Do You Want to Know a Secret?

I HONESTLY DON’T think I’ve ever be able to understand any man, as long as I’m alive. And at my age, that is a seriously pathetic admission. That night, sitting at her kitchen table, Laura and I comb over it again and again, and, with her lawyer-like brain and my tendency to fantasize anything and everything, here’s what we’ve come up with.

The fact that Daniel may or may not have a girlfriend/life-partner/fiancée/whatever the hell she is in New York is purely based on hearsay and nothing else.

Yeah, and she could be in a wheelchair after a horrific car crash in which he was driving, so therefore, while being incredibly sweet and attentive to other women, feels a deep moral obligation to remain with Miss X or whatever her name is, for the rest of his life.

Even if the rumour about him being ‘off the market’ is true, which in true lawyer fashion, she’s not prepared to acknowledge, the fact is that she’s over there and he’s over here. Seriously putting himself out for me, viz., today. Men do absolutely nothing unless there’s something in it for them, ergo, he likes me. (Don’t get me wrong, I love this theory, but can’t help feeling that if something sounds too good to be true, it usually is.)

She then makes me text him, out of manners and nothing else, to say a huge thank you for the dig-out today. Which I do. Well, that is, I have to do about three practice drafts first, to make sure they hit the right light and breezy, casual tone, but I eventually send it off.

Mainly because Laura reminds me it’s only a bloody text message after all, and not St Paul’s first letter to the Romans, and to just get over myself.

Yeah, but if my learned friend is right, and if Daniel does somehow, miraculously, fancy me, then how come he’s never asked me out, on a one-to-one? If Laura’s on the money, then he’s not exactly doing anything about it, now, is he? Maybe he’s just this incredibly nice guy, who’s always bending over backwards for people who work for him, all fully traceable back to guilt over the wheelchair-bound girlfriend, see my previous theory listed above. And he never replies to my text, either.

She now reckons I’ve had one glass of vino too many and need to take a taxi home and sleep it off. On this point, at least, we agree.

A few days later, it’s Sunday, but still a mad busy day, as this evening marks the official dress rehearsal for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Barbara, God love her, is almost on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She’s too uptight to talk, eat, drink, sleep, you name it, with the result that her nervousness has all transferred to me, and now I’m hopping around the place like I’m the one who has to perform tonight.

There’ll be no audience there, I do my best to reassure her, in a snatched phone call as I’m hopping out of the shower. Only crew and . . . well, me. I’m not helping her, though; in fact I think I’m only making her worse.

Anyway, sad and all as I feel having to go into my office on a Sunday, I’ve no choice. I jump into my car, making a mental note of everything I have to do for tonight. Programme has to be proof-read before going to the printers tomorrow . . . check. Opening-night guest list has to be confirmed . . . check. Dressing-room allocations have to be OK’d with Serena’s assistant . . . check. It might sound like a mammoth amount of work, but between Paris, Nicole and myself, we’re pretty much on top of things.

And as if all of this wasn’t enough to be getting on with, the first Original Sin commercial is also scheduled to be shot at eight a.m. tomorrow morning . . .

I can’t think about that now, though, I just can’t. There’s a good chance I’ll have a full-blown anxiety-attack.

One thing at a time. That’s the time-honoured way to handle all stressful situations.

Yes, of course it is. Deep breath and remind myself that the law of attraction doesn’t come with a pause button.

I am now attracting great success for Barbara, and love and romance for me, thank you universe, if it’s no bother . . .

Anyway, I’m just about to reverse my car into a space outside my office when my mobile goes. I assume it’s either Paris or Nicole, both of whom said they’d meet me at the Iveagh Gardens for the dress rehearsal later on tonight, but surprisingly, it’s not.

Oh bugger, I do not believe this. Today of all days. This of all weeks. After all this time, after all my waiting and wondering, Tim, no Tom, no Tim finally decides to ring me.

