Chapter Twenty-Six

THE CHANCES ARE I might, just might have been able to get away with that. That’s if I’d been lucky enough to drag Daniel out of the studio, sit him down and explain.

The whole truth, everything. I had brunch with the guy and that was it. And OK so maybe I did end up with Daniel that night, but it was all unplanned and . . . and maybe we’ll even end up having a laugh about it. I mean, it is kind of funny when you think about it really, I wonder weakly. You know, what are the odds and all that . . .

But it’s mayhem on the set, completely hectic, I’m being dragged in about twenty different directions and I’m not even sure where Daniel is. Then just as we’re going for a lighting rehearsal, I spot him, over by a monitor, arms crossed, standing alone and looking deep in thought. But as I move over to him, smiling hopefully, shrugging, wanting to talk to him, desperately needing to explain, he moves off.

‘Everything OK?’ is all I get to say to him.

‘Not now, Vicky.’

‘Look, I know this looks terrible, but you have to let me explain . . .’

‘Nothing to explain. You went straight from one guy to another. On the same day, for Christ’s sake. And what’s worse is that you lied to me.’

‘It wasn’t like that! You have to listen to me, Daniel . . .’

‘You looked me in the eye and you lied.’

‘I didn’t! You have to hear me out . . .’

‘Time and a place, Vicky.’

And he strides off, ostensibly to look at the set but really to get away from me.

None of this is helped by Tom in an embarrassingly loud voice clapping me on the back and saying: ‘So we must have that night-time date we talked about soon, my dear. Day-time socializing isn’t really me, somehow. Maybe dinner after the shoot tonight?’

I glance around, hoping, praying that Daniel is too far away to have heard, but he’s actually a lot closer than I’d have thought.

‘Tom, please stop this, you’re mortifying me,’ I hiss, not wanting my private business to become some kind of side-show.

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, Vicky. You were all on for it yesterday. Not twenty-four hours ago.’

Then I turn back to where Daniel was standing a second ago, but now he’s gone. Oh God, this is such a nightmare. Then, just as I think things can’t get much worse, guess what? They do. Amanda’s over, asking if the on-set rumour is true; that I’m simultaneously dating the director and Daniel Best? And doesn’t he have a girlfriend in the States anyway? Now I feel sick. I’m an ‘on-set rumour’, and am suddenly too weak and shaky to even care.

‘I . . . just can’t get into that right now,’ I say to her, in a tiny, weak voice. Because if I do, there’s a good chance I’ll burst into tears. Bad enough that the crew must think I’m some kind of tart-for-hire, but now I can’t get near Daniel, can’t even see him.

By lunchtime, hours later, we’ve three shots in the can, three more to do and there’s still no sign of him. He’s not in the canteen with everyone else, and when I try calling his mobile, he doesn’t answer.

I actually don’t know how much more of this I can take, so I slip outside for a breath of air. Kind-hearted old Amanda is straight on my heels, asking me if I’m all right, and offering me a cigarette, even though I don’t smoke.

‘You OK?’ she asks, genuinely concerned, bless her.

‘Mmmm,’ is all I can nod, by way of an answer. Mainly because if I elaborate further, the hard rock of pain and sheer disbelief inside me will dissolve in a big flood of tears. And I’ve too much to do today. Amanda and I have worked too hard, and there’s just too much at stake here. I have to put a brave face on things, suffer it out here today, somehow get through the day, then sort out my private life when I get home.

‘Emm, Vicky, it’s none of my business or anything, but just to let you know that Daniel said something about going back to the office. Anyway, he’s left and said he won’t be back.’

Right then. Message received, loud and clear.

We wrap on the dot of five, the first commercial successfully in the can, and everyone on the set is in high old form at how well the day’s shoot has gone, and dying to get to the nearest pub for a drink. Everyone except me, that is. Somehow, I managed to get through the awful, miserable day, but as soon as we’re wrapped, I can’t get out of there fast enough.

‘Are you sure you won’t come for a drink?’ Amanda asks, as we walk towards our cars. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you really look like you could do with one.’

‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘Just tired. I need to swing by my office and then just go home and collapse.’

‘OK. But, well, it’s none of my business, but . . . well, you know I’m here for you if you ever need to chat. And whatever is or isn’t going on between you and Daniel, well . . . I’m sure you can sort it out. He’s a nice guy, Vicky, he’s one of the good ’uns. I promise.’

