I’m blushing a bit now.

‘So then is he your boyfriend?’

Bugger, half of me thinks there’s no way to answer that without sounding like I’m some kind of multi-dating tart that’s out with a different bloke every night of the week, while the other, more rational half of me (which, let’s face it, I don’t hear from all that often), thinks, so what? Yes, I’m single, yes I’m actively looking for someone, and yes, I go on dates. Get over it.

‘No, just another date.’ Then I back-pedal a bit. ‘But one that didn’t really work out.’

Sign he’s not:

Nonchalant as ever, he just shrugs indifferently and says, ‘Atta girl. Sure, you’re only young once.’ Arms folded, body language as good as saying, ‘Yeah, right, whatever.’

Definite sign he’s interested:

As soon as we’re out of the lift and striding towards the editing suite, he turns to me again. ‘Vicky, do you have plans for the weekend?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact . . .’ I begin, and then realize, oh f**k it, the preamble’s no good, I’ll have to tell him the whole story. So I do. It all comes out. Everything. All about Serena Stroheim and how Barbara and I are producing a show, and it’s Shakespeare in the park and how, miraculously, it all seems to be coming together, but most of all, how exciting it all is.

‘Nice sidestep, but you still didn’t answer my question,’ he grins. ‘What are you doing for the weekend?’

‘Oh, did I not? Well, that was all a big build-up to my saying, meeting up with our costume and lighting designer and finalizing seating for the opening night. Plus working out guest lists, and you know what a nightmare that can be . . .’

Shit. Then I realize, I’ve fallen into the trap of coming off far too busy to squeeze in a date. That’s if he was indirectly asking me out. Which I’m actually not too sure of. Was he? Bloody hell, it’s really hard to tell with this guy. So I gamely plump for the damage-limitation option.

‘So I’ll be working most of Saturday and Sunday . . .’ I say, putting particular emphasis on the ‘day’ bit so he’ll miraculously cop on that my evening plan is to sit on patio furniture gossiping down the phone to Laura or Barbara if she’s not too busy making vowel sounds and fending off competition from Evil Angie. And all the while eating a de-luxe single-gal-size tub of Ben & Jerry’s. So in other words, come nightfall, I am the most available girl he could meet.

Sign he’s not:

In spite of my looking at him hopefully with a ‘why do you ask?’ faux-innocent expression, he totally sidesteps the whole thing and just says: ‘Fantastic about the show. Fair play to you. And if you’re looking for sponsorship, look no further.’

Oh. No invite out, then. Oh well. But I will most definitely take him up on the sponsorship offer. So, at least that’s something, isn’t it?

Yeah, of course it is. I just can’t help feeling a bit deflated. And like I f**ked up without even being too sure of what exactly I did wrong.

Anyway, on the plus side, all goes brilliantly in our casting session, and within the space of an hour, having sat through screening after screening, we’ve selected a shortlist of models for Sophie’s ultimate approval. All very exotic, leggy, glamorous creatures, 100 per cent in keeping with the femme fatale image we’re looking for. Then, Amanda (who’s appearing as a red-head today, by the way) and I get brave and decide to throw in the one idea we’ve cooked up between us that we never in a million years think Daniel will go for.

‘Look, there’s something we both need to talk to you about, while we have your undivided attention,’ is her opener, throwing a ‘back me up here’ glance my way.

‘Shoot, but allow for my short attention-span,’ he says, looking at both of us evenly.

Oh yeah, with his feet up on the seats. Suddenly I can’t help smiling at the instant flash I get of what he must have been like in school. The class messer. Always at the back of the bus. Most likely always in trouble. Most likely with loads of girls chasing after him.

‘We advertise the ads,’ Amanda pitches to him bravely. ‘In the print media. The time, date and channel that each commercial will be broadcast at.’

‘When Baz Luhrmann made the famous Chanel commercial,’ I chip in, taking up the baton, ‘the advertising agency took out ads in the trade press. Everyone sneered and said it was money down the drain, but their sales went up by 400 per cent. And that’s the kind of huge splash we’re aiming for here. Remember, our Original Sin commercials will be just like mini-movies.’

‘Ladies,’ he says, sitting back, arms behind his head and grinning, looking like he has all the time in the world. ‘You’ve convinced me. Loving everything you’ve both done so far, the Casablanca theme, the black-and-white smoke-filled bar, the whole femme fatale thing, the works. You’ve my full permission to pitch it to Sophie and tell her I think it’s a gem of an idea.’

Amanda and I lock eyes and glow simultaneously.

‘Just one suggestion,’ he goes on, now looking into the middle distance, like a brainwave is just coming to him. ‘The first commercial we’re shooting: Thou Shalt Not Covet . . .’