‘Hey beautiful,’ he growls into the phone, and I’m not messing, he sounds like he was out half the night, which, knowing him, he probably was. ‘Just wondered if I could persuade you to have brunch with me. If you’re around, that is.’

What is it about guys? I silently fume, shaking my head in disbelief. I mean, all the time I wasted, practically willing various guys to call me, and then at probably the single busiest time I’ve had in the whole year, here’s this one, all relaxed and casual, wanting to meet for brunch. Half of me is saying, politely refuse, explain that you’ve far too much on. If he has a gram of interest in you, he’ll reschedule something else. And everyone knows, saying no to fellas only makes them keener, doesn’t it?

But then . . . the chronically single half of me is saying: Sure, right, off you go, put bloody work ahead of all else, and spend the day slaving alone in your office, instead of taking one lousy hour off to meet a very sexy, attractive man for a quick bite . . . And I have the cheek to wonder why I’m still alone? I mean, even The Law of Attraction says something about when opportunity comes a-knocking, only a right gobshite would say: ‘Yeah, I’m really sorry, but I have to work, can you come back later?’

Oh no, now I have it. It says: ‘Opportunity dances with those who are already on the dance floor.’ Right then, decision made, and to be honest, it’s a no-brainer.

Half an hour later, I find myself in the Espresso Bar, an achingly trendy restaurant, sitting at an outdoor table, waiting for Tom, no Tim, no Tom. Definitely TOM.

Note to self: on pain of death do not accidentally let the wrong name slip out. Anyway, as ever on these occasions, my mind’s gone into overdrive, split neatly down the middle like a computer screen thus.

He’s bloody well late. And I don’t have time for this. Feeling impatient and annoyed with myself for just dropping everything on such a crazy day to meet some guy who doesn’t even have the decency to arrive on time, I’m just about to pay for my cappuccino and exit stage left, when in he saunters.

Oooh, the hormones are starting to get the better of me. I completely forgot just how attractive he is. And this is my first time seeing him in daylight. He’s in a crumpled linen suit, and is wearing shades, but it’s the George Clooney voice that really gets me going. He sits opposite me, asks for the wine list and whips off the sunglasses to study it.

Oh dear God, the eyes are not just red, they’re crimson. In fact he doesn’t just look like he’s been on the batter last night, he looks like he’s been on a non-stop bender for about the last five months. No, scrap that. The last five years, more like.

He has that older man thing going, where he seems genuinely interested in me nervously prattling on about the show tonight. And, because he’s a director, he seems suitably impressed that we managed to nab THE Serena Stroheim. It flashes through my mind . . . should I invite him to the opening night next week? But the trouble is, although we counted on a twenty per cent refusal rate, we haven’t had nearly as many as we’d allowed for, hence, seating is going to be a problem to the extent that I think even my own family will be doing well to get in. And it looks like myself, Paris and Nicole will end up sitting on upside-down orange crates backstage.

I ask him about his work, and he gets very vague and elusive, saying something about a gig he has coming up, but that for the past year, he’s mostly just been doing the odd freelance day’s work here and there to support, wait for it . . . both of his ex-wives. With a child by each of them. I mean, OK, fair enough, but it is quite a container-load of baggage. And I should know, I saw that movie Stepmom about three times. And let me tell you, the stepmom is always, always, the baddie, even if she happens to be played by Julia Roberts.

It’s still relatively early and, without hesitation, he orders a bottle of wine. I vaguely protest, half-afraid I might come across as a boring pain in the arse, but I know if I have more than a sip, I’ll probably keel over and fall asleep. And today of all days, I cannot afford to do that.

Oh dear God, I have never, ever in all my days seen anyone put a bottle of wine away so fast. Not even Barbara with her famed hollow legs could keep up with this guy. And his stories are all about how he drank the proceeds from the sale of two houses in-between divorces. At one stage he actually says that if he had to choose between sex and a round of drinks, the drinks would win out every time. Suddenly I start to feel a bit like one of those pioneer pin-wearing, temperance-movement types, amazed how such an attractive, and I’m sure talented, man could be so blasé about throwing his life away over booze. But I don’t get a chance to say anything, because next minute he’s ordered a double whiskey on the rocks.