I’m too touched to even answer her, so I settle for a big teary hug instead. Then when I’m finally, finally alone in my car I do what I’ve wanted to do all day . . . dissolve into a flood of hot, stinging tears. By far the worst kind, and I should know.

I can put up with bloody Tom and his boozy breath and all the lewd, suggestive shite he’s been coming out with all day. I can even put up with being the gossipy talk of the sound stage.

But I can’t put up with Daniel having the wrong idea about me, I just can’t.

I try calling him again from the car, but it’s his voice-mail, yet again, so I leave a teary message in a weak, wobbly voice just asking him to call. Which he doesn’t. So then I call Barbara, forgetting the time, and that she has a tech rehearsal tonight, so I’ve absolutely no chance of getting to comb things through with her either. Shit.

Force of habit more than anything drags me back to the office on my way home, just to check up on emails, and make sure everything’s on track for the big opening night of A Midsummer Night’s Dream this Friday. The sheer bloody bad luck and unfairness of what happened this morning has now slowly begun to fade a bit, and now I’ve moved on to the second stage of getting a shock: anger.

For God’s sake, I’m now starting to think, in a sudden flash of irritation, if Daniel is going to flounce off in a snot without even listening to my perfectly innocent explanation, then sure what hope is there for us? I mean, yes, OK, in his shoes, if I discovered in front of a whole studio full of colleagues that he’d been with someone else the same day as me . . . OK, yes, I might be a bit miffed, but I’d at least listen to an explanation, wouldn’t I? Course I bloody would. And when I’d heard the full story, I’d laugh and then forgive, in that order.

Feeling a little bit stronger, I park the car, and just as I’m heading into the main door downstairs that leads to my office, James, our lovely, elderly doorman, stops me in my tracks.

‘Eh, Vicky love? Just to let you know you’ve a visitor upstairs. The two young ones you have working for you have left, and I wasn’t sure what to do, but your man seemed happy enough to hang on for you.’

‘Oh, thanks, James, thanks so much,’ I say, my mood suddenly gone from irritated despair to euphoric elation in a nano-second.

It’s him, it just has to be, I think, pressing the lift-call button. Of course it is! Come on, come on . . . No, the lift’s too slow, so I race up the stairs instead. How could I even have thought Daniel, my lovely wonderful Daniel, would ever stay in a snot with me over such a stupid misunderstanding? I think, racing faster. Wait till you see, I’ll fall into his arms now, we’ll end up having a great old laugh about the whole situation, and it’ll be just like putting the clock back to last night, when everything was wonderful between us. I finally get to the top of the stairs, out of breath and cursing my unfitness and . . . there he is.

Except it’s not Daniel at all.

Eager Eddie is sitting outside the office, carrying a bunch of roses so big it’s like he might fall over.

‘Vicky . . .’ he says, rising as soon as he sees me. ‘I just wanted to say that . . .’

‘You need to leave.’ I cut him off, all of my anger and irritation now flooding back to me. ‘Now. No discussion, no explanation, I want you gone.’

‘I just had to tell you that I felt really bad about the way we left things between us . . .’

‘Did you just say between us? Eddie, how can I stress this to you, there is no us. Never was, never will be. I’m giving you five seconds to get out of here, and then I’m calling security.’

My voice is hoarse and cracked with anger and impatience and sheer exhaustion. And I know I’m pushing it a bit when I refer to poor doddery James downstairs as ‘security’, but it’s the best I can come up with off the top of my head.

Eddie just looks at me, nodding and weighing up whether I’m for real or not, so I glare right back at him, not budging. After what feels like an eternity, but is probably only a few seconds, I eventually say, ‘Right then, that’s it, I’m getting help.’ I stride purposefully off towards the stairwell, but he’s hot on my heels, grabbing my arm roughly and twisting me towards him. OK, now I’m actually starting to get intimidated, and am trying to wrench myself from his grip when the lift door suddenly glides open.

And out steps Daniel.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks, taking in the scene in a glance.

I really do not believe this.

Suddenly, it’s like everything’s happening in a sickening slow motion.

‘Vicky, really I need to speak to you,’ Eddie splutters at me, with a face like an outraged sprout. ‘I didn’t come all this way to be thrown out.’

‘I asked a question,’ Daniel repeats, slowly, his voice cutting like ice. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I need you to leave right now,’ I snarl at Eddie, out of nowhere finding the strength to wrench my arm back from him.