‘. . . Thy Best Friend’s Eyes,’ we both chime in perfect unison.

‘She’s getting ready to go on a first date,’ he says slowly, like he’s formulating his thoughts. ‘Think . . . perfect first dates. Think the excitement of . . . really liking someone, and that special first night out with them. That adrenalin rush you get when you walk into a bar and there they are waiting for you. They’ve gone to a huge effort for you and you for them. That’s the kind of vibe that would work brilliantly here.’

He’s right, it’s an incredible idea, and suddenly it’s like the missing piece of the jigsaw has slotted in. That’s it, of course, that’s why our model is coveting her friend’s make-up, she’s going on a first date and wants to be . . . fabulous.

‘So, in other words . . .’ I say, trying to see it in my mind’s eye. ‘The anti-hero becomes the hero. The one who’s envious is the one whose story we’re following. On her date.’

‘Now you’ve got it.’ He grins at me.

Second time today I’ve seen a slightly different side to Daniel: this time it’s the guy who, for all his messing, is shit hot at his job and didn’t get to be where he is today without sheer talent and ideas. In fact, I’m strongly starting to suspect that the whole laid-back image is just one big front to lull people into a false sense of security.

Anyway, while Amanda’s waxing lyrical about what her ideal first date would be I go back to my storyboards and start scribbling his idea down straight away. Before I forget.

‘What about you then, Vicky?’ he says, looking straight at me. ‘You’ve gone very quiet. What’s your ideal first date?’

Shit. I don’t know is the answer. And I’m the one who’s supposed to be a hopeless romantic?

‘Emm . . . well . . . it would definitely involve margaritas . . .’ I begin.

‘Right, margaritas, Mexican vibe, I’m with you. Go on.’

He’s looking at me, arms folded, with that slightly teasing look he gets in his eyes sometimes, so I’m left wondering, is he messing or not?

Now Amanda’s looking at me expectantly, too, so I better come up with something.

Quick.

I rack my brains and something strikes me.

‘He’d tell me to meet him in a cocktail bar,’ I say slowly. ‘Hence the margaritas. And the only thing that I’d find a bit odd is that he’d ask me to bring my passport.’

‘Oooh, I love where this is going!’ Amanda squeals.

‘Then,’ I say, warming up, ‘we’ll jump in a cab and I’ll wonder why he won’t tell me where we’re going . . .’

‘Yeah, yeah?’ says Amanda, eyes sparkly.

‘. . . but I’ll notice signs for the airport and slowly begin to cop on. Then we’ll go to check in but he still won’t tell me where we’re off to, he’ll make me swear not to look at the destination on the computer screen . . .’

‘. . . but you’ll cheat,’ says Amanda, really getting into this little fantasy. ‘You won’t be able to resist and you’ll peek up and it’ll say . . .’

‘Paris!’ the two of us chime together, then burst out laughing.

‘Where else?’ I say. ‘City of lovers.’

‘And he’ll take you to a fabulous hotel,’ Amanda goes on. ‘And he’ll have pre-arranged to have a bottle of champagne waiting for you when you arrive . . .’

‘. . . and your favourite meal pre-ordered. And then a show afterwards, maybe even an opera . . .’

‘Ohh, I love it!’ Amanda squeals. ‘So the lesson for you, Vicky, is to have all your waxing done before a first date. Oh, and of course the good matching underwear. Like the Girl Guides say, always be prepared.’

‘Right then, if we’re done here, I better go,’ says Daniel, abruptly getting out of his seat.

‘Oh, sorry, was it us talking about waxing? And underwear?’ says Amanda, puzzled.

‘Nope, gotta another meeting. Ladies, thanks so much and keep up the good work.’

And in a split second, he’s gone.

I continue scribbling away on my storyboards and it’s only after a few seconds I notice Amanda studying me.

‘What?’ I say, feeling her gaze on me.

‘You know, if you were to ask me,’ she says, slowly, very slowly, ‘I’d say Daniel likes you. Trust me, Vicky, I can smell a crush a mile off.’

‘What makes you think that?’ I say, my face the colour of Heinz tomato soup.

‘Oh . . . just, you know, woman’s intuition. Too bad he’s off the market though.’

‘Is he?’

‘All over the office this morning, honey. Why do you think he was in New York for so long, when we’re mad busy here? There were loads of rumours doing the rounds, but it turns out he’s moving in with the girlfriend he’s been seeing and apparently the trip was to go apartment hunting with her. Cathy from marketing heard it directly from Jason in accounts who got it straight from Lynda in personnel, which everyone knows is as good as the horse’s mouth, cos she’s like, really friendly with Daniel. He’s gone and bought some flashy penthouse on the Upper East Side and it only cost about, like, five million. Can you believe it?’