‘After midday now,’ he growls at me from behind the shades. ‘Socially acceptable to move on to the hard stuff.’

Right then, that’s my cue to leave, I think, gathering up my stuff. I make my excuses and he stays on, impatiently looking over his shoulder for the waitress to hurry up with his drink. ‘So, I’ll call you,’ he says. ‘I think I’d feel a little more comfortable seeing you under cover of darkness. Whaddya say, my dear?’

I just mumble something about really, really needing to go (the God’s honest truth), and leave. Don’t get me wrong, he’s devilishly attractive, and if we’d been on a night-time date, it mightn’t have highlighted the boozing so much. I might have fallen for him, probably might even have dragged him home with me out of feeling sorry for him – and just wanting contact with another human being. Just wanting to feel anything other than unremitting loneliness for a change. But right now, I’m just not in the mood to be someone’s enabler. Or boozing buddy. Not being rude or anything, but I haven’t the time.

Another thought strikes me as I head back to my office. Barbara was right about him. One hundred per cent on the money. Oh shit, I can’t resist. I know she’s probably got her head down the loo throwing up with nerves about tonight, but I need to speak to her too badly. I call her mobile, and from the sounds of it she’s already at the Iveagh Gardens, warming up or whatever it is actors do before a big show. I know she must be in absolute ribbons based solely on how narky she is with me on the phone.

ME: ‘I had brunch with Tim no Tom no Tim and I’m just ringing to tell you that you were right and I was wrong. A total and utter waste of my time, and at the rate he’s drinking, he’ll probably end up on a waiting list for a new liver in a few years’ time. I’m not messing, the guy would have put George Best to shame.’

HER: (Snapping the face off me, real grade one narkiness.) ‘What are you telling me for? Don’t you have a diary? Or a blog?’

Note to self: I totally understand that her general rattiness is down to nerves and nothing else, but do not, under any circumstances, attempt to hold any kind of normal, adult conversation with Barbara until well after the opening night. Like, about a week after. I’d say she’ll be back to herself by then.

The dress rehearsal is scheduled for eight p.m., but I need to be there a bit earlier to run through a few programme notes with Serena, and also finalize the opening night seating plan with Paris and Nicole. Anyway, I’m just getting back into my car, laden down with files and yet more colouredy folders when my mobile goes.

‘Hey,’ he says, sounding as relaxed and laid-back as ever. ‘Just wanted to say sorry for not getting back to you, it’s been . . . well, things are kind of hotting up here, so I’ve spent most of my weekend in the office, tied to a desk, pathetic and all as that sounds.’

‘Tonight? Don’t tell me, another date? So how many guys is that you’re seeing right now? Or is it hard to keep track?’

‘Ha, ha, you’re hilarious. No, it’s the dress rehearsal for the show I was telling you about in the Iveagh Gardens . . .’

‘The one I promised to invest in, and then you never came back to me about?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, you’re on my target list all right. There’s a sponsorship pack on its way to you, and it is all for a really good cause . . .’ He cuts me off in full pitch-mode.

‘Well, if I’m putting good money into this, do you think there’s any chance I can see the dress rehearsal? If you’re not taking someone else, that is?’

Oh my God, I can’t quite believe this. I’m not even sure how it happened, but about half an hour later, in he strolls to the Iveagh Gardens, cool as a breeze and looking like he just came back from a fortnight in Tenerife, and not at all like someone who’s been chained to a desk for the weekend. I’m chatting to Serena and her assistant when I see him saunter in from a distance, jacket thrown over his shoulder, while Paris and Nicole are busy with seating plans and generally being runners for the cast, bless them.