‘Better ask this bitch here,’ head case Eddie practically roars at me, threateningly, intimidatingly, almost violently, as he flings the flowers on the floor and marches off down the stairs. ‘You’re nothing but a bitch, do you hear me? Stupid pathetic bitch! And you have the nerve to call yourself my girlfriend?’ And he’s gone. Finally.

I can’t hold the tears back any more, I’m just so relieved to see Daniel. There’s a long, awkward silence as we just look at each other, him taking in the whole scene. Red roses strewn all over the floor, me standing there trembling, on the verge of tears.

‘I’m so glad you’re here . . .’ I eventually begin, realizing I’d better be the first to talk.

But there’s something wrong. He’s just looking at me, with such a weird, hurt expression that it’s breaking my heart.

‘I don’t get it,’ is all he says, simply. ‘You’re still seeing that guy, too? So how many of us do you have on the go, Vicky? Do I have to take a number and wait in line?’

‘Daniel, you have to listen to me . . .’

‘Why couldn’t you just have been honest with me and said you’re seeing other guys? Lies and deceit, two things I just can’t handle.’

‘Daniel, please, you’re not even giving me a chance . . .!’

‘You know, I can take anything as long as people are straight with me, and you couldn’t even do that much.’

‘Daniel!’

If he’d been furiously angry about it, I probably could have handled it, but he isn’t. He’s cool and controlled, and is just looking at me, shaking his head in sad disappointment. And that’s what’s worse than anything.

A split second later he’s gone.

Still numb from the whole miserable day, I somehow make my way to Laura’s for tea, sympathy and a shoulder to cry on. The kids are all with George Hastings for the night; unbelievable I know, but out of nowhere he’s suddenly decided to start acting like father of the year. Laura answers the door, looking jaw-droppingly stunning in a . . . wait for it . . . brand new outfit.

‘Bought it with my column money,’ she says, incorrectly interpreting my face-like-a-beaten-tambourine expression. But then Laura’s famous for never spending a bean on herself, ever; whenever there’s spare cash it invariably goes on the kids. ‘Well, aren’t I allowed a treat once in a while?’

‘Ehh . . . yeah . . . yeah, of course,’ I say, automatically following her into her spotless kitchen, where she pours me a very welcome glass of white wine.

‘You look like you could use this, dearest. Now, sit down there and spill,’ she says, gently, bless her. And out it all comes tumbling, with the same play-by-play of emotions normally reserved for world cup finals. Laura, as ever, is cool, unflappable and, typical lawyer, plays devil’s advocate.

‘You’ve got to put yourself into Daniel’s shoes,’ she says, taking a demure sip from her glass of vino. ‘Imagine how you’d feel if the boot was on the other foot. Suppose you were the one to have this fabulous romantic night with him, then, a few hours later, accidentally discover that he was out with someone else on the same day? Then when you go to his office to clear it all up, there’s some other bird there, causing a hysterical scene with him and flinging flowers all over the place? How would you like it?’

‘Not a bit,’ is all I can mutter, numbly. ‘It’s just killing me that I never even got a chance to explain. Every time I try to call, he doesn’t answer. And now he’s out there, thinking the worst of me, and . . .’

I’m interrupted by the doorbell ringing, and I look at Laura in surprise. Up she gets to answer it, and a second later is leading Desmond Lawlor into the kitchen.

Oh dear God, she’s going on a date. Tonight’s her date, and I’ve been so caught up in my own emotional mini-drama that I forgot, and now here I am playing gooseberry and generally ruining the mood for her with my whingey moroseness.

I am such a crap friend.

I do my best to sound upbeat, chirpy and bright as we chit-chat with Desmond about the charity do they’re off to tonight.

As soon as I’ve stayed long enough to be polite, but not so long as to outstay my welcome, nor to taint the place with the overwhelming whiff of ‘loser’ which must be practically reeking from my pores at this stage, I’m out of there.

And about a half-hour later, I’m back. Back in the freezing, dark, empty, lonely building-site that I call home. The scene of the crime. Remembering last night, as if it was a dream. Like I could forget.

I try his phone one last time. He doesn’t answer, so I collapse on to one of my mother’s patio seats, flinging the phone as far away from me as I can.

So how long did that happiness last, I wonder? Barely twelve hours, by my calculation.

Serves me right for dreaming.