Oh my God, it’s a full-blown Mr Darcy moment. Just like in the Pride and Prejudice TV series when Lizzie sees him coming towards her with that wet shirt stuck to his manly chest . . . all of a sudden, the force of attraction I’m feeling for him is making me weak-kneed.

I introduce Daniel to everyone and, I swear, I can practically see thought-balloons coming out of people’s heads: ‘So who is this cutie that Vicky’s been keeping under wraps all this while?’ Or maybe that’s just my paranoia going into overdrive. Miraculously, neither Paris or Nicole seem to know him socially, and what’s even more amazing, he doesn’t ogle either of them when they shake hands, which is kind of unheard-of. Most guys take one look at their twenty-something pertness, lack of wrinkles, dewy skin etc., etc., and they’re goners.

But not Daniel. I might be imagining it, I mean, I must be imagining it, but it really does seem like I’m his focus of attention. He’s chatty, friendly, and . . . almost flirtatious with me . . .?

Oh shit, I must have that wrong. He’s seeing someone else, I tell myself sternly as we sit down for Act One. He’s involved.

Which is kind of a shame, actually, because if it were, it would be just perfect. He and I are sitting right at the back, on our own, and the place just looks magical. The lighting designer has worked miracles, and just as the sun is slowly setting, he’s bringing up twinkly fairy lights, creating this magical, mystical effect, perfect for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The weather’s held up, it’s been a hot day, and the evening is cool and clear . . . perfect, I couldn’t have stage-managed it better.

The show starts, and I’m on the edge of my seat till Barbara comes out. And then . . . there she is. Looking like a goddess in her long, Shakespearian costume, the wild red hair tousled and rolling down her back. And she’s brilliant. Absolutely jaw-droppingly, scene-stealingly amazing. Just like I knew she would be. And I’m not just saying it, nor am I imagining it. At one stage Daniel whispers to me, ‘Wow, your friend is incredible, how come I’ve never seen her in anything before?’

We’re sitting closer, far closer to each other than we need to, and as Act Two begins, and it gets a little chillier, he slips his jacket off and puts it around my shoulders.

‘Your hands are like ice,’ he whispers, slipping his warm hand over mine and holding on. And I don’t let go.

The show is a wow, an absolute wow, and even though there’s only about eight of us in the audience, we’re all spontaneously on our feet by the final, hilarious scene. And Barbara is the undisputed star. No question, no one to touch her. I’m on an absolute high, floating on air as we all meet backstage, everyone hugging each other, everyone euphoric, unable to believe that it all went so well. I even find it in myself to congratulate Evil Angie, who was . . . well, better than OK . . . but then comparing her to Barbara’s electrifying performance is just not comparing like with like. She’s all over Daniel when I introduce them, but he’s his usual laid-back self, congratulates her and then goes back to telling Barbara how stunning she was.

‘It’s only the truth,’ I say, hugging her for about the tenth time. ‘If you were a dame of the British Empire you’d be . . . Helen Mirren. No question.’

I’m feeling so euphoric that I even find myself hugging Serena and telling her that if the opening night goes half as well, we’re on to a winner. She’s probably the only person in the backstage, makeshift dressing rooms not dancing around the place, though. She just looks at me with her scary glasses on and calmly says, ‘Beware of a good dress rehearsal, my dear.’

There’s a cosy, quiet pub around the corner which everyone adjourns to and Daniel and I stroll there together, arm in arm. In a friendly, casual way, of course. This is not a date . . .

The actor who plays Oberon, King of the Fairies, is chatting up Barbara big-time, so I don’t actually get to do what I normally would: i.e., drag her off to the Ladies and dissect the whole behind-the-scenes subplot that’s unfolding romance-wise.

‘So, you must have been surprised to see Daniel here tonight?’ she asks me, in very pointed girl-code for: ‘Because I certainly was. What exactly is going on and what’s the story?’

‘Yes, he’s offered to invest in the show,’ is my deflective answer. Girl-code, for: ‘Don’t ask, not too sure myself what’s going on, but believe me, you’ll be the first to know.’

Oberon is too busy yakking away at her for us to get any more chance to talk, and Daniel and I . . .

It’s the weirdest thing. I think, possibly because I know this isn’t a date, I can really relax and chat and be myself with him. He’s completely mad about the show, raves about it and is insisting on coming to the opening night with me next week, and all the time we’re sitting closer and closer to each other. He’s right in my body space now and I’m NOT imagining it. At one stage, his fingers just lightly brush off mine as he’s picking up a drink, and it’s like . . . electricity. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such an overwhelming physical attraction to any guy like this before. It’s like every time he as much as runs his hands through the big mop of curls, all I can do is wonder what he looks like with the shirt off . . .

I only had two drinks, I swear, but when he offers to drive me home, I don’t put up any resistance. We say our goodbyes, slip out of the pub, and before I know it, I’m plonked in the passenger seat of his posh Aston Martin, unable to take my eyes off him. He’s focused on the road ahead, but every now and then turns to me to see if I’m OK . . . I am . . . absolutely . . . I just can’t help wondering what would happen if I was to slip my hand inside his shirt, that’s all . . .

Too soon, way too soon for my liking, we’re outside my house, and for once I’m not even embarrassed that there’s a skip sitting outside it. He turns off the engine and I know, I just know he’s waiting to be asked in, so I go for it.

‘Mmmm . . .’ He’s moved in close to me, and we both know exactly what’s going to happen. But I have to ask him first, it’s burning me up.

‘Is it true . . . now you can tell me to mind my own business . . . but is it true that you’ve . . . you’ve . . . and, you know, now that I’m about to ask you I’m fully aware of how nosey this sounds . . . but . . . is it true that you’re seeing someone in the States?’

‘Who told you that?’ He’s looking at me sideways now, and for the first time in the whole, magical night, that teasing twinkle is gone from his eyes.

‘Emm . . . well . . . I heard it at the office, when you were over there . . . I’m sorry, I was . . . emm . . . just curious, that’s all.’

‘Vicky, the last time I listened to office gossip, I think they had me married off about three different times, divorced then re-married with kids all over the place. What can I tell you? It’s all total bollocks.’

‘Well, that there was a penthouse involved. And that you were moving in with . . . emm . . .’

Now he starts to laugh, the eyes crinkle up at the edges and I know he’s back to himself again.

‘Vicky, yes, I was in the US for a long time, and I can’t tell you why, just trust me on that, OK?’

‘Besides,’ he says, turning slowly to me. ‘If I were involved with someone else, would I be sitting here with you? Would I even attempt this?’

‘Vicky, I know you date your fair share, and why shouldn’t you, you’re a beautiful woman, but . . . I’m not just some other guy to you, am I? You’re not seeing anyone else?’

‘Come back here,’ is my answer, as I drag him over to me, kissing him hard now, intensely, like this has been building between us for the longest time.

Next thing, wordlessly, we’re both getting out of the car and going inside. I don’t even have time to explain or apologize for the state of my house/building site, we’re in my tiny hallway, undressing each other, me slowly unbuttoning his shirt and trousers, him peeling my underwear off, almost in slow motion, like he has all the time in the world. Then, we’re going upstairs, strewing a trail of clothes behind us, and at one stage, one of us, I’m not even sure who, kicks over a pile of tiles, sending them crashing to the hard, granite floor.

‘I’ll replace them in the morning,’ he says thickly, in-between kissing, which is so intense and hungry now I can hardly bear it. Finally, this is it. Me and Daniel, naked and alone in my room, filthy unmade bed and all. Oh my God, now it’s happening so quick.

We’re going so fast, I can barely take in what’s happening . . . then out of nowhere, in-between his furious kisses I suddenly open my big mouth and say, ‘Daniel, you’re like a gazzillionaire and you’ve probably had sex with supermodels and gymnasts . . .’

‘Shhh,’ he whispers, kissing my earlobe, then my neck, then down further still, making me groan with pleasure . . .